The moment he stepped into the room, the entire atmosphere crashed like someone pressed a mute button.
Andrea froze mid-rant, her hand still in the air like she was giving a TED talk about "Why My Husband Is the Worst."
His mother slowly sipped her tea like she'd been waiting for this drama her whole life.
Even the maid took one tiny step back and pretended she was part of the furniture.
He raised an eyebrow, voice low and amused,
"Continue. Don't stop on my account."
Andrea gulped.
The brave lioness from two seconds ago suddenly became a hamster caught stealing snacks.
"I—I wasn't… talking about you."
"Oh?" he stepped closer, eyes locked on her, "Who else kidnaps girls and flirts shamelessly? I'd love to meet him."
Andrea mentally slapped herself. She tried to act confident, lifting her chin.
"Well… if the shoe fits—"
He smirked.
"The shoe fits perfectly, sweetheart. Want me to wear the whole outfit for you?"
His mother choked on her tea.
Andrea's face turned into a full tomato.
"Why are you like this!? Always teasing!"
"Me? Teasing?"
He leaned down slightly, the mafia king energy melting into smug boyfriend energy.
"You're the one giving a whole neighbourhood conference about my personality."
Andrea flared up again, bravely forgetting she feared him five seconds ago.
"Well someone needs to tell you! You're rude! And stubborn! And you yelled at an intern—"
"That intern set the server room on fire."
"…oh."
She blinked. "Okay but still! You're bossy."
"I prefer the term efficient."
"You're arrogant!"
"Confidence looks like arrogance to insecure people, Andrea."
His mother burst out laughing.
Andrea gasped, betrayed by the universe.
"What kind of mother laughs at her son bullying a poor innocent girl like me?!"
"You?" He chuckled. "Innocent? Andrea, you just tried to destroy my entire character in front of my mother."
Andrea crossed her arms, ready to fight again.
"Well maybe your character arc deserves destruction!"
He stepped even closer. "Oh really?"
She took one step back.
He took one step forward.
She kept backing up until the sofa hit her knees and she fell onto it.
He leaned his hands on the armrest, caging her in, eyes glinting with wicked amusement.
"Say one more bad thing about me," he said softly, "and I'll personally prove every single rumour you just made."
Her breath hitched.
Her ears turned red.
Her brain glitched.
His mother cleared her throat, extremely entertained:
"Kids, stop flirting in my living room."
Andrea yelped and pushed him away.
"We weren't flirting!!"
He stood straight and adjusted his brooch, mafia-like again.
"Sure. Let's call it… conversation."
Andrea buried her face in a pillow.
His mother giggled to herself like she just watched the best episode of a drama.
He walked past Andrea, intentionally brushing his hand across her hair as he went, whispering just for her:
"Next time you gossip about me… at least invite me. I enjoy hearing you talk."
Andrea squeaked like a microwave beeping.
After the drama in the living room finally calmed, Andrea stomped off to the kitchen, still fuming and still pink.
She yanked open the fridge and grabbed a bowl of cut fruits, muttering,
"Arrogant… shameless… thinks he's funny…"
A warm hand reached past her shoulder and took a piece of apple from the bowl.
She jumped.
"What are you doing!?"
He chewed the apple slowly.
"Tasting your anger. It's sweet."
"STOP TALKING LIKE A WALKING FLIRTING MACHINE!"
He laughed under his breath and opened a cabinet, pulling out a glass.
Andrea stared.
He never got anything himself.
He always summoned people like he was summoning Pokémon.
"You're… getting water? Yourself?"
He shrugged lightly.
"You were busy calling me names, sweetheart. Didn't want to disturb you."
UGH.
She turned away dramatically.
He placed the glass of water in front of her.
"For you."
She blinked. "Why? I didn't ask."
"You'll talk yourself into dehydration at this speed."
Her jaw dropped. "ARE YOU CALLING ME TALKATIVE!?"
He nodded calmly.
"Yes. And loud. And very cute."
She choked on the water.
He leaned on the kitchen counter, watching her with that soft, secret half-smile he only wore at home—
a smile no one in the underworld would ever believe existed.
"You know," he said, voice lower, "I like it when you talk. Even when you complain. It means you're comfortable."
Andrea's heart attempted a somersault.
She looked away.
"Don't… say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because it's embarrassing!"
He walked behind her and gently fixed the loose clip in her hair.
"Then get used to being embarrassed."
She swatted his hand.
"Go away!"
He didn't.
In fact, he grabbed the bowl and slowly, arrogantly, ate her fruits one by one.
"Stop stealing my food!"
"Feed me and I'll stop."
"GO TO YOUR ROOM."
He smirked. "Which one? ours ?"
She screamed.
His mother, passing by, sighed:
"Honestly. You two need babysitters."
Night fell over the city, the kind of night where the darkness felt heavy and alive.
But Andrea was asleep.
She was burried in the bed, hugging a pillow, drooling over her hand like Niagara Falls.
The hallway lights flickered faintly, and every creak in the house made her ears perk.
Because she heard him… again.
The muted footsteps.
The soft click of the back door.
The low voice on the phone.
"…confirm the location…
…no chances…
…finish it tonight."
That tone.
That cold edge in his voice.
That was not CEO tone.
That was something else entirely.
Downstairs, he slipped on gloves and stepped out into the black night, getting into a sleek car waiting for him.
Inside were two of his most trusted men.
"Target located," one said.
He nodded.
"End it."
The car sped into the shadows, headlights slicing through the empty roads.
the tail lights slowly vanished.
The mansion was silent when he walked in.
No guards.
No footsteps.
No sound except the quiet click of the door behind him.
His coat dripped from the rain outside, shoulders tight with the remnants of violence. He wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep — alone with the usual darkness in his mind.
But then he saw it.
Her sketchbook.
Left open on the living room table, probably forgotten in her rush to sleep.
A single page exposed…
A design she hadn't shown anyone.
He froze mid-step.
His breath actually hitched.
The lines were clean, elegant, full of life. The fabric flow she'd drawn almost looked like it moved. Every detail — tiny jewels, folds, silhouettes — carried emotion. Not textbook technique… soul.
He moved closer, slowly.
Like he was approaching something sacred.
One fingertip brushed the edge of the page before he caught himself.
This wasn't his.
He shouldn't touch it.
But he couldn't look away.
"Damn…" he whispered under his breath — the closest thing to awe he'd felt in years.
The Golden Mafia King, who had not flinched while ordering an assassination barely an hour ago…
was now staring at a sketch like it was the first sunrise he'd seen in a decade.
She was… talented didn't even cover it.
She was exceptional.
And she had no idea.
He could feel his pulse jump — not from violence, not from adrenaline — but from the quiet realization that this small girl hiding behind messy bangs and sarcasm…
had a brilliance that punched him right in the chest.
Slow footsteps echoed from the stairs.
She appeared, sleepy-eyed, hair mussed, wearing a loose T-shirt that swallowed her whole.
He snapped the sketchbook closed instantly — too quickly.
She blinked.
"What are you doing with my stuff?"
He cleared his throat, straightened, tried to put the stone face back on.
"I was… checking something."
She raised a brow. "That's called snooping."
He said nothing.
But his eyes kept drifting to the sketchbook — involuntarily.
She noticed.
Her expression softened, just a bit.
"You saw it?"
He exhaled slowly.
"…Yes."
A beat.
Then his gaze locked onto hers — sharp, decisive, the full force of a CEO about to drop a bomb.
"You're coming to my company."
She jolted. "HUH—??"
"As a designer's assistant," he clarified, tone calm but eyes burning. "I want you there."
She gaped at him. "You don't even know if I'm good!"
His jaw flexed.
"I just saw enough to know you're better than half my team."
She swallowed, stunned.
He stepped closer.
Not threatening, not soft — something in between that made her heart skid.
"Those sketches… Andrea, they're extraordinary."
Her breath caught.
He rarely used her name like that.
He held her gaze, voice dropping lower — almost sincere, almost vulnerable.
"Let me give you a place where your talent actually means something."
She stared, speechless, heart pounding because—
—he wasn't just offering a job.
He was offering belief.
Security.
A future.
And he didn't even know he was falling for her while doing it.
His next words sealed it:
"You deserve the world. Let me at least give you a workspace."
Her face burned. "You're being dramatic."
"And you're being blind if you can't see your own talent."
Silence stretched.
Her chest tightened.
Finally she whispered, "I'll… think about it."
His smirk was small, dangerous, and way too pleased.
"You'll say yes."
She rolled her eyes. "You're annoying."
He leaned slightly closer, voice barely above a murmur:
"And you're brilliant."
Her heart exploded.
The house was quiet when Andrea woke up. Soft morning light filtered through the curtains, warm and pale, the kind that made everything look gentler than it really was. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, feeling strangely rested — which was bizarre considering who was living under the same roof.
Padding out into the hall, she expected silence.
Instead… clinking. Soft. Rhythmic.
The kind of sound that definitely didn't belong to her.
She followed it to the kitchen — and froze.
There he was.
The CEO. The Golden Mafia King. The man who barked orders like they were bullets.
Standing in her kitchen wearing a plain black T-shirt and sweatpants, hair messy, expression half-asleep, pouring cereal like the world's most dangerous toddler.
He glanced at her.
"Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep.
Andrea squinted. "…Since when do you eat cereal?"
He blinked at the bowl like he was only now questioning his life choices.
"…Since today."
She snorted. "Wow. Courage award."
He glared mildly. "I can make breakfast."
"Burning eggs is not breakfast."
His jaw twitched. "They were experimental."
"Yeah, so is nuclear warfare."
For a moment, his mask cracked — a tiny, unwilling smile tugged his lips before he shut it down. Hard.
"Sit," he ordered, pointing at a chair.
She sat — but only to sass him better.
He slid a bowl of cereal toward her and sat across, watching her too casually. Too quietly.
Almost domestic.
Too domestic.
Her heart did a little skip she refused to acknowledge.