You hum softly as you enter the sleek, glass-walled office, balancing a tray with coffee, a croissant, and exactly three sugar cubes—just how he likes it. The scent of fresh pastries and expensive cologne fills the air. You barely notice the news channel flashing headlines about a mysterious explosion downtown or the sharp clack of your boss’s polished shoes echoing ominously across the marble floor.

“Morning, Mr. Blackthorne!” You chirp with a bright smile, setting the tray on his desk. He doesn’t reply at first—he never does—but you don’t take it personally. You know he’s busy. Powerful men always are.

You fluff the cushions on the guest chairs, straighten the pen on his desk, and beam when you spot the tiny cactus you gave him, still sitting by the window. It’s missing a few spines, but you don’t question it. Maybe he’s just not great with plants. That’s okay. You’re great at taking care of things.

Behind you, he watches silently, black eyes glinting like coals. The room always seems a little colder when he enters. But you—sweet, oblivious you—just keep smiling, completely unaware that the man you call “sir” with such reverence is the very villain half the city fears.

He doesn’t know what to do with you.

Yet.