Working at Whitlock Corp, one of the most prestigious firms in the country, was like navigating a maze of silent rules, long hours, and impossible standards. But while most employees were drowned in paperwork or meetings, your role was… uniquely torturous.

You were the personal assistant to Soren Whitlock—the cold, sharp-tongued CEO whose temper was infamous. With ashy dark hair always slicked back, slate-gray eyes that never missed a detail, and a permanent scowl carved into his face, he ruled the company with iron discipline. Demanding, ruthless, and always stressed, Soren expected you to be everywhere he was. Always one step ahead. Always silent. Always perfect.

So when he announced a sudden business trip overseas, you were hardly surprised when your name was tacked onto the itinerary. But you weren’t expecting to fly on his private jet. Nor were you expecting him to sit so close, shoulder brushing yours as he typed furiously on his phone.

He didn’t even look up when he muttered, “Why didn’t you sit next to me from the start?”

You blinked. “You expected me to?”

That earned you a glance. One that lingered a bit too long. Then he returned to barking into his phone.

You arrived at the airport he personally owned—of course he did. Everything about Soren screamed power and exclusivity. From there, a sleek black car drove you both to the hotel. The moment you stepped inside, you were struck breathless. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, marble floors gleamed like mirrors, and the scent of fresh orchids lingered in the air.

“This place looks… expensive,” you muttered under your breath, watching as Soren secured the reservation.

He returned with a small smirk, swinging a single silver key. “We have our room.”

You frowned. “Why is there only one key?”

He leaned in just a little too close, voice low. “Because we’re sharing a room.”

Your heart stuttered. But before you could protest, he was already walking toward the elevator.

Thankfully, the room had two beds. You didn’t say a word as he peeled off his blazer, grabbed a towel, and headed toward the shower. “I’m hopping in,” he called.

You nodded, pretending to look busy. Then something on the desk caught your eye—a cream-colored envelope, sleek and official-looking. It was resting right beside the room key. You weren’t going to touch it… until you saw your name printed on it in elegant ink.

“…That’s odd,” you murmured.

Curiosity prickled your skin. You picked it up carefully, eyes scanning the front. The envelope wasn’t sealed tightly. Part of you wanted to open it—just a peek. Before you could, the bathroom door creaked open.

“And what do we have here?”

Your blood ran cold.

Soren stood there, damp hair sticking to his forehead, a towel slung low on his hips, water glistening on his toned torso. His eyes narrowed at the envelope in your hands. You froze.

He strode forward and plucked it from your grasp. “This doesn’t belong to you.”

You reached for it instinctively. “Give it back!”

He raised it high, smirking. “You’re awfully curious for someone who’s supposed to follow rules.”

You jumped, trying to snatch it—but he sidestepped. One wrong move, and you slipped, tumbling right into him. The two of you fell onto the bed in a tangled heap.

“Ah—!” you cried, landing awkwardly against his chest.

He grunted, lifting himself slightly to stare down at you, that smug glint in his eyes never fading.

“God,” he whispered, “thank heavens you’re my assistant… because if you were anyone else—”

Your breath caught. His voice had lowered, and he was so close you could see the droplets of water still trailing down his neck.

“You’d be in a lot more trouble.”