The next morning, Lisa awoke to the sound of her phone buzzing.
The early light filtered through the curtains, painting faint stripes of gold across her sheets. For a moment, she lay still, her mind foggy with sleep, until the vibration became impossible to ignore. She groaned, reached for the phone, and squinted at the glowing screen.
Be at Bruce Tower by 9 a.m. sharp. Don't be late. —W.B.
A sigh escaped her lips. No greeting. No explanation. Just his initials, sharp and precise, like him. She let the phone fall onto the pillow beside her, staring up at the ceiling.
"Of course," she muttered. "Typical Will Bruce."
But beneath her irritation was something she refused to name, that quick flutter in her chest, that strange pull of curiosity. What did he mean by training? And why did it make her both nervous and… excited?
She dragged herself out of bed, dressing carefully. A white blouse, high-waisted skirt, hair pulled neatly back. As she caught her reflection in the mirror, she straightened her shoulders. He won't see me flustered. Not again.
⸻
Bruce Tower loomed before her like a monument to power, forty floors of mirrored glass slicing into the morning sky. Lisa stood at its base, dwarfed by its perfection, the name BRUCE ENTERPRISES gleaming above her in silver letters.
She adjusted her grip on her bag, forcing her feet to move. The air inside the lobby was cool and scented faintly of citrus and polish. Every inch of marble reflected wealth; every step echoed the weight of her presence.
The receptionist looked up immediately, smiling with rehearsed warmth. "Mrs. Bruce. Mr. Bruce is expecting you."
That title still caught Lisa off guard every single time. Mrs. Bruce. It sounded like someone else's life. Someone confident. Someone in control.
She followed the elevator's smooth ascent, her reflection fractured in the golden glass as she rose floor by floor toward him.
⸻
The doors opened to the top floor, his domain. His office doors, wide and heavy, stood half-open. She hesitated before entering, the sound of her heartbeat loud in her ears.
Will was by the window, his silhouette framed by sunlight and skyline. One hand rested in his pocket, the other holding a coffee cup. He didn't turn as she stepped in.
"You're two minutes late."
Her jaw tightened. "It's 9:02."
He finally turned, gray eyes cutting to hers. "Two minutes late," he repeated, voice calm but commanding.
Lisa crossed her arms. "You're unbelievable."
"Correction," he said smoothly, walking toward her with unhurried confidence. "I'm your husband. And if you're going to survive in this world, every minute counts."
She met his gaze evenly. "Then I suppose I'll have to learn quickly."
His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, but close. "That's what today is for."
⸻
The training began immediately.
"Stand straighter," he said, moving behind her. "Chin up. Shoulders back."
He circled her slowly, the faint scent of his cologne teasing her senses , crisp, expensive, maddening. His hand hovered near her spine but didn't touch. Still, she felt the heat of him.
"Confidence isn't about who you are," he said, voice low and deliberate. "It's about what they see."
"I feel like a mannequin," she muttered.
"You look like one too," he countered. His tone was dry, but there was a flicker of amusement there, almost warmth. Almost.
Next came introductions. He made her shake his hand, again and again, correcting her grip each time. "Too limp. Too eager. Again."
Their fingers brushed. His touch was brief but electric.
"Good," he said finally. "Now, hold it. Not too long. Show them you know your worth."
She tried to pull back, but he didn't let go at once. For a moment, their hands stayed joined, a quiet current pulsing between them. His thumb moved slightly, tracing her knuckles before he released her.
Lisa swallowed hard. "I think I've got it."
"Not even close," he murmured, eyes glinting. He was enjoying this, watching her fight for composure.
⸻
Hours passed. Posture. Speech. Poise. The art of smiling without showing nerves. The discipline of holding silence until the other person cracked first.
Lisa stumbled over some of his directions, earning an infuriatingly patient smirk from him each time.
"Try again," he'd say softly. "You're too defensive."
"Maybe because you're impossible," she snapped once.
He raised a brow. "And yet, I'm the one teaching you how to win."
By midday, she was drained. She sank into one of the sleek chairs, pressing her palms to her face. "This is insane. You can't turn me into one of your perfect corporate robots overnight."
He leaned against the desk, watching her. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up, exposing the strong lines of his forearms. "I'm not asking you to be perfect, Lisa. I'm asking you to adapt."
She looked up at him, frustration sparking. "You really think you can control every part of me, don't you?"
His eyes darkened, voice dropping lower. "Not control. Refine."
Her breath caught. The way he said her name, slow, measured, with something almost dangerous beneath it, made her pulse jump. She turned away before he could see the heat rising in her face.
⸻
When she gathered her things to leave, he stopped her. Just a touch, his hand on her wrist, firm but careful.
"One more lesson," he said quietly.
She froze. "What now?"
He stepped closer, his presence enveloping her. "In this world, words can fail you. But your eyes, they won't. Look at me."
Lisa hesitated, then obeyed. Her gaze met his, steady but uncertain.
"Don't look away," he said.
She held it, or tried to. The intensity in his stare made it hard to breathe. The air between them thickened, heavy with something unsaid. The city glittered behind him, but she could see only him, the sharp line of his jaw, the flicker of light in his eyes, the faint tension in his throat as he swallowed.
Her heart thudded. She felt the pulse of her own blood in her fingertips.
Will didn't move closer, yet she swore she could feel him everywhere.
"That's power," he murmured finally. "That's how you own a room. You walk in, and they feel that. Never forget it."
Lisa blinked, breaking the connection. She stepped back, breath shaky. "Lesson learned," she managed, her voice unsteady.
He said nothing, only watched her with unreadable eyes as she turned and walked away.
⸻
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, the way he'd looked at her, not with contempt, but with something darker. Something almost… fascinated.
Her hand drifted to her chest as if to quiet her racing heart. It was ridiculous. He was her boss, her husband in name only, a man she was supposed to despise.
And yet, she could still feel the ghost of his touch on her wrist, the echo of his gaze like fire against her skin.
⸻
The next morning, she arrived earlier — 8:45. He noticed.
"Good," he said simply, as if he hadn't expected her to listen.
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean I'm not late today?"
"Miracles happen," he replied, a hint of teasing in his tone.
It startled her, that faint trace of humor, so rare it almost made him human.
They worked again, side by side this time. Her frustration from the previous day began to fade, replaced by a strange rhythm between them. He'd correct her, she'd challenge him, and somehow, they'd find balance in the tension.
When she stumbled during one of his mock introductions, he caught her by the waist , instinctive, protective. For a heartbeat, their bodies aligned, close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his breath.
Neither moved.
Then, slowly, he released her, clearing his throat. "Careful," he said, voice rougher than before.
Lisa's cheeks burned. "I'm fine," she whispered, but her voice betrayed her.
He nodded once, but his eyes lingered , tracing her face, her parted lips, her pulse still fluttering at her throat.
Something changed in that moment , a quiet shift neither of them wanted to acknowledge. The wall between them cracked, just a little, and both of them felt it.
⸻
When Lisa left that evening, the sky had turned the color of amber and dusk. The city lights flickered below, and for the first time since she'd started working at Bruce Tower, she didn't feel small beneath them.
She felt… alive. Seen.
Maybe this marriage wasn't just punishment. Maybe, beneath all the coldness and power games, there was something neither of them could quite name — something dangerous, magnetic, impossible to resist.
As she stepped into the elevator, her phone buzzed again.
A message.
You did well today. —W.B.
Just four words. But they made her smile before she could stop herself.
She typed a reply, hesitated, then deleted it.
Instead, she pocketed the phone, her heart strangely light.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, another lesson, another fight, another look that made her forget how to breathe, but she knew one thing for sure:
Will Bruce was no longer just her boss.
He was the man who could destroy her… or teach her what it truly meant to feel alive.