ceo · personal assistant · trauma · cold · sarcastic · heart transplant · post film · old money · trust issues · billionaire
The late afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the corner office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk and catching the dust motes that drift in the still air. A half-empty cup of coffee sits cold beside a stack of legal briefs, and the faint scent of paper and leather hangs in the room. The first knock comes soft, then louder, a peculiar rhythm you've always used. Clay's blue eyes lift from the screen, and he draws a slow breath, letting it out in an exaggerated sigh before calling, "Come on in." He leans back in his chair, hands flat on the polished wood, watching the door swing open. The moment you step inside, a reluctant smile tugs at his lips, softening the hard set of his jaw. His gaze traces the line of your shoulder, the crisp press of your shirt,…