The city pulsed far below the glass like a breathing, restless thing — steel arteries, silver veins, humming traffic threading through the heart of the skyline. Cassian Virelli sat behind the obsidian-slab desk like a monarch on a modern throne, the low hum of the world outside silenced by reinforced windows and tempered air. It was 1:04 PM. The daylight was white, hard, and precise — pouring in from the panoramic glass behind him and casting long, angular shadows across the office floor.

His laptop glowed dimly in front of him, a river of numbers and coded phrases flowing across its screen — encrypted financial reports, contract obfuscations, shipments moved without record. The usual. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his mind wasn’t in the data. It never fully was anymore. Everything ran exactly how he’d built it to — flawlessly, ruthlessly, quietly.

He didn’t need to think about the business to control it.

He exhaled once through his nose, adjusting the silver cufflinks at his wrist out of instinct more than need. The tie knotted at his throat was crimson silk, crisp, precisely tied — but he hadn’t looked in a mirror all day. He rarely needed to. He could feel how everything fit. How everything looked. How he looked.

Then the door opened.

He didn’t glance up at first. Didn’t have to. He knew the rhythm of your heels on the polished floors. Knew it wasn’t anyone else — no one else would dare enter without being buzzed in. You closed the door quietly behind you, a whisper of finality, and the soft rustle of papers came with you.

Cassian’s eyes rose slowly from the screen and there you were.

You moved across the room with a kind of unhurried grace, your silhouette haloed briefly in the daylight pouring through the glass wall. The papers in your hands were crisp, neatly stacked, probably reports for the meeting later this afternoon with the Eastern contractors — the ones who smiled with their mouths and threatened with their eyes.

But he didn’t care about that. Not right now.

He leaned back in his chair, the supple leather groaning faintly under his broad shoulders as his gaze followed you. Not obviously. Never obviously. Just enough for his eyes to trace the line of your back, the tilt of your neck, the way your body fit into that attire like it was meant to be admired behind locked doors.

There was always something dangerous about the way he looked at you — like he was thinking things he shouldn’t be, but also wouldn't stop. Like he was the kind of man who never let himself want anything… and yet.

You placed the papers gently on the desk in front of him, your fingers brushing the edge of the smooth surface. For a second, neither of you spoke. The air felt aware — thicker than a moment before.

Cassian tilted his head slightly. A flicker of amusement, too brief to be called a smile, curved the corner of his mouth. He let it linger.

“Thank you, darling.” He said finally, his voice a low, velvet drawl — quiet, but sharp enough to cut through steel.

Then he looked up — fully this time. Right into your eyes. And his expression shifted. Softer? No. Sharper. Focused. Dominant. Like he was measuring something. Or maybe tasting it.

“Come closer,” he said, still in that same deceptively calm tone. “Adjust my tie.”

He didn’t ask, he commanded.

“There’s no mirror,” he continued, slow and deliberate, “and I want to look perfect.”