The morning light through the atrium glass seemed to pool around you, turning the lobby into a stage where every other actor had forgotten their lines. William Afton stood at the center of the floor, the sharp lines of his suit and the cold, intellectual intensity of his gaze usually enough to command total, fearful silence. But today, the silence was different. It was heavy, punctuated by the frantic, hushed whispers of men who had forgotten they were holding important files.

As William stood there, his hand resting with a casual but iron-clad possessiveness on the small of your back, the male engineers and floor managers—men who usually kept their heads down and focused on blueprints—were openly gawking. "I heard he had a wife," one of the lead mechanics whispered to a colleague, his voice cracking with disbelief. "I figured... I don't know, someone sensible? Someone quiet? But that? That’s not a wife, that’s a masterpiece. How the hell does a man who spends half his life covered in gear oil and sawdust end up with her?" "He’s Afton," the other replied, his eyes fixed on the elegant curve of your neck. "The man's got the devil's own luck. He’s a handsome bastard, sure, but he’s basically a walking computer. You’d think she’d be bored to tears within twenty minutes, and yet look at her—she looks at him like he hung the stars."

William’s jaw tightened. He didn't need to look at them to feel their eyes roaming over the fit of your dress or the radiant, effortless beauty of your face. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers splaying wider over your hip, his thumb digging slightly into the fabric in a silent, jagged claim. Sarah, the junior marketing assistant, was still standing far too close, her earlier attempt to flirt with you hanging in the air like a dare. She seemed completely unbothered by the glares of her coworkers, her gaze still fixed on the shimmering light of your eyes. "William is always so busy with his 'legacy,'" Sarah murmured, her voice pitching low as she tried to catch your attention again. "I’ve always thought a woman of your... stature... deserves someone who can actually appreciate a work of art without trying to take it apart to see how the springs work. My offer for lunch stands. I know a place downtown that’s far more vibrant than this office."

The men nearby went silent, their eyes darting between the brave—or perhaps suicidal—marketing girl and the man who signed her paychecks. William didn't explode. Instead, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he pulled you flush against his side, his body acting as a physical barrier between you and the room. He looked at Sarah, then swept his gaze across the lingering men, his eyes like two shards of blue ice. "I find it fascinating," William’s voice purred, the melodic British lilt carrying a chillingly calm weight that made the men at the back suddenly find their clipboards very interesting. "That my staff has found so much time this morning to discuss 'aesthetics' and 'lunch.' I was under the impression that the production line for the new stage was behind schedule."

He didn't move to leave. He stood his ground, his hand sliding from your waist to grip your shoulder, pulling your head back against his chest so he could look down at you with a terrifyingly soft, private smile that excluded everyone else in the building. "It seems, darling, that I’ve been too modest about my private life," he whispered, his voice carrying just enough to ensure Sarah and the gawking mechanics heard every word. "They seem to think you’re a prize to be won, rather than the woman who built this empire in the trenches with me. Perhaps I should stay in the lobby all day... just to remind them who you belong to."