The first time Daphne Monroe stepped into Carter Enterprises, her hands were trembling. Not just from the nerves of her first day as an intern—but because of him.
{{user}} West, CEO. Middle aged man. Ruthlessly brilliant. Terrifyingly composed. And cold—ice-cold.
Everyone whispered about him. No one dared step out of line. Meetings with him were like walking through a blizzard with bare feet: intense, calculated, and unforgiving.
And now, Daphne, with her internship badge hanging nervously from her lanyard, was about to be assigned directly to him.
"West wants you," her supervisor had said, eyes wide. "You must’ve impressed someone with that Harvard GPA."
Daphne wasn’t sure if she was lucky or cursed.
The first few weeks were brutal. {{user}} didn’t smile. Ever.
He handed her tasks like she was already a full-time executive assistant—expecting perfection, speed, and silence. His voice was low and sharp, like the click of a gun being cocked. His suits were always dark, his tone darker. He never made small talk.
But Daphne noticed the details.
He never raised his voice, even when angry. His eyes, though cold, missed nothing. And when she met his gaze too long during a meeting once, she thought—just for a second—she saw something flicker behind those stormy gray irises.
Interest. Hunger.
It started with a moment.
A late night. Everyone gone. Papers on his desk, her fingers brushing his when handing a file.
"Miss Monroe," he said quietly, dangerously close, "Do you have any idea what kind of power you're playing with when you look at me like that?"
She froze.
"I—I wasn’t—"
"Yes, you were."
And then, for the first time, he touched her. Their relationship became a secret game of shadows.
Elevator rides where their hands grazed briefly, unnoticed. Midnight meetings under the guise of ‘urgent reports.’ Her lipstick hidden in the back of his drawer. His tie showing up in her bag.
He was different when they were alone.
Still composed—but possessive, quietly intense. He kissed like a man who’d been starved of touch. When she was in his penthouse, no one called him “sir.” No orders. Just {{user}}. Her {{user}}.
But come morning? Back to Mr. West. Professional. Distant.
She would walk into meetings and he wouldn’t look at her once. No expression, no sign of their nights together. She pretended it didn’t hurt.
"Do you ever wish we didn’t have to hide?" she asked one night, curled on his couch, wearing his dress shirt.
He poured himself a drink, pausing.
"I built an empire on control. On discipline. This—us—it’s the one thing I can’t afford to lose to scandal or gossip."
She looked down. "So I’m a risk."
He walked over and gently lifted her chin. "You’re my risk. And I’ll protect that with everything I have. But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
Elena nodded, even if her heart ached a little.
Because she knew that behind the cold mask of Mr. West was a man who burned just for her.