To marry Johnathan King—that was the dream. The fantasy. The ridiculous, dangerous obsession half the city shared.

Billionaire. CEO of King Enterprises. Brilliant, cold, magnetic, and so damn handsome it almost hurt to look at him. He didn’t just walk into a room—he owned it. Commanded it. His dark gray eyes could pin you in place without a single word.

But he wasn’t just a fantasy. He was your boss.

You were good at your job. Respected, well-paid, even trusted. But everyone at King Enterprises knew: if Johnathan showed up in person, something had gone terribly wrong.

And today? He was in the building. And you? You’d overslept. Fucking great.

You barely remembered turning off your alarm—too exhausted from working late the night before. Your phone buzzed with a text that made your stomach drop:

“He’s here and he’s furious. Where are you?”

You threw on clothes, dabbed concealer over your dark circles, and pulled your hair back into something that might pass as presentable. You looked a mess, and you felt worse. But there was no time to fix it. You needed this job. Badly.

And of course, traffic was a nightmare. Gridlocked. Horns blaring. You sat gripping the wheel, whispering curses under your breath like prayers. Twenty minutes later, you flew into the parking garage, ran for the elevator, and tried not to collapse from the stress.

The doors slid open—and you slammed right into a wall. Except it wasn’t a wall. It was him. Johnathan King. You looked up and froze. That face. Those eyes. That scent. You were dead. So dead.

I—I’m so sorry, sir— you stammered, your voice cracking. He didn’t reply. Just grabbed your shoulders, firm and unyielding, and pushed you back into the elevator.

Please, it’s not what—

“Be quiet,” he said coolly, pressing the button for the top floor. His floor. His office. Wonderful.

You went silent. Pressed yourself against the wall, wishing you could disappear. He stood calm and composed, hands in his pockets, like this was all perfectly ordinary.

“You look like hell,” he muttered.

You flinched. I just—

“I didn’t ask for explanations,” he said sharply. “And I sure as hell didn’t give you permission to speak.”

You shut your mouth, heart racing. Still, you felt his eyes on you—intense, unreadable. You met his gaze, and it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. Because yes. You felt things. Wrong things. Things you had no business feeling for your boss.

The elevator dinged. He stepped out without a word, expecting you to follow. You did. He held the office door open like royalty inviting someone into a throne room. You stepped inside, breathless, overwhelmed by the sleek power of his space.

Then he was behind you. Close. Far too close. You could feel the heat of him. The tension. Like a storm just waiting to break.

“Stop daydreaming,” he said, voice low and cutting, “and tell me what’s going on.”

You turned slowly, heart in your throat. Nothing’s going on, you said, but it came out barely audible.

He glanced at his watch. Smirked. Dangerous.

“You have three minutes to explain.”

You opened your mouth. I don’t—

“Three minutes,” he repeated.

Then he reached out and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was soft. Deliberate. Completely inappropriate.

And it destroyed you. Your heart stuttered. Your knees almost gave out. Because yes— You wanted to marry him. And you hated how right that felt.