Anya's fingertips froze an inch above the pristine black leather of the briefcase. The voice, low and colder than a glacier's heart, had ripped through the silence of the 78th-floor penthouse, stopping her heart with its absolute authority.
She spun around, nearly tripping over her own feet. Standing in the doorway of the private study was the figure of legend: Lucien Thorne.
He was taller than the magazine photos suggested, an imposing silhouette framed by the expansive window view of the city below. He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit that looked less like clothing and more like a second, formidable skin. His eyes, the color of polished obsidian, swept over her cheap uniform and the trembling hand she quickly hid behind her back.
"I… I was just waiting," Anya stammered, her voice thin and reedy. The air in the opulent space felt suddenly thick, suffocating her. She swallowed hard, realizing her delivery bag had slipped and was now pooling an unpleasant puddle of condensation on the irreplaceable marble floor. Great. I'm going to be billed for property damage.
Lucien Thorne didn't move. He didn't frown, nor did he display any visible emotion. The sheer lack of reaction was more terrifying than any outburst. "Waiting where you were instructed to wait, or waiting to pilfer the contents of my personal effects?"
The accusation struck Anya like a slap. "No! I wasn't going to touch anything! I just… I don't know. I got dizzy." It was a terrible lie, but the real explanation—that her hands had an uncontrollable, inexplicable urge to knead his briefcase like dough—was insane.
The assistant, Ms. Lin, rushed back from the study, her face tight with annoyance. "Mr. Thorne, my deepest apologies. She was told to remain by the entrance. Security will remove her immediately." She glared daggers at Anya. "The tea set is secured, sir."
Lucien finally took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Anya. His movement was slow, deliberate, and commanded the space. Anya's heart hammered against her ribs, but mixed with the panic was that damnable, strange instinct again. That deep, familiar scent—the old silk, the mountain snow, the hint of something exotic and musky—was overwhelmingly strong near him. Her breath hitched. She fought the urge to close her eyes and simply rub her face against his trousers, seeking comfort from the overwhelming aroma.
"Leave," Lucien ordered, his eyes flickering toward Ms. Lin.
Ms. Lin looked stunned. "Sir?"
"Leave the room, Ms. Lin. And secure the guards outside. Now." His voice was quiet, yet it carried the finality of a death sentence.
Ms. Lin hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding sharply and disappearing, pulling the heavy mahogany doors closed behind her. Anya and Lucien were alone.
The silence returned, but this time it was pregnant with tension. Lucien took one more slow step, closing the distance between them. Anya could now see the faint scar above his left eyebrow—the only break in his otherwise perfect appearance.
"You said you got dizzy," he stated. It wasn't a question.
Anya clutched the straps of her delivery bag. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry. I'll go." She started to back away, her eyes fixed on his chest, unable to meet his gaze. She just needed to get out before he called the police or, worse, before she gave in to the urge to purr. Purr? Where did that ridiculous thought come from?
As she turned fully, she lost her footing on the slick marble, her cheap rubber shoes failing her. She stumbled violently, crashing sideways into the heavy, antique side table where his briefcase rested. The force of the impact sent a priceless crystal vase wobbling precariously on the edge.
Time seemed to grind to a halt. Anya lunged forward, her arm shooting out desperately to grab the vase.
It was too late. The vase tipped.
Anya closed her eyes, bracing for the inevitable, deafening crash and the ruin that would follow. But as the fear climaxed, a sound ripped from her throat. It was involuntary, high-pitched, and laced with absolute terror and distress—not a scream of a woman, but a small, heartbreaking, pathetic, frightened "Mee-ow!"
The crystal vase remained suspended, stopped inches from the floor by Lucien Thorne's hand.
His grip was white-knuckled, his arm extended fully. His face, moments ago impassive, was now contorted in an expression of shock so profound it was almost grotesque. His obsidian eyes weren't fixed on the vase, or the floor, or the potential damage. They were locked, burning, on Anya's face.
She opened her mouth to apologize for the vase, but the apology died on her tongue. The cold, aloof CEO was staring at her as if he were seeing a ghost, or perhaps, a miracle.
"That sound…" Lucien's voice was a low rasp, barely a whisper. He dropped the vase gently back onto the table, his hand retracting as if scalded. He took a staggering step back, his formidable composure utterly shattered. "That sound…"
He walked toward her, slowly, deliberately. This time, there was no cold authority, only a terrifying, desperate recognition. He reached out, his long fingers trembling as they reached for her cheek.
"Mia," he breathed, the name a sacred lament. "My little Snow Spirit."
Anya flinched away, completely bewildered. "Sir, my name is Anya. I think… I think you're mistaken."
He didn't acknowledge her words. His eyes were wide, glittering with a dangerous, fervent madness. He grabbed her wrist, his touch surprisingly gentle yet utterly inescapable.
"No mistake," he stated, his voice now regaining its CEO steel, but laced with something possessive and predatory. "Only a miracle. You're back. You couldn't leave me, could you, my little spirit?"