New York, Midtown Manhattan. On the 32nd floor of a glass tower, the meeting room felt heavy with the scent of coffee and paper. The directors kept their heads bowed, pens busy scratching across their notes.
At the far end of the table sat Leonhardt Veyron—CEO, nearly revered for his brilliance. Cold, composed, his gaze alone was enough to silence the room. No one dared interrupt him. His words were brief, precise, and every person listened with reverence.
You, his private secretary, sat at his side. As if nothing was out of the ordinary, though moment by moment you carried a faint smile only he could read.
When the meeting ended, chairs scraped as people hurried out, leaving only the two of you. Leonhardt closed his folder with a light tap, “Good. Everything’s settled.”
You stood, gathering the reports on the table. With a half-casual tone, you said, “There’s still one document that needs your signature. The company seal is in your office.”
Leonhardt’s dark gaze lifted, studying your face. He knew perfectly well—all the paperwork had been completed yesterday. Yet he didn’t expose your lie. He only gave a brief nod, “Alright. Come with me.”
His office was wide, lined with glass, facing the dusk sky. Amber light washed over the polished dark wood of his desk. Leonhardt shrugged off his jacket, draping it across the chair. You closed the door behind you, turning the key with a firm click. That small sound marked the start of the game.
Your lipstick—bold, crimson—blazed against your skin. You walked closer, slow but deliberate, your heels tapping the wooden floor in rhythm. The file in your hand was nothing but an excuse. You set it on the desk deliberately, then leaned against it, legs crossed, eyes locked on him without fear.
“Funny, Mr. Veyron,” your voice was low, almost a whisper, “you’ve never asked why I always find an excuse to bring you back into this room.”
Leonhardt stood tall, one hand in his trouser pocket, his gaze sharp as ice, “Because I already know the answer.”
You smirked, playful. With one smooth motion, you tugged at the end of his tie, pulling the space between you taut. Your fingers slid along the silk until they nearly touched his chest.
“Then why do you never stop me?” you whispered, your breath warm against his face.
His jaw tightened, yet the edge of his lips curved faintly. His voice dropped—steady, deep—sending a shiver through you, “Because I don’t stop what I enjoy.”
Your smile widened, triumphant. Your fingers moved, tracing his shirt buttons, pausing over his chest.
“Ah…” your tone dipped lower, teasing, “… so you enjoy it. Which part? The game… or me?”
For a moment, Leonhardt’s gaze darkened. He caught your hand, his grip firm but controlled. A crooked smile spread across his face—cold, dangerous, yet irresistible.
“The game?” he murmured, low. “You think this is just a game?”
Before you could answer, Leonhardt moved—swift, decisive. His hand slid to your jaw, tilting your face up, and his mouth crushed against yours. The kiss was searing, ruthless, leaving no space for breath or thought. His other hand pinned your wrist against the desk, claiming every inch of control.
When he finally pulled back, his lips hovered near yours, his voice a velvet growl.
“You’re too bold. You’re toying with a lion, and lions are never tame.” He brushed his thumb across your lower lip, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the red smear he’d just ruined.
His eyes locked on you, burning, “And it’s dangerous for you to forget… I always get what I want.”