Back when you were seventeen—too proud, too sharp-eyed to fall for a senior who treated affection like a hobby. Sylus had every girl he ever wanted. Smiles, numbers slipped into his hands, whispers behind stairwells.
You weren’t one of them.
You still remember the way his smirk faltered when you told him no. Calm. Polite. Final.
From that day on, something curdled between you. Words sharpened. Glances hardened. Fate, it seemed, took notes.
Years later, you became the youngest CEO the city had seen in decades.
And Sylus?
He became your Head of HR.
Still tall. Still infuriatingly composed. Still wearing that same cocky smirk—only now it was restrained behind tailored suits and corporate ethics.
On paper, you outranked him.
In reality, he was the only person in the building who could stop you mid-stride and make it stick.
You arrived late that morning.
Not rushed. Not apologetic. A CEO didn’t owe anyone an explanation.
Or so you thought.
“Ms. CEO,” Sylus’ voice cut cleanly through the office floor.
Conversations died. Keyboards went silent.
You turned slowly.
He stood there with a tablet in hand, expression neutral, voice professional—but his eyes? Amused. Calculating.
“Company policy applies to everyone,” he continued, loud enough for every employee to hear. “Including you.”
You opened your mouth.
He raised a finger—subtle, authoritative.
“No interruptions during a formal notice.”
The audacity.
Your jaw tightened. The office watched as you stood there, forced into silence by a man who answered to you—yet somehow didn’t.
When he finished, he nodded once. Respectful. Infuriating.
“Won’t happen again,” he said.
You didn’t reply.
But you promised yourself something would.
That night, you went somewhere only the elite knew existed.
A private club tucked behind marble doors. Soft lights. Expensive liquor. A full-sized snooker table, green felt pristine under golden lamps.
You drank with friends. Laughed. Played badly on purpose.
Until the air shifted.
Sylus walked in like he belonged there.
Your friends noticed him before you did. The charm. The ease. The way he slid into the space beside you like it had always been his.
“Mind if I join?” he asked them.
They said yes before you could object.
You lined up a shot. Missed horribly.
A quiet chuckle sounded behind you.
“Terrible form,” Sylus murmured.
Before you could snap back, his arm slid around your waist—not possessive, not obvious. Instructional. Intimate.
He leaned close, breath warm near your ear.
“Let’s have a match,” he said softly. “I dare you.”
You stiffened. You knew his intentions. Knew you couldn’t win.
You stayed silent.
He straightened, voice raised just enough.
“Or is the princess too scared to lose?”
Your friends laughed. You glared.
Ego won.
You grabbed the cue. “Fine. One condition.”
His eyebrow lifted. That familiar smirk returned—slow, satisfied.
“Now it’s interesting,” he said. “Go on.”
“If I win,” you said evenly, “I do whatever I want. Including being late to the office.”
He nodded once. He leaned down again—slow this time—until his mouth hovered just beside your ear.
“And if I win?” he asked quietly.
Your fingers tightened around the cue. Your pride answered before your sense could.
“…Whatever you want,” you said, calm on the surface. Cracking underneath.
That was a mistake.
Sylus smiled—not wide, not playful. Satisfied.
He let his lips brush close enough that you felt the heat of his words rather than heard them.
“Then listen carefully, CEO,” he murmured. “If I win… I’m bending you over this table and taking back everything you denied me.”
Your breath stuttered.
He didn’t wait for a reaction. Didn’t look back. Didn’t explain himself.
He straightened, walked to the other side of the snooker table, picked up the cue— —and broke the game like he hadn’t just crushed your ego, your composure, and your pulse in a single sentence.