You’d seen Rafe Cameron on television before. Financial panels. Business interviews. Magazine covers with headlines like The 26-Year-Old Shark Who Built an Empire.

He never smiled much. Never over-explained. Always looked slightly bored — like the world had to keep up with him.

And now you were standing in the lobby of his headquarters, waiting to interview him.

The building alone screamed money. Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished stone, quiet efficiency. His assistant gave you a professional smile. “Mr. Cameron will see you now.”

You followed her down a long hallway into a massive office overlooking the water. The view was unreal — yachts cutting through the harbor, sunlight bouncing off steel and glass.

And there he was.

Rafe stood near his desk, sleeves of his white button-up rolled to his elbows, revealing dark ink curling over his forearms. Black tailored trousers. No tie. The top two buttons undone. Effortless, controlled. His hair was styled but not overly done — like even that obeyed him naturally.

He didn’t smile when you entered.

“Miss—?” he prompted.

“{{user}}.” You introduced yourself, stepping forward to shake his hand. His grip was firm. Warm.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair across from his desk as he sat down behind it. The desk was enormous. So was the silence that followed.

You turned on your recorder.

“Mr. Cameron, at twenty-six you’ve built one of the fastest-growing investment firms in the Southeast. What would you say was the turning point?”

He leaned back slightly. “Risk,” he said simply. “Most people hesitate. I don’t.”

You nodded. “Your revenue tripled in the last year alone. Was that strategic expansion or luck?”

His jaw ticked faintly. “There’s no luck in what I do.”

You scribbled something down.

“And what would you say to critics who claim your methods are… aggressive?”

For the first time, something almost amused flickered in his eyes. “Aggressive gets results.”

There it was. The version you’d seen on TV. Controlled. Sharp. Untouchable.

You hesitated before your next question. Magazines liked more than numbers. They liked headlines.

“One final question,” you said carefully. “With this level of success, people are naturally curious… Is there a woman in your life?”

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Are you asking out of professional interest,” he asked slowly, “or personal?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

You blinked. “Professional, of course.”

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. Not mocking — assessing.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Because that didn’t sound professional.”

Your pulse shifted, but you kept your composure. “Our readers like to know who inspires powerful men.”

“And you?” he asked. “Do you?”

That wasn’t on your list.

You straightened slightly. “I’m here to write about your company.”

“Mm.” He leaned forward now, forearms resting on the desk, tattoos visible against crisp white fabric. “And yet you’re asking about my personal life.”

The room felt smaller than it had minutes ago.

“So,” he continued calmly, eyes steady on yours, “if there were someone… would that change your article?”

You swallowed. “It might change the angle.”

His smirk deepened just slightly.

“Then maybe,” he said, voice lower now, “you should stay long enough to find the right angle.”

The recorder was still running.

And suddenly, this interview didn’t feel entirely professional anymore.