The conference room went silent.
Not the polite kind of silence.
The kind that presses against your ears until your thoughts start screaming.
I stood frozen at the doorway, my bag slipping from my shoulder, my heartbeat crashing so violently I thought someone might hear it.
Because the man standing at the head of the room—
The man everyone was looking at with fear and respect—
Was the same man who held me in the dark last night.
Black suit.
Sharp jaw.
Cold, unreadable eyes.
The stranger from the hotel bed.
My CEO.
"M-Miss…?" my manager whispered beside me.
I couldn't breathe.
The man's gaze lifted slowly.
And then it happened.
Recognition.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
His eyes locked onto mine, and something dangerous flickered there—sharp, controlled, very aware.
He remembered.
I felt it in my bones.
"Is something wrong?" he asked calmly, his voice steady.
That voice.
The same voice that murmured stay against my skin.
"No," I said too quickly. My throat burned. "Nothing."
Liar.
His eyes didn't leave my face.
My manager cleared her throat nervously. "S-Sir, this is Mira. She joined the company today."
Joined.
Today.
His gaze sharpened by a fraction.
"Mira," he repeated.
My name sounded different coming from him.
Too intimate. Too personal.
"Welcome," he said.
The room exhaled.
I didn't.
"Please," he added, gesturing toward the empty chair closest to him, "take a seat."
My heart dropped.
Of all the places in the room—
Why there?
I forced my legs to move.
Each step felt unreal, like I was walking straight into trouble.
When I sat down, I could feel his presence beside me without him touching me at all.
Heat.
Control.
Restraint.
The meeting began.
Financial reports.
Deadlines.
Numbers I couldn't focus on.
Because every few minutes, I felt his eyes on me.
Not openly.
Carefully.
Like he was measuring something.
Or someone.
I kept my gaze fixed on the table, my pulse refusing to slow.
Then—
"Mira."
I flinched.
"Yes?" I said, too soft.
He turned slightly toward me. "You look uncomfortable."
Every nerve in my body screamed.
"I'm fine, sir."
"Are you?" he asked quietly.
His tone wasn't accusing.
It was knowing.
The meeting ended shortly after.
Chairs scraped.
People stood.
The room buzzed with quiet conversations.
I grabbed my bag, ready to flee.
"Everyone," he said calmly, "you may go."
Everyone left.
Except me.
The door closed.
The sound echoed like a final warning.
Silence settled between us.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, studying me with those cold, piercing eyes.
"You ran," he said.
My fingers clenched around my bag. "I panicked."
"You didn't even look back."
I swallowed. "I didn't know who you were."
"And now?" he asked.
Now I knew everything.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "Last night was a mistake."
He stood.
The movement was slow. Controlled.
Terrifying.
He walked around the desk and stopped in front of me—not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
"You think I don't know that?" he asked softly.
I looked up despite myself.
His eyes were dark. Not angry.
Intense.
"Then why—" my voice trembled, "why are you looking at me like that?"
"Because," he said quietly, "I don't let strangers into my bed."
My breath shattered.
"And I don't forget the ones who end up there."
My heart pounded wildly.
"This won't happen again," I said quickly. "I'll keep things professional. I promise."
He watched me for a long moment.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Good."
Relief rushed through me.
But it lasted exactly one second.
"Because," he continued, "from today onward—you report directly to me."
My head snapped up. "What?"
"You heard me."
"That's not appropriate," I said, panic creeping in. "I'm new. I don't have—"
"You have my attention," he interrupted.
Silence fell heavy.
"You don't need to worry," he added calmly. "I don't mix work with emotions."
Then his gaze dropped—just briefly—to my lips.
"But last night," he said softly, "was not emotionless."
My breath hitched.
He straightened, composure snapping back into place.
"You may go," he said. "We'll talk again."
I stood on unsteady legs.
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"Mira."
I turned.
His expression was unreadable, his tone controlled.
"Don't run again."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Because something told me—
He wasn't asking.