Elena's POV
People weren't exaggerating when they said Adrian Knight was impossible to please.
It only took me three days to understand that working for him meant walking into a storm disguised as still air — all control on the surface, chaos just beneath.
He never raised his voice.
He didn't have to.
A single look — that cool, unwavering stare — could strip you of every ounce of confidence you thought you had. He didn't need anger to command a room. He just existed in a way that made everyone else recalibrate their tone, their words, their posture.
That morning, I arrived five minutes early. Five whole minutes. I thought that would earn me some unspoken approval — maybe even a nod.
It didn't.
When I stepped into his office, he didn't look up right away. The soft click of his pen and the low hum of the city outside filled the silence. I could see my reflection faintly in the glass behind him — standing too stiff, trying too hard.
Finally, without lifting his gaze, he said, "You're late."
I blinked. "Sir, I—"
"You were supposed to have the quarterly files ready on my desk before I arrived. It's eight fifty-one." His voice was smooth, precise. "I said eight forty-five."
Technically true. Painfully true.
My heart dropped to my stomach. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knight. I'll fix it right away."
That was when his eyes lifted — cold, silver-grey, and impossible to read. "You don't fix lateness, Miss Brooks," he said evenly. "You prevent it."
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Then, just like that, he went back to signing papers. No raised voice, no visible frustration. I was dismissed as efficiently as he'd corrected me.
You'd think I'd hate him for it.
But I didn't.
Because even in that coldness, there was something magnetic about him — like gravity itself bent a little closer wherever he stood. His control didn't repel me. It fascinated me. The way he moved, the way his words landed with precision, the way silence seemed to obey him — it made you want to do better. For him.
That day felt endless. He barely spoke, except when he had to.
"That's not the correct formatting."
"Read before you send."
"Pay attention, Miss Brooks."
Each correction landed like a papercut — small, sharp, and cumulative. By noon, my nerves were raw. I'd gone through three cups of coffee and hadn't eaten a single thing. My stomach was twisting, but I couldn't risk looking distracted.
Around midday, I decided to bring him a fresh cup of coffee. Maybe it was my way of offering a peace treaty. Or maybe it was my attempt to remind him — and myself — that I wasn't completely useless.
I set the mug on his desk quietly. He didn't even glance up. He was flipping through documents, the light from the window spilling across his hands — long fingers, movements clean and deliberate.
"You're still shaking," he said suddenly.
I froze. "What?"
"Your hands," he murmured, signing another page without missing a beat. "You're nervous. It's distracting."
Embarrassment flared up my neck. "I— I'm sorry, sir. I'll—"
But before I could finish, he sighed. Not in irritation. It sounded… tired. Or maybe concerned. It was the first sound from him that didn't sting.
"Eat something," he said, voice softer but still firm. "You skipped breakfast again, didn't you?"
My eyes widened. "How— how do you know that?"
He looked up then, the corner of his mouth tilting — not a smile, exactly, but something close. "Because your hands are cold," he said. "And your voice is slower than usual. Low blood sugar."
That was Adrian Knight in a sentence: composed, analytical, and terrifyingly observant.
Before I could even process it, he pulled open a drawer, retrieved a neatly wrapped protein bar, and placed it on the desk in front of me. "Take it."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Still, I hesitated. "I can—"
His eyes lifted, cool and final. "Don't argue."
So I didn't. I took it. My fingers brushed his for a fraction of a second — warm skin, steady pulse — and my heart jumped like it had touched a live wire.
"Thank you, Mr. Knight."
He didn't respond. Just returned to his papers as if the exchange hadn't happened. But as I turned to leave, I could've sworn I saw something shift in his expression. The faintest flicker at the corner of his mouth — a near-smile that vanished before I could be sure it was ever there.
And I swear, my heart betrayed me right then.
*****
The rest of the day passed in a blur of calls, reports, and silent glances across the glass partition that separated his office from mine. Every time he spoke my name, even just to correct something, my pulse jumped. He had that effect — made you feel seen and invisible all at once.
By the time I packed my things that evening, the office had emptied out. The city outside had dimmed into gold and grey, the skyline reflecting against the glass walls. I was just about to head home when his voice broke the silence.
"Miss Brooks."
I turned. He was standing in his doorway, jacket in hand, tie loosened slightly — the first imperfection I'd ever seen on him. "You're leaving now?"
"Yes, sir."
He nodded once, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Good. I'll walk out with you."
It wasn't really a request. But it didn't feel like an order either.
We stepped into the elevator together. The air between us felt charged — not tense, exactly, just… aware. The kind of silence that hums.
When the doors opened to the lobby, I thought I could breathe again. But the second we stepped outside, flashes of white light exploded in my face.
I flinched instinctively. Paparazzi.
Cameras everywhere. People shouting his name like he was some kind of celebrity — which, in a way, he was. Adrian Knight, the elusive CEO whose empire touched everything from tech to finance. He was power personified — and apparently, the press couldn't get enough of him.
I froze, disoriented, caught between the flashing lights and the shouting voices. The chaos swallowed me whole.
Before I could react, I felt an arm wrap firmly around my waist, pulling me close — close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his suit.
"Keep your head down," he said, voice low, barely audible above the noise.
His hand pressed lightly against my side, guiding me through the crowd. His touch wasn't rough, but it was deliberate — protective, grounding. For someone who seemed carved from ice, he was impossibly warm.
I tried to speak, but my words got lost in the chaos. The photographers called out questions, flashes going off like lightning. Adrian didn't flinch. His composure was unshakable, like the world could crumble around him and he'd still stand tall.
He opened the car door and looked down at me. "Inside," he said — not sharp, not cold, just… steady.
I obeyed, ducking into the sleek black car. The door closed behind me, sealing out the noise. A moment later, he slid in beside me, and the quiet was deafening.
I turned to him, heart still racing. "You didn't have to—"
His jaw tightened. "I did."
"Why?"
He glanced out the tinted window, his reflection sharp against the city lights. "You work for me," he said finally. "That makes you my responsibility."
That word — my — lodged somewhere in my chest. He didn't mean it the way it sounded, I knew that. But the way his eyes lingered on mine made it feel like something more.
The driver pulled away, and the city blurred past in streaks of white and gold. Inside the car, the air felt thick with everything unspoken.
I tried to focus on the lights outside, on the rhythm of traffic, on anything that wasn't the quiet weight of his presence beside me. But it was impossible.
The smell of his cologne — clean, subtle, a little smoky — filled the small space. His sleeves were rolled just slightly, veins visible along his wrist where his watch caught the dim light. Every detail about him was sharp, deliberate, controlled. Except for the way his gaze flickered toward me when he thought I wasn't looking.
I wanted to understand him. The man who could be impossibly cold one moment and quietly protective the next. The man who built an empire out of discipline but still noticed when his assistant hadn't eaten.
But Adrian Knight wasn't someone you understood.
He was someone you learned — slowly, painfully, like a foreign language that didn't reveal its rules until after you'd already broken them.
When the car finally stopped in front of my apartment, he spoke before I could thank him.
"Tomorrow," he said simply. "Eight forty-five."
There was the faintest glimmer of humor in his tone — so faint I might've imagined it.
"Yes, Mr. Knight."
He nodded once. "Good night, Miss Brooks."
I stepped out, the cool night air wrapping around me. The car didn't drive off immediately. I could feel his gaze through the tinted window, steady, unreadable.
When I finally went inside, I leaned against the closed door, heart still pounding. The flashes, the chaos, the way his arm had felt around me — it all replayed in my mind like a loop I couldn't stop watching.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and replayed his voice, his eyes, his touch — everything. And somewhere between exhaustion and confusion, I realized something I didn't want to admit.
For all his sharp edges and impossible standards,
I didn't fear him anymore.
I felt him.
Everywhere.
*****