Elena's POV
I don't think I'll ever forget that night.
It started like any other long evening at the office — papers scattered across my desk, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the glow of city lights spilling through the glass walls. Printers had stopped whirring hours ago, the occasional tap of a keyboard long gone, and the quiet pressed around me like a living thing.
But something felt… different.
Adrian had been off lately. Ever since that day in the café, when he had watched me from outside and then walked away, I could feel it in the subtle way he observed me. Not like a boss assessing an employee's work, but like a man trying to understand something he couldn't name, something he wasn't supposed to acknowledge.
I noticed the small things — how he lingered near my desk when there was no reason to be there, how he passed me a file but let his fingers brush mine just a second longer than necessary, how he said my name like it carried weight it shouldn't, like it held a private meaning.
By the time the last employee left, the office was silent. Too silent. The kind of silence that makes you acutely aware of your own heartbeat, your own breathing. And there he was, sitting by the window, the skyline reflecting in his eyes like glass and gold and secrets.
"Come here," he said finally, his voice low, quiet, but carrying a command I couldn't ignore.
I hesitated, my chest tightening, and then walked toward him. My steps felt heavy, slow. He didn't look up until I was standing right in front of his desk.
"Elena," he murmured, almost to himself, "do you have any idea what you do to me?"
The words weren't meant to be answered. They were fragile, raw — a thought that had slipped past his walls, the kind of truth he never let anyone see.
"I— I don't understand," I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best attempt at composure.
His lips curved into a motion that wasn't quite a smile. "No, you don't," he said softly.
He stood then, deliberate, every movement controlled until he was close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. Just being near him made my pulse spike, my skin feel tight, like the space between us was charged with something dangerous.
"I don't like it," he said softly. "When other men talk to you. When they look at you."
I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat. "Adrian…"
He shook his head, eyes dropping to mine with a sharp intensity that made my knees feel weak. "I know it's wrong. I know I shouldn't feel this way. But the thought of anyone… anyone touching you—" His voice faltered, tight with restraint. "I can't stand it."
The words should have scared me. And maybe they did — just a little. Adrian Knight wasn't supposed to lose control, wasn't supposed to show the cracks in his armor. But there was something else in his eyes too — not just possessiveness, but fear. Fear of losing something he didn't even have yet.
He took a step closer, eyes flicking to my lips, then back to my eyes. "You make me forget who I am, Elena," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
My heart thumped violently in my chest, every inch of me trembling between wanting to retreat and wanting to close the distance.
"I don't know what this is," I said softly, my words almost breaking under the weight of the moment.
"Neither do I," he admitted, his voice low and rough with emotion. "All I know is… I don't want you near anyone else. And that's selfish. But it's the truth."
There was something about the way he said it — quiet, almost broken, a hint of vulnerability I'd never thought I'd see in him — that unraveled me.
I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded myself of boundaries, of professionalism, of the fact that he was my boss.
But instead, I whispered, almost without thinking, "Then don't let me go."
He froze. His eyes flickered with a storm of restraint, desire, confusion — maybe all of it at once. For a moment, he seemed caught between the man he had to be and the man he wanted to be with me.
Then he stepped back, running a hand through his hair, jaw tight. "You don't know what you're saying," he murmured.
"Maybe not," I said softly, letting my gaze meet his. "But I mean it."
The silence that followed was electric. My breathing was uneven, his was shallow, and it felt like the world itself had narrowed down to the space between us. Every instinct screamed at me to stay, to close the distance, to let the heat between us finally ignite.
I took a tentative step forward, my hand trembling slightly as I reached toward him. He tensed — and just as our fingers were about to touch, his phone buzzed sharply against the desk.
Jonathan Pierce.
I didn't miss the subtle shift in him — the instant professionalism returning, the way his jaw relaxed, how his posture straightened. The moment we had almost claimed for ourselves vanished like smoke in the air.
He picked up the call, his voice calm, collected, steady. Every trace of emotion I'd seen moments ago disappeared behind the mask he wore so well. The tension broke, leaving me standing in the office, heart pounding, hands still half-extended.
When he hung up, the mask lingered a moment too long before he finally looked at me. His eyes were still sharp, controlled, but the vulnerability of earlier lingered in the curve of his shoulders, in the slight exhale that escaped his lips.
"Go home, Elena," he said gently.
And even as I walked toward the door, my hands trembling, my chest heavy, I knew one thing with absolute certainty — he hadn't said he didn't care. He had said he couldn't.
And somehow, that meant everything.
I lingered in the hallway outside his office, hand pressed to the glass for just a second longer, feeling the echo of what could have been — the heat of him near me, the confession in his voice, the unsaid words that hovered between us.
I wanted to go back. I wanted to pull him close, tell him I felt the same, tell him I didn't care about the rules, the walls, the consequences. But the rational part of me knew better — knew that even now, Adrian Knight was a man who controlled everything, even his emotions, and he wouldn't cross that line willingly.
Still, I felt it — the pull, the invisible tether between us that had strengthened that night. Every glance, every brush of his fingers, every whispered word replayed in my mind like a dangerous, intoxicating loop.
As I stepped into the elevator, I tried to collect myself. Tried to breathe normally. But my chest was still tight, my thoughts still tangled with the image of him — the way he had looked at me, raw and unguarded, and the way he had almost reached for me, almost let go of the control that defined him.
I thought about the future, and what it might hold. I thought about the blurred line between professional and personal, between desire and consequence. And deep down, I realized that even if he tried to ignore it, even if he pretended it hadn't happened, neither of us would ever be the same.
Because that night, Adrian Knight had shown me a piece of himself — a piece that no one else had ever seen. A piece that was fierce, conflicted, vulnerable, and undeniably human.
And somewhere, deep inside me, I wanted more.
I wanted to see him again in that moment of honesty. I wanted to feel the tension, the danger, the closeness that made my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. I wanted to be the reason he lost control, even if just for a few fleeting seconds.
And as I stepped out of the building and into the cool night air, I realized that no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise… I wouldn't stop thinking about him. Not now, not ever.
Because for the first time since I came to New York, I didn't just feel like an assistant in a glass tower. I felt like I mattered. Like someone who usually commanded the world with power and precision had admitted — quietly, impossibly, heartbreakingly — that I mattered to him.
And that knowledge, dangerous and intoxicating as it was, burned through me like fire.
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