~Becklan's POV~
Later, after Leon finished his breakfast, the driver prepared the car. I watched as Leon came down the stairs, looking ready to take on the entire day. But instead of heading to the office, he told the driver to take us to his corporate headquarters, the Leon Haute Couture, the building where his entire clothing line was showcased.
The drive was silent and tense.
We bypassed the main executive offices and went straight to the top-floor fitting room, a massive space draped in silk and lined with reflective mirrors. The atmosphere was hushed and expensive.
A head tailor, a nervous man in a crisp white shirt, rushed forward. "Mr. President," he greeted, bowing slightly. "You called for me, sir?"
"Yes," Leon said, already loosening his tie. He gestured imperiously toward me. "This is Beck. He requires a professional wardrobe suitable for travel and public appearances. Bring out the new Prism collection, the casual daywear, the evening essentials, and everything in between. Size 30 waist, slim fit. Now."
The tailor's brows lifted for a brief second as he took in my short white maid uniform, but he regained his composure instantly, offering another respectful bow. He gave quick instructions into his headset, and soon, assistants appeared with racks stacked with jackets, trousers, and neatly pressed shirts.
Leon pointed to the huge selection of pristine, expensive clothes. "Start putting them on, Beck. I need to see the fit."
My cheeks flushed hot. The fitting room had sheer curtains separating the mirrors, but there were no private cubicles, and Leon made no move toward the door. I assumed, naturally, that he would step out while I changed.
I hesitated, pulling at the hem of my maid uniform skirt. "Sir... I'll just change into the first pair now."
Leon arched one perfectly shaped brow, casually bracing himself against a display table. "Yes, I figured that much. Well? Hurry up and change. We don't have the entire day."
"Sir," I mumbled, trying to be discreet. "I thought... I thought you might step outside while I, ah, while I change."
Leon chuckled, a low, dismissive sound that echoed in the silent room. "Step outside? Why, Beck?"
He pushed off the table and walked toward me, his eyes running over my figure. "What do you think is in that flimsy little maid uniform that I haven't already pictured?"
He lowered his voice slightly, teasingly, and gestured to the front of my trousers. "What are you worried about exposing? That thing you're trying to cover can't be more than a few three-inch hinges, can it? We both know what you're trying to hide isn't exactly a massive, towering monument, is it?"
My face burned crimson. The audacity, the deliberate attempt to humiliate me!
"It's just—it's decency, sir," I stammered, pulling my arms tighter across my chest.
"Decency?" Leon scoffed, completely unconcerned. "Please. The world knows you're wearing almost nothing under that uniform, Beck. What privacy is there left to protect?"
He stared at me, daring me to argue. "Now, drop the costume and start trying on the clothes. Unless, of course, you think that tiny little pocket knife you've got down there requires a private viewing room."
"Sir, even if it were as tiny as a pinhead," I retorted, trying to sound dignified while battling a frantic blush, "only my partner gets to see that part of me! It's about professional boundaries, not size!"
Leon threw his head back and laughed, a genuine, loud bark of amusement. The tailor and assistants, who were meticulously arranging trousers nearby, froze.
"Professional boundaries?" Leon repeated, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "Beck, you're my personal maid, not a delicate flower! And let's be honest, judging by the fact you're wearing a skirt short enough to be a belt, I seriously doubt 'professional boundaries' is a concept you're intimately familiar with."
He strode over to one of the racks, pulled down a crisp slate-grey shirt, and tossed it at my head. "Furthermore, if you're holding out for a partner to see that hinge, you might be waiting a long, long time. I'm providing you clothes so you can appear remotely appropriate in public, not so you can maintain some fictional, chaste dignity."
He checked the designer watch on his wrist. "You have thirty minutes, Beck. I have meetings, and I am not stepping out of this fitting room. Now, do I need to help you take that apron off, or can you manage to strip off that maid costume yourself?"
I clenched my jaw, hating him more than ever, but knowing I had no choice. The clock was ticking, and humiliation was simply part of the job description.
"Fine," I hissed under my breath. "But don't look."
"Don't worry," Leon scoffed, turning back to examine a jacket collar. "The only thing I'm looking for is a crease. And judging by your past performance, I doubt I'll find anything impressive."
I rolled my eyes. He claimed he wasn't looking, but the wall he was facing was covered in a vast, reflective mirror. He could see my entire reflection perfectly. I scoffed again, but I had no choice.
I snatched a pair of slim-fit trousers and quickly began undressing. The maid uniform fell quickly, and I stood there, utterly exposed, wearing only my dark, simple briefs. The cold, crisp air of the fitting room raised goosebumps on my skin.
I reached for the trousers, desperate to cover myself, when Leon's phone started ringing, a sharp, insistent alarm that broke the silence. The device was sitting on the opposite display table, forcing him to turn completely away from the mirror.
As he spun around to grab the device, his eyes swept past me—and they froze.
He stopped mid-reach. His hand hovered over the table, forgotten. His gaze, usually so controlled and dismissive, was utterly blank, locked intensely on my half-naked form. The silence stretched, thick and hot. I saw his lips part slightly, and unmistakably, I watched the muscles in his neck tense as his throat worked, swallowing hard and slowly. He wasn't seeing the annoying maid; he was momentarily lost, seeing me. He was staring as if struck by something unexpectedly beautiful.
"Mr. President," I called out, my voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and nervous realization. "Are you okay?"
The sound of my voice snapped him out of it. He blinked once, hard, and his expression instantly slammed shut, replacing the shock with cold fury. He snatched the phone.
"Fine," he bit out, his voice a low, ragged sound. He didn't answer the call. "And no, I'm not 'okay.' I was merely pondering why someone with such a pedestrian physique is wasting oxygen in a room dedicated to haute couture."
He glared at me, his face devoid of the previous vulnerability. "Consider that your thirty minutes just became fifteen. I'm stepping out, before I lose my appetite entirely. Do not call me back in until you look less like a failed experiment and more like a client."
He stalked to the door, opened it, and slammed it shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden, ringing silence.
I didn't immediately rush to dress. Instead, I let out a low, satisfied chuckle. Lost his appetite? I knew my body was attractive, and it was certainly not the "failed experiment" he claimed. That sudden, stunned stillness when he turned around told me everything I needed to know.
I walked closer to the mirror, tilting my head critically. "You're super sexy," I murmured to my reflection, feeling a surge of defiant confidence. "And I will make you admit I'm attractive, Leon. Not all that garbage you just said."
My small moment of self-affirmation was cut short by the realization of the shrinking clock. I had to focus. I scrambled to grab the first pair of trousers, ripping the price tags off and pulling them on. I changed rapidly, selecting shirts, trousers, and a few sleek jackets that I instantly knew looked incredible on my "pedestrian physique."
When I finally called Leon back in, the entire fitting room was a whirlwind of discarded silk and pinned fabric. The tailor took notes while Leon silently appraised the finished looks. He didn't offer a single compliment, but the efficiency and precision of his selections spoke volumes.
Once everything was selected, the outfits were carefully packed into garment bags with almost ceremonial precision. Then we headed back home, neither of us saying a single word, the silence thick and uncomfortable between us.
Just before the driver pulled up to the mansion, Leon spoke, his eyes fixed on the house.