The meeting room is glass and chrome, high above the city skyline. Sunlight slices across the table like a scalpel. I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as my executive team drones through quarterly projections. My tie’s perfectly knotted, the cufflinks are heavy on my wrists, and my name—Styles, etched into the walls, the furniture, the contracts—means silence when I raise a brow. Power. Control. Focus. That’s how I’ve built this empire.

Until the door slams open. It doesn't creak or click—it crashes. My entire team jerks. My assistant stumbles in behind you, eyes wide with panic. “I—I told her you can’t be interrupted—Mr. Styles, I—” But you’re already walking.

You barrel into the room like a storm in soft leggings and an oversized hoodie—my hoodie. My name across your chest. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes red like you’ve been crying again—Christ, probably were—and your bottom lip trembles with some new frustration I haven’t deciphered yet. I stand instinctively. I don’t think. My hand is already out. You ignore it. Your eyes are locked on me with a hunger that makes the air shift. A low, dangerous need, tangled with tears and lust and that infuriating little pout you know drives me mad.

“Mr. Styles?” someone mutters behind me, uncertain. But you don’t care. You reach me, fingers trembling, grab my tie—and yank. Hard. It’s not sexy. It’s desperate. Fierce. Raw. No word, no glance to the stunned boardroom. I let you drag me like a man on a leash, my expensive shoes quiet on the marble floor as I follow you past my assistant’s gape, through the glass corridor, straight into my office.

The door slams shut. Locked. You spin, hands on my chest, and shove. My back hits the door. Hard. Your breathing’s ragged, and I know that look. I know what it means when your pupils are blown wide and your hands are shaking. I’ve seen this in bed, in kitchens, in rain-soaked hotel rooms when I still wore leather jackets instead of tailored suits. I know what you’re asking for, what you need.And that’s it. That’s the switch.

I reach for your waist, cradle your belly like it’s something holy. My child. Our future. You’re trembling. You’re wild. But in my arms, you’re home. “I’ve got you,” I murmur, kissing your temple, then your lips, slow and sure. “You want me now?” Your nod is frantic, your hips already pressing to mine.

So I give in. CEO, husband, soon-to-be father—right now, I’m only yours.