Elena's POV
If I could tell you how it felt to stand under a thousand glittering lights and feel only his eyes on me, you'd think I was exaggerating.
But I swear, that night — in that ballroom — the whole world blurred, and it was just Adrian Knight and me.
The chandeliers above us shimmered like frozen rain, scattering light across marble floors polished to mirror shine. Every conversation was wrapped in polite laughter, every glance a quiet assessment. It was my first corporate event — one of those elegant fundraisers where people wore masks made of charm and calculation.
And me? I was just the assistant. The invisible extension of his shadow.
All afternoon, I had rehearsed how to blend in. Smile. Nod. Move efficiently. Be professional. Be forgettable.
But when I walked in wearing the black dress his secretary had chosen for me — a dress I thought was a bit too fitted, too daring — the air changed. I felt it before I even saw him.
He was standing near the entrance, tall and composed in his usual black suit, glass of scotch in hand. He was speaking to someone, some investor or partner — I didn't even see who — because the moment his eyes lifted and landed on me, the rest of the world faded.
He didn't speak. Didn't even move. But something flickered across his face — the briefest pause, a tightening of his jaw, the kind of silent reaction only someone watching too closely would notice.
And I was.
That look — quiet, sharp, possessive — felt like a spark in my chest.
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of every heartbeat, every step.
I told myself it didn't mean anything. That it was just surprise, that I was overthinking. But the way his gaze followed me as I approached, slow and deliberate, said otherwise. It was the kind of look that made the ground feel unsteady beneath your feet.
"Stay close," he murmured later, his tone casual to anyone listening, but the words brushed against my skin like a warning. His hand touched the small of my back — light, guiding, almost protective — and yet it burned like a secret neither of us should keep.
"Of course," I managed, hoping my voice didn't sound as breathless as I felt.
Inside the main hall, everything glittered — champagne, silverware, people. I moved through it all like it was choreography. Smile. Introduce. Pass him the folder. Whisper reminders. Pretend my pulse wasn't tangled with his.
For a while, it was fine. Easy, even.
Until he appeared — Mr. Carter.
He was one of our biggest clients — older, polished, with a kind of easy arrogance that came from years of being admired. His charm was the practiced kind, his compliments smooth and harmless on the surface.
"You must be new," he said, his voice honeyed with curiosity. "I don't think we've met before."
I smiled politely. "I'm Mr. Knight's assistant. Elena."
"Ah." His eyes swept over me in a way that made my skin prickle. "That explains the efficiency." He laughed, and I smiled because that's what I was supposed to do — polite, professional, unbothered.
But when his hand brushed my arm as he leaned closer to tell some meaningless joke, I froze. It wasn't inappropriate, not really. Just… too familiar. Too casual for someone I'd spoken to for less than a minute.
Still, I said nothing. Just stepped back a little, hoping he'd take the hint.
That's when I felt it — the shift in the air. Heavy. Charged.
I didn't have to turn. I knew.
He was watching.
When I finally looked, my breath caught.
Adrian stood across the room, drink forgotten in his hand, his posture taut and unmoving. The light from the chandeliers carved shadows across his face, making the lines of his jaw sharper, more defined. His eyes were dark — not cold, but burning. The kind of dark that warned people to tread carefully.
His gaze flicked from Mr. Carter's hand to my face, and I swear I could feel the temperature in the room drop a few degrees.
I murmured something polite to excuse myself, heart hammering, and made my way toward him.
"Are you okay?" I asked softly when I reached him.
For a long moment, he didn't answer. He just looked at me. The silence stretched between us, pulling tighter by the second. Then he leaned in, so close I could feel the whisper of his breath against my ear.
"Did you enjoy his attention?"
My breath hitched. "What?"
He took a slow step closer. Too close. The scent of his cologne — cedarwood, smoke, and something clean — hit me before the meaning of his words did.
"Because I didn't," he said, voice low, almost restrained. "I didn't like the way he touched you."
"Adrian—"
"Don't," he cut in quietly, eyes never leaving mine. "Don't defend it."
It wasn't anger, not exactly. It was something tighter. Controlled. As if he was holding back from saying something he knew he shouldn't.
Around us, the world went on — laughter, clinking glasses, polite chatter — and yet it felt like we were alone. The space between us thrummed with something unspoken.
His gaze dropped briefly to where my arm still tingled from Carter's touch. His jaw flexed again.
"You belong to me when you're here," he said, the words almost a whisper, but they hit like a heartbeat. "You work for me. You represent me. Don't let anyone touch you like that again."
It should have sounded like a reprimand.
It didn't.
The way he said it — low, steady, edged with something he couldn't quite hide — it felt personal. Too personal.
My heart stuttered. "I didn't mean for—"
"I know," he interrupted, his tone softening just slightly. "But that doesn't make it easier to watch."
His hand brushed my arm — not possessive, just enough to make my pulse trip. He seemed to realize it too because his fingers lingered for a fraction longer than they should have before retreating.
Something flickered in his eyes. Conflict. Regret. Something else I couldn't name.
For a second, I thought he might say something more. That he might step over whatever invisible line had been holding us apart all this time. But then he inhaled sharply and straightened.
"Go get some air," he murmured, quieter now. "Before I say something I shouldn't."
My throat tightened. "Adrian—"
He shook his head, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips — the kind that wasn't amusement, but resignation. "Please, Elena."
I nodded because words felt dangerous just then. Because if I said anything, it might sound like a confession too.
The cool night air outside was sharp against my flushed skin. The city stretched below, glittering like another ballroom — only this one belonged to the stars.
I leaned against the railing, exhaling slowly, but it didn't help. The image of him — the heat in his gaze, the strain in his voice — replayed in my mind like a song I couldn't stop hearing.
You're mine.
He hadn't said the words outright. Not exactly.
But he didn't have to.
I could still feel them in the way his hand had hovered near my skin, in the way his voice had dropped, rough around the edges — like he'd let something real slip through the cracks of his control.
He wasn't supposed to feel that way. And neither was I. He was my boss. I was just the assistant. That was the line — clear, professional, untouchable.
But that line was starting to blur.
Every time he looked at me like that, every time he let his mask slip for just a moment, something inside me responded before my mind could catch up.
Because under all that authority and calm precision, there was something else in him — something raw and restless. The kind of man who carried storms beneath his suit, who could shatter composure with just a glance.
And that night, for the first time, I saw it.
The man behind the control.
The one who'd rather burn the world down than watch someone else touch what he already considered his.
It terrified me — how much I understood it.
And worse, how much of me didn't want to stop it.
I touched my arm absently where he had brushed it, as if his warmth might still be there.
Inside, I could hear laughter again, muffled by glass and distance. The world had returned to its rhythm — polished, perfect, unaware.
But for me, everything had changed.
Because now, when I thought of Adrian Knight, I wouldn't see the man everyone else did — the poised CEO, the untouchable force. I'd see the flicker in his eyes when jealousy cracked through his restraint.
I'd hear his voice, low and rough, whispering words that weren't meant to escape.
You belong to me when you're here.
And no matter how much I tried to tell myself otherwise, a part of me — a foolish, dangerous part — didn't want to forget the way it sounded.
It wasn't possession. Not exactly.
It was something deeper.
Like he didn't just want to claim me — he wanted to protect me, even from the things I didn't notice.
And somehow, that was worse.
Because in that moment, under the cool night sky, I realized something I shouldn't have.
Maybe I didn't want to be invisible after all.
Maybe, for once, I wanted him to see me — the way he had tonight.
Completely.
And that terrified me more than anything else ever could.
*****