I know he'll do something about it. He always does.
Mohamad rips the man's hand off the young lady's shoulder. With a stoic face and a cold stare, he says, "She said no." The fear on the man's face mirrors hers from just moments ago when his hand was on her shoulder. The pervert stumbles back a few steps before scurrying away.
The young lady exhales a long-held breath, her whole body visibly relaxing.
Hand over her heart, she turns to Mohamad. "Thank you so much..."
She trails off, her eyes widening, her cheeks flushing as she realizes how handsome my boss is. A reaction I've seen countless times from women. Without a word, Mohamad removes his suit jacket and drapes it over her bare shoulders before continuing on toward the waiting limo. I make a mental note to contact his tailor. That jacket was a private commission—off-book, never replicated. Replacing it won't be simple. It never is with him.
She rushes after him. "Wait, what's your name? How can I repay your kindness?"
Her flirtatious smile and inviting glance are obvious to anyone within sight.
"There's no need." Mohamad's cold tone should be obvious too, but like so many others, she doesn't give up.
"How about dinner? I'm staying here. If you want to come up, we could order room service," she persists.
He ignores her entirely, climbing into the limo and sitting as far inside as possible.
I slip into the seat next to him. I've known the man for fourteen years, and in all that time, I've learned one thing: the only acceptable relationships he has with women are transactional. He wouldn't even sleep with his public girlfriends, whom he pays to maintain appearances, let alone risk casual sex offered to him like this.
Mohamad's sole purpose in life is to take revenge on his abusive and greedy billionaire father. Anything—or anyone—that distracts him from that goal isn't allowed.
Mohamad Mohammed is the shadow CEO and owner of MM Corps. I'm supposed to be his lawyer, the company's VP, but most days, he treats me more like his personal assistant. I supposed he doesn't trust his four PA. Case in point: this morning, I had to arrange an escort for him tonight. And a different one every night this week. She's waiting for him in his hotel room as we pull up.
Watching him walk into the elevator, I can't help but wonder—what happens after he finally takes his revenge?
I head to my own hotel room a few floors below his. Another night of endless contract reviews and company analysis for acquisition and merger. At least I'll get to see my fiancée in a few days once her video shoot wraps up. Like much of my life, I owe my love life to Mohamad as well. One of his hired public girlfriends eventually became my fiancée.
The night passes quickly with work to keep me occupied.
The next morning, I see the bags under his eyes and the hired escort sleeping on his bed. It's clear he didn't get much sleep last night either. I wonder if it's because of her or if he's having trouble sleeping again.
He takes the black coffee I offer, and we head to our first meeting. Like most meetings with STEM, this one is hard to sit through. The presenter, a nervous wreck, uses more filler phrases than actual information in his speech.
"With an IQ of 168, Ai Chan Yeol is hmm... the smartest donor we have," the presenter says, clicking to project her face onto a large screen during the meeting.
I watch Mohamad's reaction. His eyes widen for an instant—an expression so rare it freezes the room. He leans forward onto the long mahogany table, studying her face with an intensity that borders on obsession.
The presenter clears his throat nervously, adjusting his glasses with a trembling hand. Like most doctors and scientists, he is terrified of Mohamad. Gluing his eyes to the notes in his hand, he motions to continue. But I step in before he can.
I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to shift his focus toward my boss.
Mohamad's gaze stays locked on her image—the beautiful twenty-two years old Asian girl. She exudes a unique blend of grace and charm, her features a striking harmony of her half-Chinese, half-Korean heritage. Her diamond-shaped face is elegantly framed by long, straight chestnut hair that cascades past her shoulders. Large, intelligent almond-shaped brown eyes glimmer with warmth and curiosity, framed by naturally long, dark lashes. Her heart-shaped lips curl into a lazy, effortless smile, adding an air of understated allure to her already captivating presence. She has smiling eyes that twinkle.
I glance between her face on the screen and his expression, trying to process what I'm seeing.
They aren't looking at each other, of course. But the way Mohamad stares at her—unblinking, utterly transfixed—it's as though she's the only thing in the world.
A quick scan of the room tells me I'm not the only one who notices. The four other doctors, five scientists, and the presenter all sit in tense silence, waiting for Mohamad's reverie to end. No one dares to speak, not even to shuffle their papers.
The seconds stretch into an awkward eternity. For once, I find myself entertained by the sight of my usually stoic, cold boss transformed into someone so openly captivated.
Mohamad's chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate breaths, but the rapid rhythm betrays him—it's as if his heart is pounding against his ribs, desperate to break free. His body is tense, like a spring wound too tightly, and his eyes are locked on the screen, unblinking, as though the very act of looking away might break some invisible tether. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth hints at the storm of thoughts churning beneath his usually impassive face. Even his hand, resting on the table, is unnaturally still—rigid, as though he's holding himself together piece by fragile piece.
I've never seen him interested in any woman before. I want to look at Ai, but Mohamad's obsessive expression holds my attention.
The room, however, grows restless. The other men exchange uneasy glances, their gazes eventually landing on me. I catch their silent plea for direction and give them a small, reassuring nod.
But Mohamad doesn't move. He just keeps staring, as if her image on the screen holds some answer he's been searching for his entire life.
I wait, but when the clock's large hand completes a full round, I can't believe it—over a minute has passed, and he still hasn't torn his eyes away from her.
Finally, I move. I step around the table toward his seat at the head and clear my throat loudly. The sharp sound breaks the spell. Some of the men visibly relax, while others let out their first long-held breaths.
Mohamad blinks, his gaze sweeping the room as though suddenly remembering we're all still here. I hide my smile. For a fleeting moment, his lips tense, betraying a hint of emotion, before his inexpressive mask returns.
Without hesitation, I click to the next slide, wiping her image from the screen. I don't dare risk leaving it there a moment longer—for fear that Mohamad might fall under her spell again.
"Wait." Mohamad's voice freezes everyone in place. He turns to me and orders, "Put her in with the others." For Project Eve.