POV – Elena
The office was buzzing with the usual rhythm of Monday morning, but I could barely focus on spreadsheets and emails. My mind kept drifting to him — James Ashford — the man whose presence made every rational thought seem irrelevant. He was impossibly handsome, every inch the picture of perfection: tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to see through me. And yet, I was just Elena Dorne. HR manager. Ordinary. Not a model, not a socialite, not someone the world expected him to notice.
I tried to steady my hands as I poured coffee, glancing around at my colleagues. Marina passed by, bright and efficient, but today even her usual chatter seemed distant, drowned out by the pull of anticipation curling in my chest.
And then Selene appeared. James's sister. Elegant, sharp, striking in a way that immediately made me feel out of place. She walked into my section with a faint smile, her eyes sizing me up in a single glance.
"You must be Elena," she said, voice polite but direct, like someone assessing a chessboard.
"I… yes," I stammered, smoothing my blouse nervously. "It's nice to meet you."
Her smile was small, almost approving. "James speaks highly of you. That's… promising."
I swallowed. Of course, James spoke highly of me. But I also knew what kind of women he normally surrounded himself with. Models, socialites, women whose elegance seemed effortless. Beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, statuesque — the kind of woman I could never hope to compete with. And yet here I was, ordinary, slightly nervous, but completely incapable of ignoring the pull he had over me.
By mid-morning, James appeared at my desk with that calm, deliberate grace that made my stomach flip. The office seemed to hush around him, the subtle magnetism he carried pulling all eyes and attention. I forced myself to glance at a report, pretending to work, but I could feel him watching me, assessing, smiling in that way that made my knees feel weak.
"Miss Dorne," he said softly, leaning over my desk just slightly, "I need your input on the client proposal. Are you free?"
I nodded, trying to maintain composure. "Yes, of course."
As we walked to the conference room, my mind raced. He's perfect. Every woman would want him. Why would he notice me? I'm not… I'm not like them. My hands tingled, my chest tight, and every instinct screamed that I should look anywhere but at him. But I couldn't.
Inside the conference room, Marina was already there, organizing the documents. She shot me a friendly, knowing glance, and I realized she must have seen the tension radiating between James and me for weeks. I felt a flush of embarrassment, but also something else — a thrill.
James handed me a folder, brushing slightly against my fingers in a fleeting touch that set my pulse racing. My mind whirled. That was just… contact. He touches everyone like that. He probably doesn't even notice.
And yet, I did notice. Every detail. Every slight movement, every glance, every word. My heart beat faster, my thoughts scattered between logic and desire. I tried to focus on the work — the proposal, the graphs, the statistics — but all I could think about was him, so impossibly close, leaning in, his voice deep and warm in the quiet room.
"Your perspective on the client's priorities is…" he paused, and I felt the intensity of his gaze, "…exactly what we need."
My cheeks warmed. He values my opinion. He trusts me. And yet, the lingering thought echoed: Why me? Why not someone… better, someone prettier, someone perfect?
Later, Selene joined the meeting. I noticed how easily she carried herself in a room with James — confident, poised, undeniably in control. She looked at me briefly, her expression unreadable, and I felt that familiar twinge of self-doubt.
But then she spoke directly to me. "You handle yourself well, Elena. Don't let the nerves get in the way. Your instincts, your judgment. They matter."
I blinked, surprised by her words. She sees something in me? Something beyond appearances?
James's gaze flicked to mine during the discussion, and I felt the pull again, undeniable, magnetic, impossible to ignore. Desire surged, mingled with the hesitation that came from knowing who he was, who he used to be with, and how unattainable he felt.
I'm just a normal woman. He's… everything. He's James Ashford.
By the time the meeting ended, I was both exhilarated and terrified. Every glance, every subtle touch, every shared word carried a weight I could not name. I knew, deep down, that he felt it too — the tension, the desire, the undeniable connection — but the walls between us, built of professionalism, power, and his history, seemed insurmountable.
And yet, as I returned to my desk, my mind replayed the moment he had brushed my hand, the look in his eyes, the quiet acknowledgment that I mattered to him in a way no one else could. Desire and longing tangled with hesitation and self-doubt, creating a delicious torment I couldn't escape.
I shouldn't feel this way. I can't. But I do. I can't help it.
And for the first time, I realized that falling for James Ashford wasn't a matter of choice. It was inevitable.