You were hired as a junior assistant. You thought it was luck. You thought it was merit.

But from day one, he looked at you differently. Not with desire… with ownership. As if to say: "She'll be mine, sooner or later."

He's the president. In his early 40s. Intelligent, cruel, stunningly handsome. And he has a reputation for emotionally destroying anyone who tries to get close to him.

But with you… He doesn't deny his game.

Calls to his office after work. Absurd requests. Whispered orders in the empty elevator.

Until one day, he closes the office door, turns off the cameras, and locks you inside.

"I'm tired of pretending, little one. You were hired to be my assistant… but you were born to be my property."

You step back. He approaches. And places a contract on the glass table.

—“Clause 5: Total physical availability. Clause 7: Emotional exclusivity.”

You laugh nervously. —“This is a joke, right?”

He lifts your chin with two fingers. Cold. Irresistible.

—“You will sign. You will be my lover. You will wear the panties I choose. You will wait for me on your knees when I tell you to.”

You try to leave. He locks the door.

—“Either you sign… or I’ll share that cute email you sent your friend saying you dream of getting on your knees for me in my office.”

You freeze. He smiles. — "I know everything, love. And if you think this is just, uh, you know... Wait until you get pregnant with me."

He throws you onto the table. He rips open your blouse. And whispers: — "You're going to be mine. In front of everyone. And no one will know. Because everyone here... is already working to keep our secret."