There are exactly seven people on this floor. I remember this because I personally fired the other fourteen for wasting oxygen.

Seven people — and yet the only voice I hear is hers.

Ruhi Kapoor.

My secretary. My headache. My... problem.

---

She’s tapping her keyboard like a child learning piano. She hums under her breath sometimes — an off-key tune that grates against my skull but I find myself waiting for it when she’s silent.

Ridiculous.

I watch her through the glass wall — bent over her desk, hair falling in her face, muttering curses in Hindi she thinks I can’t hear.

She thinks I don’t notice when she sneaks bites of her cheap biscuits instead of eating lunch. She thinks I don’t see her scribbling hearts and vampire fangs on sticky notes when she should be drafting my contracts.

She thinks she’s invisible in my world.

She’s wrong.

---

My phone rings. Paris. Problems. More money to save, more men to scold. My life is a cycle of numbers, signatures, and incompetence.

I pace while I speak — always moving, because stillness feels like death.

My eyes drift back to her. She’s frowning at her screen, lips moving silently. Probably insulting me in her mother tongue again.

I almost smirk.

Almost.

---

My father once told me — “Women are distractions, figlio mio. Keep them warm in bed, never let them near your throne.”

Good advice. Proven true a thousand times. And yet here I am — pacing like a restless dog, wanting to know why she looks sad when she thinks no one is watching.

Pathetic.

She startles when I open my door. She always startles.

A part of me — the one I strangled years ago — wants to tell her not to be afraid of me.

But fear keeps people obedient. And I don’t do softness.

---

“Miss Kapoor.”

She jumps. I hold back a sigh. She’s terrified of me — yet she talks back. Bites her lip. Draws fangs on my name.

And I tolerate it.

I tolerate her.

Because somewhere in my frozen, tired mind — I want to see what she does next.

---

Focus, Romano.

Deals to close. Empires to run.

She is a minor inconvenience.

That’s all.

---

I tell myself this. Again and again.

But my eyes refuse to believe it.

००

It’s almost midnight.

Everyone is gone — the lights dimmed, the city below my window a blur of cheap neon and pointless noise.

I should leave too. I don’t.

She’s still here.

She’s in my glass office right now, perched on my expensive leather chair — my chair — spinning in circles like a child.

Spinning.

In my chair.

---

She doesn’t know I’m watching from the shadows near the door.

She has her stupid book in her lap, knees tucked up, hair falling everywhere.

She’s humming. Off-key. Again.

If my father could see this, he’d spit on my grave for allowing such chaos in my empire.

I should fire her.

I should.

But my hand stays on the door handle, unmoving.

---

She stops spinning, finally — breathless, cheeks flushed pink, whispering to her book,

“One day, Ruhi Kapoor, you’ll have your own boss hero who doesn’t bite your head off every hour—”

My mouth twitches. Almost a laugh.

Pathetic. I hate it.

---

Then she notices my cufflinks on the desk — solid platinum, custom made. She picks one up, holds it like it’s a secret treasure, presses it to her cheek and giggles.

Something hot coils in my gut.

Not desire — not exactly.

Possession. Raw, sharp, primal.

She giggles at my cufflink but trembles when I stand behind her desk.

Foolish, silly girl.

---

I push the door open. Hard.

She jolts like a caught mouse, dropping the cufflink with a sharp gasp. Her wide brown eyes meet mine — guilt, fear, an apology she can’t say fast enough.

Good.

Let her fear me.

Let her never forget who owns this floor.

“What are you doing, Miss Kapoor?”

I say it softly. A whisper in the silent glass tomb of my office.

She scrambles off my chair, babbling excuses — something about being bored, sleepy, waiting for me to finish a call I ended an hour ago.

I step closer.

She steps back.

Perfect.

She bumps against the desk — nowhere to run. My desk. My chair. My cufflink. My damn time. All of it hers to ruin.

I plant my palms on the desk, caging her in.

“Do you think this is a playground?” I ask. Quiet. Lethal.

She shakes her head, eyes too wide, too shiny. I hate that I notice her perfume, that faint hint of coconut shampoo that clings to my suit sometimes when she passes too close.

“You sit in my chair. You touch my things. You hum like a fool—”

“I’m sorry, sir…”

Her whisper cracks.

A softer man might step back.

I lean closer instead. So close her breath hits my neck.

“Next time you touch what is mine,” I say, voice flat, “I will not be this kind.”

I want her to tremble.

She does.

God help me — I want her to never stop.

For a moment, something flickers between us — something dangerous. Her lashes flutter. Her lip trembles. My eyes drop to her mouth.

Pathetic. I’m pathetic.

---

I push off the desk. I turn my back to her because if I don’t, I’ll do something reckless. Like cup her jaw. Or ruin her innocence with my mouth.

“Go home, Miss Kapoor,” I order coldly.

Her breath hitches behind me.

“Now.”

---

She bolts past me — a rush of warm air and clumsy apologies.

The elevator dings.

Silence returns.

I drag a hand through my hair, fighting the beast gnawing at my ribs.

---

One day, Kapoor.

One day you’ll wish I had fired you before I wanted you too much to let you leave.