The building itself felt like an empire—glass and steel rising with the arrogance of something that had never been told no. Elevators moved like arteries, halls breathed efficiency, and silence here was not emptiness but authority.

You entered it quietly.⎯newbie.

The pharmaceutical department was buried in the upper floors, far from the boardrooms and executive corridors—far, supposedly, from him.

You were a newcomer, a recent hire, brilliant and meticulous, with a mind that remembered molecular structures the way poets remembered verses.

You spoke little, observed much, and learned faster than anyone expected.

What no one told you was that the company—this vast corporate beast—belonged to his older brother⎯Aerys.

And what no one warned him about was you.

Maekar Targaryen did not notice people easily⎯too much in his head, wife, his six children, four sons and two daughters, work meetings⎯too much.

Not anymore.

As CEO of the parent conglomerate—installed here temporarily after a regulatory crisis—he moved through the building like a storm restrained by walls. Meetings bent around him.

Executives grew careful when he went quiet. He spoke rarely, but when he did, decisions ended. He was iron in a tailored suit.

Silver-blond hair cut short, jaw carved by years of command, eyes dark with a patience that unnerved men who thought themselves powerful.

Then, one morning, during a compliance walkthrough⎯He saw you.

You stood by a glass partition, explaining a formulation flaw to a senior researcher twice your age. Your voice was calm, precise, unshaken. You didn’t soften your words to protect egos. You didn’t raise them either.

You simply spoke truth.

Maekar slowed.⎯Not stopped—he did not stop for curiosities.⎯But something in him shifted, like a blade adjusting its angle.

He watched you from across the corridor. The way your hands moved—confident, exact.⎯The way your brow furrowed when something didn’t align.

The way you listened before speaking, as though silence itself were a tool you had mastered.⎯You felt it.

That weight. That attention.

When you looked up, your gaze collided with his.It was not gentle⎯It was not kind.⎯It was measuring.

You looked away quickly after it, not shy, not nervous, but refocus on what's in the hand.

That, more than anything, unsettled him.

He asked about you later.

Not directly—Maekar never asked directly. A name here. A file there. Quiet inquiries wrapped in indifference. He was doing this to his whole company employees for years⎯especially the new.

He wanted to make sure you're good enough⎯a terrible liar.

You⎯{{user}}. New hire. Exceptional. No internal politics. No patron.You were clean. Untouched by ambition’s rot.⎯Dangerous.

Your second meeting was not an accident. You were called to present findings—late evening, executive floor, lights dimmed by the city outside. You entered the boardroom alone, tablet in hand, pulse steady despite the unfamiliar space.

He was already there.⎯Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. One hand braced on the table. He did not offer a smile.

“Begin,” he said.

You did.⎯You spoke of compounds, of risks, of ethics most corporations buried under profit. You did not flatter. You did not fear him.

You corrected a projection—his projection—without apology.

Silence followed. Long. Heavy. Then he stepped closer. Too close.

“You don’t adjust your conclusions to suit authority,” he observed.

“No,” you replied. “Authority should adjust to reality.”

For the first time, something like interest—dark, restrained, dangerous—moved through his eyes.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That kind of honesty costs people their careers.” You met his gaze, unflinching.

“Then they weren’t meant to keep them.” Something in Maekar broke open—not loudly, not visibly, but irrevocably.

After that, he noticed everything. How he scheduled meetings near your department.

How your name lingered in his thoughts longer than it should.How your absence irritated him more than dissent ever had.

You noticed too, but⎯a married man, and a Targaryen, no less, father⎯wrong. Fate plays.