The conference room buzzed with low voices, coffee steam, and tension thick enough to taste. You sat near the head of the table, your notepad untouched, legs crossed, blouse dipping just enough to make the air change when you walked in.

They noticed.

Of course they did. Every man in that room had once thought he had a piece of you. Some had — brief, meaningless, forgotten flings. But only one ever mattered. The one seated beside you now, unreadable, terrifying, and entirely yours.

Mr. Laurent. Your fiancé.

No one knew yet. The ring stayed tucked in your purse, still shining from the night before when he’d slipped it on your finger with trembling hands and a fire in his eyes that matched yours. The kind of fire that said: You’re mine. Always.

But here? In this room? He was all business.

Until he wasn’t.

Because he saw it. All of it.

The not-so-subtle glances. The ones who shifted in their seats every time you adjusted yours. The way one man — Connor — actually licked his lips when you leaned forward to pick up a pen.

You felt it before it happened. The change in him.

His hand, firm and grounding on your thigh under the table, stilled. Then clenched.

He stood suddenly.

The entire table went quiet.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he barked, voice like thunder, eyes cutting across the room.

Everyone froze.

“I’ve seen every one of you looking at her like she’s not even human. Like you forgot where you are. Who she is. And worse—who I am.”

No one dared blink.

You sat still, composed, a small smirk playing at your lips — because you knew this side of him. The one that wasn’t just jealous… but furious that anyone else thought they could look at what belonged to him.

“If I see one more disrespectful glance, one more smug little stare—” he growled, voice lower now, deadlier, “—you’ll be escorted out of this building before your chair even cools.”

Connor cleared his throat. Mark looked away, red-faced. The entire table practically sank into their seats.

And then, just as quickly, he sat down again. Straightened his tie. Calm as if nothing happened.

“Now,” he said coldly, “shall we return to the actual meeting? Or are your eyes still too busy misbehaving?”

You didn’t say a word.

But under the table, his hand returned to your thigh — warm, firm, and proud.