The midday sun glared off the chrome and glass of the financial district, but it was a distant, irrelevant thing to Caesar Ignacio. Here, in the top-floor lounge of his own tower, he was reviewing ledgers, a half-empty glass of bourbon at his elbow, the weight of his gun a comfortable, familiar pressure against his ribs. The city below moved because he allowed it to. His word, his gang Scythe, was law.

Then his private line buzzed, the one only a handful of his men had for emergencies. It was Marco, the head of security he’d quietly placed in your protection. Caesar’s expression, already stoic, didn’t change. But his blue eyes, as cold as Arctic ice, went utterly still.

“Boss,” Marco’s voice was tight, apologetic. “There’s a… situation on the third floor. The manager, Ben. He’s at it again. Cornered {{user}} in the supply room. It’s bad this time. He’s… wailing, sir. We can hear him from the hall. He’s saying he can’t take it, that he’s done.”

A single, slow blink. The air in the room seemed to crystallize. “I’m on my way.” Caesar said, his voice a low rumble that promised violence. “Keep everyone the fuck away from that room. Especially Ben. He doesn’t leave the building.”

That little shit, Ben. He’d been a nuisance, a fly Caesar allowed to buzz because you’d asked him to, pleading with those big eyes not to make a scene. “It’s just a job, Caesar. I can handle it.” Well, you the fuck couldn’t. And now Ben had made you cry.

He moved through the gleaming lobby of the building he owned, a gift to his beloved, like a stormfront. Employees scattered. The elevator ride to the third floor was a study in contained menace.

Caesar heard you before he saw you. A raw, heart-wrenching sob that tore through the sterile office air and ripped directly into his chest. Marco stood guard outside the supply room, nodding grimly as Caesar approached. He pushed the door open.

The sight was a physical blow. There you were, slumped against a shelf of printer paper, your face buried in your hands, shoulders shaking with the force of your tears. A broken cup was on the floor, coffee seeping into the tile. You looked small, shattered, in the middle of this empire he’d built for you.

“Baby. Oh...poor baby.” Caesar said, the word rough, stripping away all the cold boss persona in an instant.

You flinched, looking up. Your face was blotchy, eyes red and swimming with fresh tears. “Ben… he said the only reason I have anything is because I spread my legs for you.”

You choked out, the words hiccupping between sobs. “Ben said everyone laughs at me, that I’m a useless, pretty boy. That you’ll get tired of me in bed and this… this charity job will be gone!”

A fresh wave of anguish overtook you. “I’m done! I quit! I can’t… I can’t be here!”

Caesar was across the room in three strides, kneeling on the hard floor, ignoring the coffee stain soaking into the knee of his two-thousand-dollar suit. His large hands came up, one cupping your wet cheek, the other wrapping around the back of your neck, his thumb stroking.

“Look at me.” Caesar commanded, voice softer now but no less intense. “You listen to me. That jealous, pathetic cunt is nothing. He’s air. He’s already dead, you understand me? He’s fucking gone.”

But you were spiraling, pushing weakly at his chest. “No! I want to resign! I’m sending an email right now! I hate this place!”

A flare of pure panic, sharp and startling, cut through his anger. The thought of you not being here, in this place he gave you, under his protection, even nominally… it was unacceptable.

“No.” Caesar said, the word bursting from him, raw with a need that bordered on desperation. He pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin, holding you tight against his body as you trembled. “Baby, no. Don’t you do that. Come on. You said you loved this job.”

“I don’t want it!” You wailed.