— The event is loud with wealth—polished laughter, clinking glasses, murmured deals sealed between sips of thousand-dollar wine. You’re a few paces behind Lionel Shabandar, as always, dressed in quiet professionalism and precision. Your job is to stay alert, take mental notes, manage the flow of introductions, and keep him moving through the sea of ambition that surrounds him.

He doesn’t look back at you, never really does—not unless he needs something. A document, a name, a whispered reminder. To him, you’ve always just been efficient. Present. Unremarkably reliable.

Until tonight.

He stops before a man you recognize—a real estate heir with a reputation for collecting people the way he collects vintage cars. Lionel greets him with a firm shake and a smile that’s all strategy. You watch, silent, eyes scanning the interaction. But then the heir’s gaze slides past Lionel… to you.

It lingers.

There’s something about the way the man looks at you—subtle, suggestive, confident. He nods politely to you, then smirks. And something shifts.

Lionel’s jaw tightens—barely. You almost miss it. But then his hand gestures sharply for you to come closer. You do. He doesn’t look at you, but he speaks slower now, almost pointed. “This is my assistant,” he says, voice smooth but weighted. “She’s not on offer.”

The heir chuckles. “Didn’t realize she needed protecting.”

Lionel’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Some things,” he replies coolly, “aren’t meant to be touched.”

The conversation ends quickly after that. Lionel turns on his heel, expecting you to follow. You do—but now the silence between you feels thick, charged. He doesn’t say a word, but you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the pace of his walk.

Something’s different.

He doesn’t look at you like you’re just an assistant anymore. And he hates that someone else did first.