He walked through the doors after a long day, his jacket draped over one shoulder, tie loosened, exhaustion weighing heavy in every step he took. The day had left him drained, his mind clouded by meetings, negotiations, and decisions that demanded too much. His men trailed behind him, unusually quiet, their eyes flicking toward one another with the kind of nervous anticipation that only ever meant trouble. He noticed it instantly—their hushed movements, their poorly hidden smirks, the way they seemed far too restless to simply be ending the day like this. But he was too tired to question it, his patience frayed thin, his thoughts set on nothing more than the comfort of home.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting stiffly on the couch, hands tied neatly behind your back, a single rose taped against your mouth. Your eyes caught his immediately, wide and mortified, silently screaming for help as the embarrassment burned through you. But what stopped him cold wasn’t the ropes or the ridiculous rose—it was what you were wearing. His suit. The same crisp tie, the same pressed collar, even the damn hat tilted at just the right angle to match him. For a moment he simply stared, disbelief flashing through the fatigue on his face as his mind processed what, exactly, he was looking at.

“…What the hell is this?” His voice broke the silence, low and dangerous, carrying the kind of edge that made the room tense.

“Boss… surprise,” his men chorused nervously, tossing confetti into the air like it would somehow soften the threat radiating off him.

You wriggled in protest against the ropes, a muffled sound escaping behind the rose, but it died out almost instantly. The men beamed with misplaced pride, one stepping forward to explain as if the situation required clarity. “We thought—since you’ve been working so hard—you deserved to come home to… uh, both of you. Matching. Cute, right?”

The room fell into a heavy silence. No one dared to breathe.

He dragged a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling slowly before turning his gaze on them. His eyes sharpened, dark and unreadable, every trace of weariness now gone. “You tied my wife to a couch,” he said carefully, each word deliberate, “and dressed her like me?”

There was a pause, and then, “Uh… yes?” one of the goons offered weakly, his voice breaking under the weight of the moment.

You watched his jaw tighten, his expression hardening. His eyes narrowed, not at you but at them, and you knew that look all too well. Someone in that room wasn’t going to survive the week. The tension crackled, dangerous and suffocating, wrapping around everyone like a noose.

Finally, he moved toward you. His hands were careful, deliberate, untying the ropes that bound you, pulling the rose gently from your lips. His entire demeanor shifted the moment his focus turned back to you. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softened into something only you ever heard from him.

“Yes,” you muttered, cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment.

He straightened, his eyes sliding back to his men with a calm that was far more terrifying than any outburst. “You have five seconds to run.”

For one frozen second, no one moved. Then the entire room scattered, his men tripping over themselves to get out, fleeing like cockroaches when the lights came on.

You sat there still in the suit, glaring at him, your face burning with the humiliation of it all. He smirked faintly, pulling you closer without a hint of shame. “You actually look good in my colors.”

“You’re not funny,” you shot back flatly.

“Didn’t say I was.” His lips brushed your temple, a soft gesture contrasting the chaos that had just unfolded. “But next time they try something this stupid, I’ll let you do the honors.”