Lana arrived early. Again.
It was day two, and she still hadn't recovered from what happened in the elevator. She kept replaying it—his voice, his body, the way he said "You're mine now."
And yet, here she was. Wearing the same fitted pencil skirt. A blouse she knew was a little too sheer under the light. Her reflection in the glass of the elevator stared back at her, judging.
You're playing with fire.
The doors opened to silence.
He was already at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie undone. His hair was slightly damp like he'd just stepped out of the shower—and somehow made disheveled look deliberate.
"Miss Hart," he said without looking up. "Close the door."
She obeyed.
He stood, a folder in his hand. "Read this."
She took it. "What is it?"
"Your real contract."
Her pulse jumped.
"I had HR send a standard one to file legally," he said. "This one is... more personal. Between us."
Lana's fingers trembled as she opened the folder. It wasn't a joke.
Clause One: Obedience and discretion beyond standard job requirements.
Clause Two: After-hours availability at employer's request. No questions.
Clause Three: Emotional entanglement forbidden. Physical contact, if initiated by the employer, must not be resisted.
Her voice cracked. "What is this?"
Kieran came around the desk, slow and quiet. He stopped in front of her, not touching—but close enough that her breath hitched.
"It's clarity," he said. "No confusion. No misunderstandings. I own your time, your access… and occasionally, your body."
Her breath caught.
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't tolerate chaos in my office, Lana. I like control. Do you understand?"
She met his eyes. Something inside her rebelled, but it wasn't fear. It was heat.
"This is crazy," she whispered.
He smiled. "You haven't seen crazy yet."
She pushed the folder back into his chest. "This isn't legal."
"No," he said softly. "It's not. It's personal. You can walk away right now if you want."
Lana froze.
She should've left. Any sane woman would.
But her voice betrayed her.
"…what happens if I sign it?"
His eyes darkened. "Then we stop pretending. And I stop holding back."
Silence.
Her heart hammered.
But then—she didn't sign. Not yet.
She turned and walked out, leaving the folder on his desk.
And Kieran Valen let her.
Barely.
---
The next day, something changed.
He didn't speak to her unless necessary. Didn't touch her. Didn't even glance her way when she handed him his morning espresso—black, no sugar, no cream, just like his mood.
And she hated that it bothered her.
At noon, he called her into his office. "Meeting room six. Board presentation prep. Go."
She walked in. Alone.
The lights were dim. The long glass table was spotless except for one manila envelope and a pair of cufflinks left on the table.
She touched them without thinking.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Kieran.
He was suddenly there, behind her, his hand curling around her waist from behind. His breath brushed her neck. "I told myself I'd give you space," he murmured. "But then I imagined your fingers touching something else on this table."
She turned sharply. "You said I could walk away."
His expression darkened. "You haven't."
"I haven't signed, either."
He moved closer until she had nowhere to go.
"I don't need your signature to own you," he whispered. "I already do."
His hand slid up her thigh under her skirt. She caught his wrist.
"I don't sleep with men who think they can buy obedience," she said.
Kieran leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "I don't buy anything, Miss Hart. I take it. And if it's not offered…"
His tongue flicked the edge of her earlobe.
"…I make you want to."
She was breathless.
He stepped back—again, that infuriating control. "You'll be late to the boardroom."
And just like that, the heat was gone, replaced by her own frustration and the throb between her legs.
---
That night, he texted her.
> You missed a clause. Check the last page.
She stared at her phone. Then at the contract still in her purse. She hadn't burned it like she swore she would.
Slowly, she pulled it out, flipping to the back.
One line, handwritten:
Clause Ten: If you sign this, I'll stop pretending this isn't about you.
Her pulse skipped.
Another message buzzed in.
> But be warned, Lana. Once I have you—really have you—I don't share. I don't let go. And I don't stop.