The private elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the top floor of Heart Industries—quiet, polished, and drenched in warm evening light. You stepped inside just as a low voice reached you from across the room.

“You’re right on time.”

Antony Heart stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of water untouched beside him. His white shirt hung open just enough to hint at the hard lines of his chest, candlelight from the decorative lanterns casting a glow across his tanned skin. His grey eyes found yours instantly—sharp, assessing, and far too steady.

He approached with slow, confident steps, every movement deliberate. “Punctuality,” he said, stopping in front of you, “is a quality I value more than most.”

His gaze dipped—not inappropriately, but analytically—taking in your posture, the way you held your breath, the slight tension in your shoulders. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Nervous?” he asked softly. “That’s good. It means you understand the weight of this position.”

He motioned toward a small table set with documents, though his attention never fully left you. “The role of personal assistant requires trust, discipline, and… a certain openness.” His fingers brushed the table as he leaned closer. “I don’t hire people who fold under pressure.”

A beat of silence. Warm. Tense. Mesmerizing.

Antony straightened, his presence filling the space. “Before we discuss your skills,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I want to know something far more important.”

His voice dropped—smooth, commanding.

“Can you follow my lead?”