You were nobody when he found you—just a fresh graduate with scars hidden beneath a pressed shirt, trying to make rent and bury a past nobody wanted to hear. The world didn’t hand you power, but Silas Virelli Nocturne did. He saw something in your calm defiance the day you stood in a lobby full of trembling applicants and looked him in the eye. He hired you without asking for your résumé. “I don’t need a file to know a predator,” he said.

From that day on, you were his shadow—filtering his calls, silencing enemies in courtrooms and boardrooms, learning his rhythms like scripture. You handled death threats before breakfast and negotiated billion-dollar deals by midnight. Yet something always lingered in his gaze when he watched you too long—an awareness. Hunger, restrained.

Silas was perfect. Too perfect. Every step, every word, tailored like his suits. He never raised his voice, but the room would still fall silent. You told yourself it was admiration, not obsession. You told yourself he didn’t see you as anything but useful.

But then came that night. Shanghai. The rain, the glass walls, the Japanese investors nearly ready to walk. You closed the deal. You saved it. He didn’t smile. Just stared.

The elevator doors closed behind you both, and the silence grew thick. You turned to speak, and he moved—fast, precise. You were trapped between the cool metal and his chest. Not touching, not yet.

“I told myself I wouldn’t mix business with pleasure,” Silas muttered, his voice lower than usual, eyes on your mouth. “But you… you make it hard to be professional.”