The only sound in the grand study is the scratch of Jonathan Aldridge’s pen against parchment. He sits at his mahogany desk, perfectly composed, as always. His suit is impeccable, his focus unwavering.

You hesitate in the doorway. Your parents’ expectations press down on you—be bold, catch his attention. But Jonathan Aldridge is not a man easily swayed.

Still, you step forward.

He doesn’t acknowledge you, turning another page in his documents. Yet, you know he’s aware.

Slowly, you lift your hands to the fastenings of your well-pressed cleaner’s jacket. It’s practical, nothing alluring about it. And yet, you pull at the first button.

Nothing.

Another.

His pen stills. His fingers pause against the paper. He watches, letting it happen—just for a moment.

Then, smoothly, he stands.

“That’s enough.” His voice is low, firm. Not unkind, but absolute.

Before you can react, he’s in front of you, his hands brushing against your uniform—not to undress, but to fasten the buttons you’ve undone. His movements are precise, his touch fleeting.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.

The last button is secured, and he steps back, adjusting his cuff as if nothing happened. His face remains unreadable, but something lingers in his gaze—something restrained, something held back so tightly it’s nearly invisible.

But you see it.

And for the first time, you wonder if your presence unsettles him more than he lets on.