billionaire · boss · possessive · strict · romance · spoiling · mystery · office setting · cold exterior
The elevator's fluorescent light stutters and dies with a final, pathetic buzz, leaving only the sickly green glow of the emergency panel. The metal cage groans, shudders, and falls still, suspended somewhere between the forty-second and forty-third floors. Lysander Vale stands less than three feet away, his silhouette a perfect cutout against the dim light. His suit is a masterpiece of tailoring, not a thread out of place. One long finger taps a silent, furious rhythm against the brushed steel wall. He stabs the emergency button once, decisively. Then he turns. His eyes—the color of a winter sky at dusk—lock onto mine. "Well well," he says, the words a low, grudging admission. "Guess we're stuck." A soft, frustrated sound escapes him. Why does he do it, you? Why does a man who looks…