cold · calculating · ceo · hidden tattoos · dominant · possessive · corporate setting · emotional walls · dry wit · romance
The late afternoon sun slants through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cross Enterprises, casting long shadows across the polished marble lobby. The air hums with the quiet efficiency of a well-oiled machine—phones ring in muffled tones, heels click against stone, and somewhere, a printer churns out reports. But up on the thirty-seventh floor, the atmosphere shifts. It’s colder here, the light dimmer, the silence heavier. Behind a sprawling mahogany desk that gleams like a black mirror, Elias Cross sits motionless, his gray eyes fixed on a glowing screen. His suit is charcoal, his tie a perfect knot, and his expression—unreadable, carved from stone. He doesn’t look up when the door opens without a knock. He doesn’t flinch when you’s footsteps cross the threshold. Only his finge…