Chapter 1 — Erica
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the thirty-second floor — his floor — and my stomach did that familiar twist it always did right before I saw him. The entire level was silent, polished, and intimidating. Frosted glass walls reflected my nervous face, and the rhythmic clicking of my heels sounded far too loud in the stillness of King Enterprises.
Alvin King's office stood at the end of the hallway, a fortress of glass and steel — much like the man himself. I'd been his assistant for two years, and in that time, I'd learned exactly three things about him:
He hated lateness.
He never repeated himself.
And he didn't believe in emotions.
"Good morning, Mr. King," I said softly as I entered his office, balancing a folder, his schedule, and his usual black coffee — no sugar, no cream, no warmth.
He didn't look up immediately. He never did. His focus was razor-sharp, eyes glued to the screen as if the world outside the numbers didn't exist. When he finally did glance up, it was only for a second — long enough for me to feel pinned in place by his gaze.
"Good morning, Ms. Miles," he said in that deep, even tone that somehow carried both power and indifference. "You're two minutes early. Efficient as always."
A compliment from Alvin King was like sunlight in winter — rare and fleeting. I managed a small smile. "I try my best."
"You always do." His eyes lingered a moment longer than usual before he turned back to his laptop. "Prepare the meeting notes for the board presentation. And make sure the investors' report from Japan is translated correctly this time. Last time was… disappointing."
"Yes, sir."
He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. Alvin had a way of making a simple comment sound like judgment from above. Still, I couldn't help admiring him — his precision, his control, his calm. The world bent for him, and yet he never seemed satisfied.
As I left his office, I caught my reflection in the glass wall — calm, composed, professional. Inside, though, my thoughts were anything but.
How could a man be so perfect and so distant at the same time? Sometimes I wanted to shake him, make him feel something — anger, joy, anything. But all I ever saw in his eyes was restraint.
By noon, the office buzzed with quiet tension. There was an upcoming merger that had the entire company on edge. Everyone whispered about Alvin's temper, though few had ever seen it. His control was legendary — frightening even.
I stood beside him in the conference room, handing out documents to the board members. Every movement he made was deliberate, calculated — the way his sleeves were rolled just enough to show the curve of a watch worth more than my yearly salary, the way he spoke in precise, clipped sentences.
When a senior partner hesitated over a number, Alvin's tone dropped an octave. "If you don't understand the projections, perhaps you shouldn't be voting on them."
Silence. No one dared to respond. But I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his jaw — irritation he rarely showed.
After the meeting, he walked past me without a word. I thought he was angry. But then, halfway to his office, he paused. "Ms. Miles."
"Yes, sir?"
His eyes softened — barely. "Good work today."
It shouldn't have meant anything. It was four words. But my heart reacted as if he'd whispered a secret. "Thank you," I managed, hoping he couldn't see the color rising in my cheeks.
He looked at me for a long moment — long enough for the air to thicken — then turned away.
At five-thirty, most of the staff had left. I was still at my desk, typing out tomorrow's agenda when I noticed the soft glow of light still shining from his office. He worked late most nights, refusing to rest, as if silence itself was his only comfort.
I knocked once before entering. "You should go home, Mr. King," I said carefully. "It's late."
He didn't look up. "And so should you."
"I'm almost done."
His fingers paused over the keyboard. "You've been here since seven, Ms. Miles."
"So have you," I said before I could stop myself.
That got his attention. His eyes lifted — cool, sharp, unreadable. "I don't recall giving you permission to worry about me."
"I'm not worried," I said, though we both knew it was a lie. "Just… concerned."
Something flickered in his eyes then — something softer, almost human. "Concern is dangerous in this building," he murmured. "It makes people weak."
I swallowed. "Maybe. But I think it makes people human."
For a long, tense moment, he just looked at me — as if he was trying to remember what being human felt like. Then, quietly, he said, "You should go home, Erica."
It was the first time he'd ever said my first name.
The sound of it, deep and careful on his lips, lingered in the air between us like a secret. My chest tightened, and I nodded. "Good night, Alvin."
His gaze followed me to the door, unreadable, almost searching. And though neither of us said another word, I knew something had changed — something small, but irreversible.
For the first time since I started working for him, the cold CEO had let warmth slip through the cracks.
Chapter 2 — Alvin
There was something dangerous about the sound of her name.
Erica.
I didn't plan to say it. The word slipped past my defenses, quiet but sharp, like the first crack in glass. It echoed in my head long after she left the office — soft, persistent, wrong in the way something forbidden feels right.
I wasn't supposed to notice her.
She was my assistant. Efficient. Professional. Replaceable.
At least, that's what I kept telling myself.
I stared at the city lights through my office window — a shimmering skyline of ambition and noise. Below, New York moved restlessly, people chasing what they'd never hold. I used to be one of them once — before I learned that emotions only made you bleed. Success required control, and I'd mastered that art. Until her.
Erica Miles.
She was too kind for this place — for me. She spoke softly but worked harder than anyone. She listened without asking for anything. And that was what made her dangerous. People who expect nothing always end up taking everything.
I closed my laptop, trying to bury the thought, but her voice lingered in the silence of the office. The way she'd said You should go home, Mr. King — half concern, half defiance — had left something unsettled in me. No one ever told me what to do. Not in years.
Yet I didn't correct her. I didn't remind her of the hierarchy between us.
I just watched her walk away and felt the faint ache of something I didn't recognize anymore.
The next morning, I arrived before dawn, as usual. The air was cold, sharp — the way I liked it. I preferred the silence of early hours, before the building filled with people pretending to matter.
When she walked in, right on time, I pretended not to notice. But I did.
Every detail.
The slight curl of her hair at the ends, the way she balanced a dozen files and still managed to smile when she greeted the security guard. She had a lightness I didn't understand — one that made me aware of the heaviness I carried.
"Good morning, Mr. King," she said, setting my coffee down. The scent of it mixed with her perfume — faint vanilla, irritatingly distracting.
"Morning," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "Did you review the reports from Tokyo?"
"Yes. I made notes on page fourteen. There's a discrepancy in the revenue projection."
Of course there was. She always noticed what others didn't.
I looked at her for a moment longer than I should have. She caught my gaze and froze, as if she'd done something wrong. That was the problem. Everyone in this office moved around me like I was a storm about to break. Everyone but her.
"You've done well," I said quietly, surprising both of us.
Her eyes softened. "Thank you."
Something warm flickered in my chest, quickly extinguished by habit. I turned back to my laptop. "Prepare a copy of the presentation. We'll need it for the investor dinner tonight."
She hesitated. "Tonight?"
"Yes."
"You haven't had a night off in weeks, Mr. King."
I looked up. "And?"
Her lips pressed together. "Nothing. I'll make the arrangements."
She left before I could respond, but her words stayed with me — a whisper of concern in a world that didn't have room for it.
That evening, the restaurant was all glass and gold — elegant, discreet, expensive. The kind of place where deals were sealed with smiles that never reached the eyes. Erica sat beside me, quietly flipping through her notes, unaware that every now and then, my attention drifted from the investors to her.
She didn't belong here — not because she wasn't capable, but because she was too real. While others performed confidence, hers was quiet and unforced. She didn't flirt, didn't scheme, didn't pretend. It unnerved me more than I wanted to admit.
When the meeting ended, she stood, gathering the papers. A lock of hair fell across her face, and before I could think, I reached out — brushing it away with the back of my hand.
She froze.
So did I.
Her eyes met mine — wide, startled, unsure — and in that instant, the noise of the room faded. All I could hear was her breath, soft and uneven.
"I—sorry," I muttered, withdrawing my hand. "You had something in your—"
My voice cracked slightly. Pathetic.
"It's okay," she said, almost a whisper. "Thank you."
We stood there too long, trapped in a silence that said more than words ever could. I stepped back, putting distance between us, rebuilding the walls I'd let fall. But something inside me had already shifted.
On the drive back, she stared out the window, quiet. I should've focused on the lights, the traffic, the next meeting — but I couldn't stop thinking about the way she looked at me, as if she saw something worth saving.
It was close to midnight when we returned to the office to drop off the files. The building was empty again the way I liked it but this time, the quiet felt heavy.
She placed the folders on my desk. "Good night, Mr. King."
I nodded, but before she could leave, I said, "Erica."
She turned. "Yes?"
"Why do you stay this late? You don't get paid overtime."
Her brows knit together, surprised by the question. "Because I like my job," she said softly. "And because I believe in what we're doing."
I almost laughed. "You believe in this company?"
"I believe in you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Even if you don't."
The words hit harder than I expected. I didn't know how to respond. I just watched her walk out the door, the click of her heels echoing in the emptiness.
When the sound faded, I leaned back in my chair and exhaled slowly.
No one had said they believed in me in years.
And damn it I felt it.
As I stared out the window again, the city lights looked different.
Brighter.
Warmer.
Or maybe it wasn't the city that had changed.
Maybe it was me.
Chapter 3 — Erica
There are moments that stay with you — small, fleeting moments that shouldn't matter, yet somehow do.
The brush of his hand against my cheek in that golden-lit restaurant had been one of them.
It was nothing, really. An accident. A single second of contact. But I'd felt it long after we left, a quiet echo pulsing beneath my skin. And I hated that it meant something to me. Because to him, it probably didn't.
To Alvin King, everything was calculated — every word, every move, every breath. But sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, I caught something unguarded in his eyes. A flicker of exhaustion, or maybe regret. I couldn't tell. I only knew that those brief glimpses of vulnerability drew me in like gravity.
The next few days passed in a blur of meetings, phone calls, and quiet chaos. The merger was closing in, tension running high. I tried to focus on work, but every time I handed him a document or stood close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, I felt my composure slipping.
"Ms. Miles," he said one morning, glancing up from his desk. "You look distracted."
I froze mid-sentence. "I—sorry. Just tired."
He studied me for a moment. "You've been working overtime."
"So have you."
His lips twitched slightly. "That's not the same."
"It feels the same," I murmured before realizing I'd said it aloud.
His brow lifted, but instead of snapping, he leaned back in his chair. "You're not afraid to challenge me anymore."
I met his gaze. "Should I be?"
His silence stretched, sharp as glass. "Most people are."
"Maybe that's why they don't last long around you," I said softly.
The corner of his mouth almost curved — almost. But the moment vanished as quickly as it came. "Go over the meeting agenda again. I want it flawless."
"Yes, sir."
Still, when I turned to leave, I caught his reflection in the glass wall. He was watching me — not coldly, not critically, but like a man trying to understand something he'd forgotten how to feel.
Later that evening, rain began to fall over the city — soft at first, then harder, blurring the skyline into streaks of silver. I'd stayed late again, sorting through a pile of reports. Alvin was still in his office, lights on, tie loosened, jacket gone. I could see him through the glass — sleeves rolled, one hand pressed to his temple as if the weight of the world sat behind his eyes.
I hesitated before knocking.
He didn't answer, but I pushed the door open anyway.
"You need a break," I said gently. "You've been at this all day."
He didn't look up. "And you haven't?"
"I'm used to long hours."
He gave a faint, humorless laugh. "You shouldn't be."
I stepped closer. "You say that like it's my choice."
That made him glance up. His expression softened just slightly. "You could leave anytime you want, Erica. You don't owe this company anything."
"I don't stay for the company," I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes darkened — curious, unreadable. "Then why do you stay?"
Because of you, I wanted to say. Because you look like you're drowning in silence, and I can't seem to walk away.
But I couldn't. So I just smiled faintly. "Because I like what I do."
He didn't believe me — I could see it in the way his gaze lingered, as if he could hear the words I didn't say.
The storm outside grew louder, wind pressing against the windows. Lightning flashed across the city skyline, illuminating the room in brief bursts of silver and shadow.
He stood, crossing the room to pour himself a glass of whiskey. The sound of liquid against crystal filled the air. "You shouldn't walk home in this weather."
"I was going to call a cab."
He turned, holding out the glass. "Stay until it calms down."
"I don't drink," I said, smiling awkwardly.
He looked at the glass, then at me, and placed it down. "Then stay anyway."
Something in his voice — low, tired, almost pleading — made my chest tighten. I took a hesitant step closer. The air between us shifted, heavier somehow. He was standing near the window, the glow of the city behind him, shadows softening his sharp features.
"I don't understand you sometimes," I said quietly. "You push people away, but then you… do things like this."
His eyes met mine. "Do things like what?"
"Like care."
His jaw tightened. "I don't care."
"Yes, you do," I whispered. "You just don't want to."
He didn't answer. For a long moment, we stood in silence, the thunder rolling softly in the distance. Then he took a slow step closer — not enough to touch, but enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off him.
"You think you know me, Erica," he said, his voice lower now. "But you don't. I'm not someone you should try to understand."
"Maybe not," I said, holding his gaze. "But that doesn't mean I won't try."
His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Then he turned away, looking out at the rain. "You're going to regret that."
"Maybe," I said softly. "But not tonight."
The storm began to ease, and we didn't speak again after that. I sat across from him, both of us lost in our own thoughts — him staring at the skyline, me pretending not to watch him.
And for the first time, the silence between us didn't feel cold.
It felt like something alive. Something fragile. Something that could break us both if we weren't careful.
When I finally stood to leave, he didn't stop me — but as I reached the door, he said quietly, "Good night, Erica."
I turned back, smiling faintly. "Good night, Alvin."
It was the way he said my name — careful, deliberate, like it meant something — that stayed with me long after I left the office.
And somewhere deep down, I knew this wasn't just work anymore.
It was becoming something I couldn't control.
Chapter 4 — Alvin
The city never really slept — but tonight, it felt like it did.**
The storm had passed, leaving the streets washed and glistening beneath the moonlight. From my office window, I could still see the raindrops clinging to the glass, scattered like the remnants of a confession I didn't mean to make.
You think you know me, Erica.
Her words echoed through my mind, stubborn and soft, the kind that didn't fade when they should have.
I should've been reviewing the merger contracts. I should've been working, focusing, doing anything other than remembering the way she'd looked at me — not afraid, not impressed, just… seeing me. That was what unnerved me most.
People usually wanted something from me — power, money, access. But she wanted nothing except to understand. That made her dangerous.
Because I didn't know what to do with kindness.
The next morning, I arrived earlier than usual. The air was still damp, the scent of rain clinging to the city. When the elevator doors opened to my floor, she was already there, typing quietly at her desk.
"Morning, Mr. King," she said, looking up with a tired smile.
"Morning."
I shouldn't have noticed the small details — the faint shadows under her eyes, the way a loose strand of hair brushed her cheek, the light pink polish on her nails. But I did. And when I caught myself staring, I turned away sharply.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Yes. Black. As always."
Her smile widened a little. "I know."
That hint of amusement — the gentle teasing — it did something to me. I was not a man easily disarmed, yet somehow, she managed it effortlessly.
I cleared my throat. "The investor report—?"
"On your desk," she interrupted softly. "Revised, signed, and ready."
Efficient. Predictable. Perfect. Just like always.
So why did it feel like everything about her had changed?
Or maybe it was me.
Hours passed in a blur of numbers and voices. The day was ruthless — back-to-back meetings, endless decisions, a constant stream of people asking for approval. But somewhere between a call with Tokyo and a strategy briefing, my gaze drifted again — to the glass wall, where she sat, focused and unaware.
When she smiled at someone passing by, something twisted inside me. It wasn't jealousy exactly, but something close. An irritation at how easily she gave her warmth away.
By five, the office was nearly empty. I found myself standing at the doorway of her desk before I realized I'd even walked there.
"You're staying late again," I said.
She looked up, surprised. "Just finishing the reports for tomorrow."
"Go home."
Her lips parted slightly. "I'm not done yet."
"I said go home, Erica."
There was a flicker of hurt in her eyes. "You don't have to order me around, you know."
I exhaled slowly. "I'm not—" I stopped. The truth was, I was. That's all I knew how to do. "I just don't want you overworking yourself."
"That almost sounds like you care," she said gently.
Her words were teasing, but they landed somewhere deep, where I didn't want them to.
"Don't mistake professionalism for emotion," I said, more sharply than intended.
She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Right. Of course. Good night, Mr. King."
She gathered her things and left without another word.
The door closed behind her with a soft click — and for some reason, it felt louder than it should've.
That night, I couldn't concentrate. Her voice lingered in my head — the quiet disappointment beneath her politeness, the way she'd looked at me before walking out.
I poured myself another drink, staring at the city through the glass. I told myself I didn't owe her softness. That this was better. Distance was cleaner. Safe.
But it didn't feel safe. It felt empty.
For years, I'd built my life around the idea that control equaled strength — that shutting people out was the only way to win. But Erica had walked into my world and somehow turned that belief into a question.
Why did I care if I'd hurt her?
Why did her silence feel heavier than the noise of an entire city?
I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. This was ridiculous. She was my assistant. Nothing more.
Except she was more.
The next day, she was quieter. Professional. Distant.
The warmth in her tone was gone — replaced by the kind of polite detachment I thought I wanted.
But when I caught her smiling at someone else, my chest tightened.
I didn't speak much that day, afraid that whatever I said might come out wrong. Instead, I buried myself in work, signing documents I didn't read, giving orders I didn't mean.
And still, somehow, I kept looking at her.
At one point, she turned, catching my gaze. For a second, the world went still. There it was again — that unspoken pull, that tension I couldn't name.
Then the phone rang, and she looked away.
That night, after everyone left, I sat alone in the office again. Her desk light was still on — she'd forgotten to switch it off. I walked over, the scent of her perfume faint in the air.
There was a note beside her computer — a list of reminders written in neat handwriting. Deadlines, meetings, dinner reservations for next week. And at the bottom, a small line I wasn't meant to see:
"Don't let him see how much you care."
For a long time, I just stood there. Reading it. Rereading it.
Something twisted in my chest — sharp and unfamiliar.
So she did care. And she was trying to hide it, just like I was.
I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. The control I'd built for years suddenly felt fragile, like a glass wall about to shatter.
Maybe caring was dangerous.
But so was pretending I didn't.
When I finally left the office that night, the city lights blurred in the rain again. Somewhere deep down, I knew I was already crossing a line I'd never meant to.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to turn back.
Chapter 5 — Erica
The week after the storm moved like something fragile that neither of us dared to touch.
Mr. King was quieter, even for him. The short nods, the clipped "thank you," the long silences—all of it carried a tension that hummed just beneath the surface. We were still professional, still polite, yet the space between us felt alive, as if the air itself remembered the things we didn't say.
I told myself it was better this way. Safer. But every time he looked at me, my heart betrayed me.
Friday evening found the office nearly empty again. Most of the staff had gone home to their weekends; the hum of the city below rose like distant music. I was still at my desk, finishing the quarterly summary, when his voice cut softly through the quiet.
"Erica."
I looked up. He was standing by his door, jacket off, sleeves rolled, that unreadable expression fixed in place. "Come in," he said. "Please."
The word please from Alvin King was rarer than sunrise in winter.
I gathered my papers and walked in. "Is something wrong?"
"No." He paused. "Actually… yes. Sit down."
I sat opposite him, unsure of what to expect. The lamplight cast shadows across his face, softening the hard lines I'd come to know so well.
"I found your note," he said quietly.
My breath caught. "My note?"
"The one on your desk. You wrote—" His gaze lowered for a moment. "—don't let him see how much you care."
Heat rushed to my face. "That wasn't— I mean, it was just—"
"Honest," he finished for me.
I stared at the polished desk between us, every heartbeat too loud. "You weren't supposed to see that."
"I know." His voice dropped. "But I did. And now I can't pretend I didn't."
For a moment neither of us spoke. Rain whispered against the window again, faint and rhythmic, as if the city itself were listening.
He stood, walked around the desk, and leaned against its edge near me. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "Why do you care, Erica? After everything you've seen here—after me."
I met his eyes. "Because somewhere under all that control, you still care too. You just won't let yourself admit it."
Something flickered across his face—vulnerability, quickly masked. "You're wrong."
"No," I said softly. "I'm not."
His breath left him in a slow exhale. "You shouldn't have written that note."
"I know."
"You shouldn't be here this late."
"I know that too."
"Then why are you?"
I didn't have an answer that made sense. Only a truth that felt too big to hold. "Because leaving feels harder than staying."
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. Then he reached out, hesitating, as if testing the weight of the moment, and brushed his fingers lightly against my wrist. The touch was almost nothing—gentle, uncertain—but it sent a quiet shock through me.
"You make me forget," he said under his breath. "Everything I built to stay safe."
"Maybe that's not a bad thing," I whispered.
His hand lingered there, neither of us moving. The city lights shimmered against the window, painting the room in silver and gold. I could feel the pulse in my wrist beneath his fingers, steady and trembling all at once.
"Erica…" My name sounded different when he said it—careful, reverent. "If we cross this line, I don't know how to go back."
"Maybe we're not meant to," I said.
He closed his eyes briefly, fighting some invisible battle, then opened them again. "You don't know what you're getting into."
"Then tell me," I said. "Tell me who you are when you're not Alvin King, CEO."
He gave a quiet, broken laugh. "I don't remember that man anymore."
"Then let me remind you."
He looked at me as if he wanted to believe that was possible. Then, slowly, he leaned in—close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath, the hesitation in it. His hand brushed my cheek, and the world blurred into silence.
The kiss never truly happened; it hovered in the space between almost and never. But the meaning was there—the surrender, the ache, the promise neither of us dared to make.
When he finally pulled back, I saw something raw in his eyes. Not power. Not control. Just a man, lost and found all at once.
"I shouldn't," he murmured.
"I know."
He stepped away, breaking the moment with a shaky exhale. "Go home, Erica."
I rose slowly, heart still racing. "If that's what you really want."
He didn't answer. He just looked at me, the struggle written across his face. Finally, he said, "Good night."
"Good night," I whispered, turning toward the door.
Before I reached it, his voice stopped me again—low, quiet, almost fragile. "You cared enough to write it down," he said. "So maybe I should start caring enough to stop pretending."
I turned back, meeting his eyes. "Then stop pretending."
We didn't touch again. We didn't need to.
The truth had already filled the space between us—heavy, electric, and alive.
As I left the office, the rain had stopped, and the city seemed somehow brighter. I didn't know what would happen next—only that something had begun, something we could no longer undo.
And for the first time, the thought didn't scare me.
It felt like hope.