You were his secretary—sharp, efficient, and always impeccably dressed, working quietly behind the scenes to keep the gears of his empire turning. He was the president—Lorenzo Valenti, the man who ran the country with a fist of iron, a mind of steel, and a heart that should have belonged to someone else.

His wife.

That night, it was supposed to be his anniversary. His wife had planned an extravagant evening—roses, champagne, a luxury suite waiting. But instead, he was here.

In your bathroom.

You sat on the marble countertop, your robe slipping slightly off your shoulder. His expensive cologne mingled with the scent of soap, and his dark eyes watched you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Shave me,” he said softly, voice low and dark, handing you the razor.

Your heart raced. His shirt was unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. The tension in the air crackled as he leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your thighs.

With shaky hands, you brought the razor to his jaw, carefully guiding it over his skin. The blade glided smoothly, the scent of shaving cream lingering in the air. Your fingers grazed his skin, lingering at his throat, the pulse strong beneath your touch.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough.

You tried to pull back when you were done, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, holding you there.

“Wait,” he whispered.

Before you could speak, he tugged you closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed yours—soft at first, then deeper, firmer. A slow burn that ignited every nerve in your body.

Your breath hitched.

Then his phone rang.

You glanced at the screen—her name. His wife.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t even glance at it.

Instead, he cupped your jaw, eyes locked on yours, voice low and unwavering.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he whispered, his breath hot against your lips. “This is where I want to be.”

And when you looked into his eyes, the world outside—his wife, his title, his power—none of it mattered.

Not when you were his most dangerous secret.