By her second week as Alexander Voss's assistant, Cynthia had learned three things:
He never raised his voice.
He didn't repeat himself.
And he was absolutely allergic to talkactive.
The man was an enigma wrapped in designer fabric.
He moved through the office like a shadow — precise, silent, unreadable.
Cynthia sometimes wondered if he even blinked.
Her job description seemed to include everything from arranging meetings to predicting moods.
He didn't say "please" or "thank you."
He just gave her the look.
The one that froze her mid-sentence and made her wish she could melt into the carpet.
Still, she couldn't help but notice the contradictions:
He was cold, yes. But behind that icy composure, something flickered — restraint, maybe. Control.
And sometimes, when he caught her staring too long, she saw the tiniest spark of something else: curiosity.
That Monday, Cynthia arrived early, determined to prove herself.
Alexander was already in his office, surrounded by sketches, fabric samples, and chaos that somehow looked intentional.
He didn't glance up when she entered. "You're late."
She blinked. "It's six fifty-eight."
"You were supposed to arrive at six fifty-five."
Cynthia's mouth opened, then closed.
"Right," she said finally. "Next time I'll bring a tent."
For a split second, his pen paused midair. Then continued.
"Coffee," he said.
"Black?"
He looked up briefly. "Do I look like someone who takes sugar?"
She almost smiled. "You look like someone who doesn't even believe in joy."
He raised an eyebrow. "And yet, you're still talking."
By noon, she was buried under scheduling requests and model portfolios.
Every department feared Alexander's standards, and somehow, she was now the buffer.
While sorting documents, she noticed something odd — a red folder stamped with V-PROJECT buried under a pile of design drafts.
Her stomach tightened. The same code on the file
She hesitated.
Just one peek—
"Curiosity again?"
She jumped, nearly flinging the folder in the air.
Alexander stood right behind her, hands in his pockets, gaze cool but sharp.
"I—I was organizing!" she said too quickly.
He stepped closer, his presence quiet but overwhelming.
"Don't touch what isn't yours," he said softly.
Then, after a pause: "Some things here are… complicated."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Complicated like spreadsheets? Or complicated like 'call the police'?"
That earned her a faint, humorless smile. "Both."
That night, Cynthia posted anonymously on her small blog — her secret outlet for survival:
Title: How to Survive a Fashion Sociopath (Without Dying or Getting Fired).
It was part joke, part therapy.
She described "Mr. Ice Prince" — the terrifyingly composed boss who might be part machine.
By morning, the post had exploded.
Hundreds of likes. Dozens of comments guessing who "Mr. Ice Prince" really was.
At her desk, Cynthia tried not to panic.
She hadn't used names, hadn't posted photos—
But as she handed Alexander his morning reports, he said casually:
"Fascinating piece you wrote last night."
Her blood froze. "Pardon?"
He looked up, expression unreadable. "The one about surviving your boss. Very… creative."
She stammered, "I—it wasn't about—"
"Relax," he interrupted, closing his file. "If I fired everyone who wrote about me, we'd have no employees left."
He walked past her toward the elevator, but paused at the door.
Then, over his shoulder, he said quietly:
"Be careful what you write, Miss Brooks. Some stories attract the wrong kind of attention."
The doors closed behind him.
And for the first time, Cynthia realized Alexander Voss wasn't just cold —
he was hiding something.
Something dangerous.