Elara's POV
The rule was simple: no suprises.
Elara Devon, at thirty-nine, was defined by control. Her life was a polished, expensive machine, Director of the largest design firm in the city, her apartment spotless, her career trajectory mapped out for the next decade. She wore her success like armor.
She stood in the boardroom, watching the eleven faces around the table.
"We are not taking risks," Elara stated, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "The client expects classic, stable, and safe. That is what we will deliver. End of discussion."
The senior staff nodded immediately. This was Elara's signature move: ruthless efficiency.
But then there was Leo Vance.
Leo, twenty-seven, sat at the end of the table. He was the only one in the room wearing a shirt that wasn't bespoke. He was all raw ambition and confidence, and he looked at Elara not with respect, but with challenge.
"Director, that's how we lose the client," Leo said, leaning forward. His eyes, an unforgettable shade of green, met hers.
"Explain that, Mr. Vance, before you waste everyone's time," Elara commanded.
"We deliver the safe plan, and they sign a one-year contract. We deliver the masterpiece; the organic glass façade and they sign a ten-year deal," Leo argued, his voice low, pulling everyone's attention. "The risk is not in the design. The risk is in being boring."
Elara felt the familiar spike of unwanted adrenaline. He was arrogant. He was right. And she hated that she couldn't crush him without losing a brilliant idea.
"Brilliance is expensive, Leo. We don't have time for a pivot," she snapped.
"I've already run the preliminary structural tests. The pivot takes two nights of work. Not two weeks," he pushed back. "Are you telling me The Elara is afraid of two nights of work?"
The subtle manipulation was infuriating. He knew exactly how to trigger her ambition.
Elara stared at him for a long, cold moment.
"If you fail to deliver the perfect stress analysis deck by eight A.M. tomorrow morning, you will spend the next month doing inventory. Do you understand the terms, Mr. Vance?"
Leo's confident smile returned, slow and devastating. "Perfectly. You just bought us ten years, Elara."
He was the only person in the firm who dared to use her first name, even in concession. The meeting was over.
Later, the office was quiet, sinking into city twilight. Elara was gathering her belongings when she saw the light still blazing in Leo's corner. She told herself she needed to check if he'd destroyed any files.
She found him exactly as she'd imagined: hunched over his massive screens, the light reflecting off the muscles in his back. He had peeled off his shirt, working in a thin gray T-shirt that clung to his shoulders.
Elara's breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound that she immediately regretted. He was young, built, and completely distracting. Focus. Professionalism.
"Report," she demanded, her voice tight.
Leo straightened, running a hand through his dark hair. He was startled, but recovered instantly. "Director. Almost ready."
She walked toward his desk. She needed to look at the data, not at him. The calculations were dense, but flawless.
"You've done good work," she admitted grudgingly, reaching for a file she needed.
He moved simultaneously, pointing to a single variable on the screen. "Just correcting the final factor here."
Their fingers collided. Her cool, dry skin against his warm, rough knuckle.
The shock was immediate and physical. It was not a touch; it was an electric current that raced up her arm and settled deep in her chest.
Elara snatched her hand back, her face flushed with heat she hadn't felt in years. She looked at him. His eyes, usually challenging, were dark with naked desire. The air pressure in the office seemed to have dropped to zero.
"It was efficiency, Leo. Nothing more," she lied, turning away before she could do something completely reckless. "The deck, eight A.M."
She marched to her immaculate office, shutting the door. She stood against it, breathing heavily. She was forty-two. She was the Director. She could not ruin her life for a boy.
She sat down, grabbing her phone to confirm her schedule for the next day. A new notification flashed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Director. That wasn't efficiency. That was a spark. You felt it too.
Elara stared at the text. How did he get her private number? The brazenness was intoxicating. She deleted the text, then immediately regretted it. She typed a reply, then deleted it. She was losing control.
The phone vibrated violently on her desk. A second text.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You can try to run, Elara. But I can tell you exactly what you wore today. I can describe the moment your breathing changed when our hands touched.
A slow wave of fear mixed with adrenaline washed over her. He had been watching her.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
It's okay. We keep the secret. But now you know: we have a secret.
Elara's fingers hovered over the screen. She needed to shut this down. She needed to block him. But her hands were trembling too hard. She was terrified, yet horribly excited.
She finally sent a reply, small, desperate, and utterly compromising.
ELARA:
Don't.
She pressed send, her eyes widening in panic as she realized the single word wasn't a warning, it was an invitation.