I lie awake, staring at the ceiling as it shifts in color—soft purples melting into pale blues, then back again. The LED lights dance across the plaster in slow, hypnotic waves, but they do nothing to soothe me.
Vaughn's words circle my mind in loops.
With a sigh, I sit up and drag my laptop from the nightstand into my lap. The screen lights up in a wash of white-blue, and I sign in before launching Safari. My fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen by hesitation.
But curiosity always wins. I type his name.
Tylon Gray
The results aren't flattering.
Comments flood the screen—accusations of sexism, manipulation, emotional detachment, and, as Vaughn put it so bluntly, selfishness. Allegedly, he's cold toward his employees, dismissive of feedback, and ruthlessly ambitious.
I shut the laptop, the weight of those words pressing into my stomach like stone.
I haven't known Tylon for long—not really.
We met by chance three years ago at a dimly lit bar, the kind where the air always smells faintly of spilled whiskey and expensive cologne.
He saw me across the room and made a beeline straight over, confidence in every step, grin tilted like he already knew I'd say yes.
He flirted, and bought me a drink. Then tried his luck, but I turned him down.
But that didn't end things. Somehow, we slipped into a strange kind of rhythm—always bumping into each other at the same bar, week after week, as if drawn by some unspoken agreement.
We weren't close. We didn't try to be.
It was mostly small talk, banter, and the occasional drunk confession when the nights dragged long enough and the music got too loud to think. The kind of half-hearted honesty that only slips out when your guard is down and the glass in your hand is half-empty.
Then came the night everything shifted. Secrets spilled. Now he knows what I do.
Tylon has never been warm, never soft—but he's never been cruel, either.
Not with me.
Still, our connection wasn't built on anything solid. No deep talks. No meaningful time spent together. Just fleeting moments strung together with liquor and smoke.
Since that night, there's been a few check-in texts, an occasional call. Enough to stay familiar.
But not enough to say I know him.
Still I'd be damned if I trusted anything the media says. Especially about someone who has never given me a reason to doubt him.
But Vaughn… Vaughn doesn't blabber. He warned me for a reason. He has no agenda but mine. He created every alias I've ever used. He's been my anchor, my map, my clean getaway.
If he's nervous, maybe I should be too.
Maybe I should walk away.
But I don't run from challenges. Especially not the ones I've already accepted.
Last week, I relaxed my hair and dyed it auburn again. It's the little things that bring relief—like not having to fight my natural curls with a brush every morning or cry in frustration when I can't get it sleek.
My vanity mirror is streaked with a few smudges, faint fingerprints catching the morning light—but I smile at my reflection anyway.
My hair is pulled back into a slicked-back ponytail, every strand smoothed with intention. The tail stops mid-way down my back, swaying just slightly when I turn my head.
It looks neat. Professional and pretty.
Exactly the kind of look that says I'm composed, even if I'm still trying to believe it.
The first time I got work done on my face, I couldn't look in the mirror without flinching. My mind took weeks to catch up. That doesn't happen anymore. Now, the shock has dulled into something colder.
Emptiness.
People assume all seductresses are sluts—opportunists, desperate women who trade their bodies for money or power.
That can be true in some cases, but it's not what I do.
To me, seduction isn't rooted in sex—it's rooted in psychology.
The goal isn't to be the woman he wants.
It's to become the woman he believes he needs—irreplaceable, indispensable.
And once you've done that, you've looped a collar around his neck so seamlessly, he doesn't even realize it's there.
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I check my watch as I step into the elevator, already dressed and ready for my first day. The sleek chrome walls reflect a composed version of me—hair laid, posture straight, eyes sharp. My blush-pink sheer blouse is neatly tucked into a sleek black skirt that falls just above my knee. I look good, and more importantly, I look like I belong.
I've got an hour to get to Huxley Estates, which is about twenty minutes away. That leaves me just enough time to grab Makai's coffee—black with two shots of expresso, according to the manual Mrs. Kent emailed me.
I reach the lobby in five minutes and head toward the parking lot, scanning the list again as I walk. His coffee order is as plain as his public persona—no cream, no sugar, no frills. Efficient and to the point.
The coffee shop is surprisingly quiet for this hour. A few early birds linger over their laptops, sipping slowly, soaking in the morning hush before the chaos of the day begins.
I order his drink and, on a whim, also ordered a sandwich. Chicken, toasted. Who knows if Makai eats breakfast? He seems like the type to skip it entirely. Still, it's worth trying. Small gestures often yield the biggest results.
I return to my car and make it to the office in under fifteen minutes after deliberately leaving early enough to avoid morning traffic.
The elevator groans as it climbs to the top floor. I brace myself for the weightlessness, the way my stomach always seems to sink and my limbs feel heavier—like gravity's briefly lost interest in me.
I hate elevators.
But I use them every day. Who says I'm not fearless?
The doors slide open with a soft ding, and I step out just in time to see Makai unlocking his office. His hand pauses on the handle as he turns slightly, narrowing his eyes.
"Good morning," I say, offering a small smile.
Recognition flickers in his gaze before he gives a polite nod.
"Oh—Ms. Kinsley, right?" he asks as the lock clicks open.
"You got it," I say, meeting his eyes with the kind of composure I've practiced. "But please, call me Allesha."
My arms ache in silent protest—one hand balancing a steaming cup coffee, the other clutching a paper bag with his sandwich, a heavy binder tucked between my elbow and purse strap, and my water bottle wedged beneath it all.
I keep my smile steady, though my fingers are crying out for relief.
He holds the door for me without a word, and I step inside, my eyes sweeping over his office.
It's stunning.
Bold, vibrant artwork adorns the walls—splashes of color and abstract shapes that seem to pulse with energy. The deep navy carpet beneath my feet adds weight and warmth, perfectly complementing the heavy curtains draped over the floor-to-ceiling windows.
His desk stands sleek and black, immaculate and minimal—just a few neatly stacked books and files, each in its place, a silent testament to order.
With a slow pull, he parts the curtains, and golden morning light floods the room, warm and inviting, spilling in like a quiet blessing.
The sunlight glints off the gold watch on his wrist. He's wearing a white button-down shirt tucked into navy pants. The color suits him. Rich against his brown skin. Commanding without being loud.
I place the cup and sandwich bag on his desk. "I brought your coffee. And a little something in case you're hungry."
He peeks inside the bag and raises a brow. "I don't usually eat breakfast," he rejects, though his tone is polite. "But I appreciate the gesture."
His hand reaches past the bag to grasp the coffee cup. I watch him carefully, noticing how his eyes take everything in — sharp, calculating and guarded.
He may look straightforward, but I can already tell—Makai Huxley is going to be a hard nut to crack.
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A workstation has been set up for me just outside his office, tucked into a quiet corner by the sleek glass walls. It's modest—just a simple desk with a laptop and a few office supplies—but perfectly functional. The soft hum of the air conditioner in the hallway is the only sound breaking the silence.
I glance around the floor. It's empty—no cubicles, no bustling crowds—just me and him here. The polished floors reflect the light streaming in through the tall windows, giving everything a warm glow.
I'm isolated with him on this floor.
I take my seat and power up the company laptop. His schedule appears immediately, neatly organized in blocks. Meetings. Calls. Appointments. Travel notes. Everything.
This is gold.
Access to a man's time is access to his life.
I spend the day meticulously organizing his calendar, filling in the blank spaces with client meetings, conference calls, and reminders. I cross-check emails, confirm appointments, and rearrange a few conflicts with practiced precision. So far, everything flows smoothly—calm and easy, almost too easy.
The steady rhythm of typing keys and soft phone rings fills the quiet space, and I find a strange comfort in the order I'm creating. But I'm not naive. This is the honeymoon phase—the calm before the storm, the surface before the depths.
My thoughts suddenly stray… to him. Makai doesn't strike me as the type to let people in easily. His polished politeness feels more like a carefully crafted shell—a well-rehearsed performance designed to keep distance.
Behind that composed exterior, I sense a guardedness, a wariness I'll have to patiently chip away at. If I want to earn his trust, I'll have to work twice as hard, proving I'm not just another face in the crowd.
The phone on my desk rings, its sharp trill cutting through my thoughts and the caller ID lights up.
Makai Huxley, CEO.
His voice, low and clipped, slides through the receiver like silk over steel. "Can you come in for a few minutes before you leave?"
A question, yes. But one laced with command.
"Sure thing, Sir," I reply, though it feels strange addressing him as Sir when I think of him as Makai.
I rise from my chair and circle around my desk, smoothing my skirt before turning the knob and stepping inside. The soft click of the door follows me as I close it gently behind. I stand tall, posture poised, though he doesn't lift his gaze from the laptop in front of him.
Still, I catch it—the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers pause just above the keyboard. He felt the moment I entered. He's aware. He always is.
His eyes scan me slowly. From my black stilettos, up the hemline of my skirt, to my blouse that hints just enough without revealing too much. His gaze isn't lewd. It's calculated—like he's assessing me.
"You might want to reconsider your choice of lipstick next time," he says evenly, gesturing vaguely toward my face with a nod of his chin. "This shade distracts."
I fight the urge to press my lips together. "Okay," I reply, my tone neutral.
He doesn't look away. For a moment, the silence stretches between us, taut and unreadable. Then he leans back in his chair and taps his fingers lightly on the desk.
"That'll be all," he says, finally breaking eye contact to return to his screen.
I turn to leave, my heart thudding more from the intensity of his gaze than his words. Just as my fingers touch the doorknob, he adds, almost as an afterthought:
"And Ms. Kinsley—" I glance back. "Next time, knock before entering."
He doesn't look up.
I close the door behind me with a soft click—and smile.
Makai Huxley is not just sunshine and pleasantries after all.