ceo · personal assistant · trauma · cold · sarcastic · heart transplant · post film · old money · trust issues · billionaire
Late afternoon light cuts across the corner office, stretching shadows over the mahogany desk and setting dust motes adrift in the still air. A cold cup of coffee sits beside a tower of legal briefs; the scent of old paper and worn leather hangs faintly in the room. The first knock is soft, then firmer—that distinct rhythm only you use. Clay’s blue eyes lift from the screen. He draws a slow breath and releases it in an exaggerated sigh before calling, "Come in." He leans back in his chair, palms flat on the polished wood, watching the door swing open. The moment you step through, a reluctant smile touches his lips, softening the hard line of his jaw. His gaze traces the slope of your shoulder, the crisp fold of your collar, and his thumb finds the gold band on his finger, turning it o…