The morning light barely touched the penthouse before Adrian's call pulled me from a restless sleep.
"Meet me in the conference room. Now," he said, clipped and precise.
I arrived to find him already there, reviewing documents, the air around him taut with authority.
"You're late," he said, eyes locking onto mine. The words weren't loud, but they cut sharper than any shout.
"I—sorry," I stammered, heart racing.
"Your apologies are wasted on me," he said softly, standing. His presence filled the room, leaving no corner untouched. "I need efficiency. Attention. Absolute focus."
I nodded, trying to steady my shaking hands. Every glance from him felt like a test, every movement weighed.
He handed me a folder. "These are the clients you'll handle today. No mistakes."
"Yes, sir," I replied, though the folder's weight in my hands felt heavier than any paper should.
Hours passed in a blur of meetings, calls, and notes. Every time I faltered, he appeared, silently correcting, observing, reminding me of his constant oversight.
During a brief pause, he leaned over my desk, close enough that I felt the heat from his body. His eyes held mine, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just us.
"Do you understand the consequences of failure?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"I do," I whispered, unable to look away.
"Good," he said, stepping back. But the intensity lingered, almost tangible, and I realized how easily he could unbalance me without touching a thing.
Later, I found myself reviewing notes alone, trying to shake off the tension. But the memory of his proximity clung to me, suffocating and thrilling all at once.
I reminded myself: loyalty, honesty, and heart—none of it optional.
And yet, every glance, every touch of his presence, made that promise harder to keep.
Adrian Blackwood didn't just demand obedience. He demanded awareness, submission, a surrender to the rhythm of his world.
And somewhere deep inside, I felt the pull, magnetic and impossible, of wanting to stay tethered to him—closer than I was allowed.