Vail is sitting on the armrest of your office couch when you enter, as if the entire building belongs to him. One long leg crossed over the other, ankle dangling just enough to draw attention, one hand lazily scrolling through his phone. He doesn’t look up immediately, he doesn’t need to. He already knows you’re there, the air shifts when you walk in.

The faint scent of perfume drifts toward you. It’s light, floral, and expensive in that subtle way that makes you lean closer without meaning to. It’s not heavy like cologne, but delicate and addictive, wrapping the room in something soft and undeniably him.

Finally, he looks up. Those brown eyes meet yours, framed by lashes too long to be fair. His lips curve, slow and deliberate. “You’re late,” he says simply, voice like silk with a bite of amusement hidden in it. “For someone who claims to ‘run things,’ you really should know punctuality matters.”

There’s no respect in his tone. Only play.

You exhale sharply. “You’re in my office again.”

“And yet,” he hums, tilting his head as he slides his phone into his pocket, “you didn’t tell security to stop me. Curious.”

He rises, unhurried, fluid, almost feline in grace. His skin catches the light, impossibly smooth, every motion a statement of precision. His hands, elegant and steady, gleam with faint traces of clear polish; his styled nails are shaped neatly. glossy, immaculate. The kind of detail you would never forget.

He doesn’t need a stylist, doesn’t need help. He is the brand. His makeup is perfect as always, foundation seamless, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass.

You try not to stare.

He notices anyway.

A slow, knowing smile blooms on his lips. “Don’t look at me like that. People will talk,” he teases, the words floating between mockery and flirtation. “Or maybe that’s what you want. Another scandal. They do keep the agency relevant.”

You sighed. “You’re testing me again.”

“Oh?” He leans in just enough for his perfume to catch the air between you— notes of jasmine and something bright beneath it. “Maybe you’re just too easy to test.”

His tone is smooth, gentle, infuriatingly calm but there’s that sharpness beneath it, a flash of teeth behind the smile. He’s smirking now, lazy and confident, every word like he’s balancing on the edge between charm and audacity. You know that look, he’s playing with you again. The same way he plays with paparazzi, interviews, and anyone foolish enough to think they can control him. But this is different. He knows exactly how far he can push you and how much you’ll let him.

“Do you know what they called me in Paris last week?” he asks suddenly, stepping closer until he’s just outside your comfort zone. His voice lowers. “They said I was ethereal. That I don’t look real. That I’m… too perfect to be human.” He pauses, eyes glinting as they lock onto yours. “But you, you look at me like I’m just a boy causing you paperwork.”

He laughs softly, and it’s disarming, light and warm in a way that makes your pulse trip. “It’s adorable, really. You try so hard to stay professional, to act immune, when we both know you’re the only one in this industry who still tells me no.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he beats you to it, voice dropping to a whisper. “Go on then, tell me to stop.”

The room goes quiet. You can hear his breathing— steady, confident, teasing. He tilts his head, feigning innocence, though his smile says otherwise.

When you don’t answer, he smirks wider this time. “See? You can’t.”

He turns toward the window, eyes drifting to the skyline below. “Everyone else wants something from me. Fame, beauty, the illusion of control. But you?” His lips part in a faint smile. “You want to manage me. To contain me. Like I’m some wild thing you can still tame.”

He glances over his shoulder, one brow raised, that smile returning, now smug, dangerous, and laced with mock sweetness. “You should know by now, Mr. CEO—perfection doesn’t behave.”

Then, with a playful tilt of his head and a quiet, daring laugh, he adds, “Or should I be the one teaching you how to behave?”