The office smelled like paper, printer toner, and the faint afterglow of two people who should not have shared a bed the night before.
Elara Hart straightened her blazer in the reflection of the glass-walled conference room as if clothing could press her heart back into something sensible. Her hands trembled twice — once when she picked up her coffee mug, once when the elevator chimed and Damien Kane's silhouette slid into view. He moved like a man who owned gravity: slow, inevitable, and completely indifferent to the fact that she was a molten mess.
They'd set rules. She had written them in a hurried, shaky list at breakfast: no repeats, no touching at work, maintain three feet of personal space at all times, keep it professional. The rules had been a lifebuoy. He had kissed the lifebuoy off her lips before dawn. Now they were in the water, clinging to the memory of rules like driftwood.
Damien's expression was controlled, clean as ever — but she could read the tiny betrayals in his features: the way his jaw flexed when someone interrupted as if he wanted to snap; the way his fingers drummed once against his briefcase when he thought she wasn't looking; the way his eyes softened for half a second whenever she glanced up. Those micro-moments were private currency between them now, expensive and illicit.
"Morning," he said, passing her without touching, though his shoulder nearly grazed hers. That near-contact hummed in her nerves all morning. She hated it—and because she hated it, she checked his schedule twice, three times, and made sure his coffee was perfect before his first call.
Once the boardroom emptied of executives and cameras, the real work began. Damien flitted between meetings like a comet — precise, hot, and leaving everyone else in orbit around his gravity well. Elara's role had pivoted: no longer just schedule manager, she was guardian of the private seam where his public life met the personal. Calendars were camouflage. Briefing notes were ammunition. Her hands were steady; her pulse less so.
"Highlight the investor's concern on page six," Damien murmured as he slid a file across the table. The scent of his cologne nudged her lung; the command nudged something else.
She did it without looking up. "Done."
"Good," he said. "Also — lunch with the Lagos group is confirmed for Tuesday. I want the talking points bolded."
She heard the manager-voice click into place. She handed back the marked-up copy. "Will do."
They moved through the day in sync, professional choreography that would have deceived anyone who didn't know the truth. To the outside world, Elara was a focused, competent assistant who kept Kane's empire running like clockwork. Inwardly, she felt like the clock itself was unraveling.
Small moments became explosives. When his laptop battery died and she extended her charger, his fingers brushed hers while he took it. The touch was a soft, accidental ignition. She jerked back, muttered something about a loose cord, and tried to smile that professional smile that had gotten her through hour-long boardrooms, job interviews, and now this precarious new life.
Emails pinged. Phones rang. At one point, a PR assistant burst into the conference room, breathless with the news that a business magazine wanted an interview. Damien glanced at the assistant, then at Elara.
"Arrange it for Friday morning," he said.
Elara's heart did a dumb little leap. Friday morning. Alone with him for an interview. Professional? Certainly. Dangerous? Absolutely.
During a lull in the afternoon, she ducked into the supply closet to breathe. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, eyes closed, hands flat on the cheap laminate. Her phone vibrated — a message from Jada, her best friend: How are you not a puddle yet? She typed back: Fake it 'til you don't.
The door cracked open and Damien's voice came from the threshold. "Need a break?"
She straightened quickly. "No," she lied.
He stepped in anyway. The closet was tiny; the air compressed, their shoulders nearly touching. The proximity was against the plan. Rules were supposed to govern proximity. Rules were supposed to be obeyed.
"Weren't you going to take a walk?" he murmured.
"I— I was going to sit," she said. The lie sounded thin even in her ears.
Damien watched her for a long moment, the kind of observation that felt like a scan. "You look tired," he said finally.
"I feel tired," she said. She wanted to say she felt raw, spent, alive. Instead she said, "I can still do the work."
He stepped closer until the distance was just inches. She could smell the faint spice of his skin, the same scent that had been intoxicating at four in the morning and maddening now in fluorescent light. His face hovered above hers like a held promise.
"Don't do this to yourself," he said softly.
"What, work?" she asked, but everyone knew it wasn't. He smirked almost imperceptibly.
"Don't pretend you can compartmentalize us." His voice had an edge she'd never heard aimed at anyone. "You can try, Elara, but you're not built for lying to yourself."
She wanted to snap—say he had no right—but the words lodged in her throat. Instead she swallowed and said, "I can keep it professional."
He inclined his head, not in agreement but in consideration. "Prove it then. Go be professional."
She left the closet wobbling like someone who'd run too fast and then stopped. At her desk she forced calm across her features and dove into the next spreadsheet. The world outside her monitor complied: numbers, bullet points, tasks. For a while, the algebra of work steadied her.
Until the Lagos team rescheduled for Thursday and he cornered her in the elevator.
"Dress rehearsal," he said, his hand resting on the stainless steel rail, the car a little too small for both their breaths.
"For what?" she whispered.
"For us," he replied, eyes not leaving her face. The elevator hummed, and in the reflection of the mirrored doors, they looked like conspirators. "Do you have any intention of being normal again, Hart?"
"I intend to be a professional," she said. The words came out brittle.
"Good." He leaned in closer. "Keep that promise to me."
She wanted to tell him she couldn't. She wanted to tell him she had never been good at the 'keep it professional' bit when he did things like drop into the supply closet, laugh when she snarked over coffee, and touch her hand during meetings like an accidental fact. But she bit the truth back. It was safer to pretend.
Later that afternoon, a junior developer knocked over a stack of sample reports and scattered them like confetti across the hallway. Elara stooped to help pick them up, and Damien appeared, already retrieving the most critical pages with hands that were composed, efficient.
"Thanks," she murmured.
His fingers brushed hers as he handed her a stapled packet. The contact was almost trifling, but it landed like thunder.
"Don't get used to me being gentle," he said quietly, and then he was gone, leaving her with the echo of the closeness and the ache it left.
That night, as she walked past the lobby reflecting the last orange of sunset, she passed a magazine kiosk. Some tabloid featured a glossy photo of Damien laughing with a CEO at a charity event. Elara's chest tightened with an unexpected surge of jealousy, stupid and childish but real. She shoved the magazine aside like it had it coming and kept walking.
One item on her phone chirped — his message: Coffee at nine? The simplicity of the question was disarming.
Her thumb hovered. Rules. Professionalism. Denial.
She typed back: 9 — work only.
He replied almost instantly: Always.
The double meaning sat between them like contraband. She told herself she'd meant it: coffee, and nothing more. But as she tapped out a calendar reminder for their prep session, the truth lodged in the soft place behind her ribs: the thing neither of them had prepared for wasn't work at all.
It was wanting.
And work, as she was painfully aware now, did not have a firewall strong enough to keep desire out.