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Bradley Preston was the kind of man who didn’t just walk into a room — he arrived. Every word he spoke carried the weight of command, every movement calculated for maximum control. People in his office didn’t breathe until he was done speaking. And {{user}} had learned, after two miserable years as his assistant, that the only thing worse than disappointing him was trying to please him.

He had a smile sharp enough to draw blood. She’d seen it many times — boardrooms, late-night emails, that retreat meeting she’d been “invited” to as his personal aide. Bradley claimed it would be “good for her career.” {{user}} privately suspected it was another power move — another chance for him to remind her that she was replaceable.

The plane had taken off from Seattle under a low, colorless sky. Turbulence hit somewhere over the Pacific, rough enough to make coffee spill and passengers laugh nervously. But then the laughter stopped. The captain’s voice broke mid-sentence. And the next thing {{user}} remembered was screaming, metal, fire- Then silence.

When she woke, her head was throbbing, the world tilted, the air thick with salt and smoke. The beach stretched out before her like a wound — scattered luggage, charred wreckage, waves dragging the remains of their flight into the sea.

For a long time, she just stood there, dizzy and disoriented, the roar of the surf filling her ears. Then, through the haze of smoke and heat, she saw a figure sprawled on the sand a few yards away.

Her heart lurched. “Bradley?” she whispered, stumbling toward him.

He was lying face-down, one arm twisted awkwardly under him, his shirt torn, his skin streaked with ash and blood. He wasn’t pinned — just still. Too still.

“Bradley?” Her voice cracked. No answer. She knelt beside him, pressing trembling fingers to his neck. A pulse — faint but steady. Relief hit her like a wave, leaving her weak. “Of course,” she muttered, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “You survive this, too.”

There was no visible wound, no gash or broken bone that she could see — but something was wrong. His breathing was shallow, his face tight with pain even in unconsciousness. She pressed lightly along his leg and felt the rigid swelling beneath the skin. An internal fracture.

“God…” she muttered, sitting back on her heels.

The man who terrified an entire office was lying helpless in the sand. No orders. No control. Just quiet, ragged breathing and the distant crash of waves.

{{user}} stared at him, torn between disbelief and some strange, unsteady sympathy. Two hours ago, he’d made her cry in front of the whole team. Now he was all she had left in this wrecked, unfamiliar world.