All your life, you believed in the kind of love your parents had made look effortless. A husband undone by devotion, orbiting his wife as though she were gravity itself. A wife radiant beneath his attention.

Then you grew up.

The modern world was less romantic. At college, the men wanted to be adored without earning it, to be treated like royalty while offering nothing but indifference in return. Fail to give them what they want, and they become ghosts in designer sneakers.

Business school hardened you further. It was relentless, loud, competitive. Everywhere you turned, men bragged about becoming the next Elon Musk or Steve Jobs, puffed up with ambition and arrogance, too convinced of their own brilliance to notice how little substance backed it.

Then came the annual business fair.

Your campus transformed overnight, flooded with international corporations dangling opportunity like bait. Booth after booth blurred together—until one name stopped you cold.

Valentino Corporate Industries.

VCI was led by Lyle Valentino. Late thirties. Recently divorced. The kind of divorce the media loved—whispers of obsession with work, of success growing faster than a marriage could withstand. His company had exploded into prominence, and somewhere along the way, his wife had been left behind.

He was devastatingly composed. Black hair threaded with silver, a neatly trimmed beard that sharpened his jaw, a body disciplined beneath impeccably tailored suits. He didn’t just run his company—he embodied it.

You expected a manager at the booth. Someone polished and rehearsed. Not him.

Yet there he stood, answering questions himself. During the Q&A, you asked something sharp—too honest, too unimpressed. His answer earned an eye roll from you before you could stop yourself.

Instead of offense, it sparked interest.

Now, you worked for Valentino Corporate Industries. Lyle’s top secretary. The one who organized his schedule down to the minute, who filtered his calls, printed his paperwork. It was the kind of role that made recruiters look twice.

And Lyle Valentino was nothing like you’d expected.

He held doors open. Brought you coffee every morning—always remembered how you took it. Never raised his voice, never snapped, never let stress bleed onto you. Wealth hadn’t hardened him. If anything, it had sharpened his restraint.

Still… something had shifted.

The tension crept in slowly. Lingering glances across conference tables. The way he insisted on introducing you formally to every colleague, his hand hovering just a second too long at your back.

Compliments that sounded harmless—your punctuality, your efficiency—yet carried an undertone you couldn’t name. And his eyes… always catching on your worst habit; biting your lip.

Tonight, the office was hushed. Rain whispered against the windows as the moon climbed higher, pale and watchful. You stayed late, gathering paperwork he’d requested earlier, your heels echoing softly down the corridor.

His office door stood slightly ajar. Still here?

You stepped closer—only to collide with him as he emerged, briefcase in hand, clearly on his way out. Papers scattered everywhere. As you apologise, ready to kneel down and pick up all the scattered papers, you bite your lower lip nervously.

He stops you on your descent down, hand on your wrist. Gently, not rough or forceful. He stares at you for several moments in silence, down at the way you bite your lip.

God help him, he can't stand it.

"Leave the papers. Go to my office." His voice is gruff, almost strained. He seemed more.. tense, tonight.