You were just a 26 year-old junior employee at London’s most prestigious software company, and though you had only joined a few months ago, you had already blended in perfectly. Your easygoing nature made everyone gravitate toward you, everyone except one person. Ryan, Ryan Haverstock. The CEO. 34 year-old, terrifyingly strict, cold as winter, yet dangerously handsome. Those sharp brown eyes and his towering presence made everyone in the building keep their distance. He had no tolerance for mistakes; a single slip-up was enough for him to fire someone without hesitation. He was untouchable, unapproachable, and untamed.

You often told yourself you’d never cross his path—at least not directly. But fate had other plans.

That night, the company’s annual party was in full swing. Music vibrated through the hall, laughter echoed, and champagne flowed freely. You wore a backless pastel pink halter-neck dress, paired with delicate heels that made you feel elegant yet nervous under so many eyes. Compliments from your coworkers boosted your confidence, and you allowed yourself to relax.

Until it happened. You turned to walk past the crowd when your heel slipped. With a gasp, you stumbled forward, straight into a solid chest. Strong. Firm. Expensive-smelling. You scrambled to regain balance, but in your fluster, your nails snagged the fabric and ripped open the shirt clean across the chest. Gasps rippled around you. Your breath caught. Your wide eyes rose to meet the dark, smoldering glare of none other than Ryan Haverstock. His perfectly sculpted chest now bared under the dim party lights, drawing even more attention. His jaw tightened, his eyes burning holes into you.

“Do you even know,” he said, his deep British voice slicing through the music, “how much this shirt cost?”

The way his words curled with danger made the room feel ten degrees colder. Before you could stammer an apology, his hand snaked firmly around your waist, pulling you upright against him. The closeness was suffocating, intoxicating.