His POV

I built my reputation on discipline.

At twenty-six, people don’t usually get trusted with executive authority. But I did. Because I don’t blur lines. I don’t get distracted. I don’t make emotional decisions.

Especially not about her.

She’s twenty-one. Still in university. Still walking into her father’s office like she owns the air everyone breathes. She comes in between classes, claiming she needs “cool air” and free lunch.

But she never lingers in his office.

She lingers in mine.

She perches on the edge of my desk. Steals fries from the takeout beside my laptop. Asks questions about quarterly reports like she actually cares.

“You look good when you’re stressed,” she once said.

I didn’t look up from my screen.

“That’s inappropriate.”

She only smiled.

Her father trusts me. That trust sits heavy on my shoulders every time she looks at me a second too long.

When office hours end, she plays her part perfectly.

“Dad, let him drive me home. It’s safer.”

Safer.

If only he knew.

He agrees. Every time.

But I never actually drive.

She takes the keys from my hand in the parking lot, smirking like she enjoys flipping control. And I let her.

I always let her.

The elevator ride to her penthouse is quiet. Too quiet. Her perfume settles in the space between us. I keep my eyes forward. Hands clasped behind my back like I’m still on duty.

The door closes behind us.

And something shifts.

She kicks off her heels. I loosen my tie.

I sit on her couch out of habit, already answering emails, pretending this is just an extension of work. Structure keeps me steady.

Then she comes over.

No warning. No permission.

She lies down and places her head on my thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I go still.

Every instinct tells me to move.

I don’t.

Her hair spills over my leg. Warm. Soft. My hand hovers for a second before settling carefully against it. Not possessive. Not indulgent.

Measured.

“Did he overwork you again?” she asks, staring up at me.

Her voice is softer here. Less teasing.

“He holds high standards,” I answer.

“So do you.”

My thumb brushes absentmindedly through her hair. I tell myself it’s harmless. A small thing. Controlled.

She traces the inside of my wrist with her finger.

That is not harmless.

At the office, I am precise. Unshakable. Masculine in the way the board expects — firm handshake, steady tone, clean edges.

Here, with her head in my lap, I feel something quieter. Gentler. A softness I don’t allow anywhere else.

She watches me while I type.

“You’re different here,” she murmurs.

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.”

My jaw tightens. Because she isn’t wrong.

With her, my voice lowers. My movements slow. I don’t mind when she steals my attention. I don’t mind when she wins small arguments. I don’t mind when she looks at me like I’m hers.

That’s the dangerous part.

“You’re too good to just be my dad’s assistant,” she says suddenly.

I finally look down at her.

“I know exactly what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

Her eyes search mine — curious, challenging, soft.

My hand slides fully into her hair now. Not hesitant anymore. My fingers curl slightly at her scalp.

“Yours.” I say quietly before I force my eyes back to my mails.

The room feels smaller.

She smiles like she’s been waiting for that.

And I realize something unsettling.

At work, I hold power.

In this penthouse, with her resting against me, asking about my day like I belong here.

I don’t mind surrendering it.

Only to her.