Stella was working overtime again. The office had begun emptying out around 9 p.m., her colleagues packing up and bidding each other goodnight. But she remained at her desk, focused on the glowing screen before her.
She had only one last stack of files to go through. It wasn't the kind of work she enjoyed, but it was what she had been assigned. Simon had always known exactly what kind of projects fueled her passion—after all, he hadn't just been her husband, he had been her boss. She loved writing about the prototypes they created, bringing them to life with her words, crafting promotions that made people eager to invest. But now? Now, she was stuck crunching numbers, typing up company stats and reports that, while impressive, left her uninspired.
Her fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard as she reviewed the figures. The company was thriving—profits skyrocketing, numbers soaring beyond projections. It should have been exciting, but all she felt was exhaustion.
With a sigh, she stretched her neck, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension. A quick glance at her watch told her it was already 10:30 p.m. She let out a soft groan. Just a little more.
The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up. A security guard stepped into the office, his radio crackling softly at his hip.
"Ms., we need to scan your ID," he said, offering an apologetic smile. "Just a routine check since it's late. We need to keep track of who's still in the building."
Stella nodded, fishing her ID out of her bag and handing it to him. He scanned it and gave a satisfied nod.
"All set. Just let us know when you leave."
"I'll be out in about thirty minutes," she assured him.
He nodded again and walked away, his heavy boots echoing in the empty space.
Stella leaned back in her chair for a brief moment before forcing herself to focus. Just finish this. Then home.
She took a deep breath, cracked her knuckles, and resumed her work.
Simon sat in his office, smoke curling through the dimly lit room. The city stretched before him, glittering like a kingdom at his feet—his kingdom. He had built it with his own hands, forged it in fire and blood, and yet, something was missing.
That feeling again.
It clawed at the edges of his mind, a slow, gnawing hunger. No amount of power, wealth, or blood could quench it.
He exhaled, tilting his head back against the leather chair, his fingers tapping idly against the desk as his eyes flicked to the security feed. A habit—one he barely thought about anymore.
Ten people remained in the building. Nine of them didn't matter.
His gaze locked onto the twentieth floor.
One woman.
Alone.
His finger hovered over the cursor before clicking. The camera feed sharpened, revealing her hunched over her desk, lost in her work. He leaned forward slightly, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk as something cold and unfamiliar slid through his chest.
His stomach twisted at the sight of her.Golden hair. Green eyes. A slender throat.
Something about the way she sat, the way she absentmindedly tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear—it was wrong.
Not because he knew her. He didn't.
But because he should.
His jaw clenched as his eyes darkened, scanning the curve of her shoulders, the way she stretched her neck, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. The light from her computer screen flickered against her face, illuminating a pair of green eyes that sent a sharp, violent pulse through his veins.
Something about her made his teeth ache.
His fingers twitched.
A ghost of a name danced on the tip of his tongue, but it dissolved into nothing.
Simon Winchester did not forget people.
And yet, this woman—this fragile little thing sitting on the twentieth floor—unsettled him in a way he could not explain.
His tongue ran over the sharp edge of his teeth, a slow, predatory motion, as something deep inside him snapped.
He needed to see her up close.
Needed to hear her voice.
Needed to know why the fuck she was making his entire body burn.
With an exhale, he crushed the cigarette beneath his fingers, the sting barely registering. He pushed away from the desk, adjusting his cuffs as he stepped toward the door.
The elevator ride down was slow, each second stretching into something heavier, something almost inevitable.
A melody escaped his lips—a low, eerie whistle that echoed off the walls, reverberating like a whisper from a past he didn't remember.
Stella exhaled sharply, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she typed the last set of numbers. Almost done.
The office was silent. The hum of the fluorescent lights, the quiet clicking of keys, the distant cityscape beyond the windows—all signs of a night that should have ended long ago.
Then, she heard it.
A soft, muted ding.
Not from the common elevators.
From the elite elevator.
Her breath hitched. No one used that elevator at this hour.
Slowly, her head turned toward the source of the sound. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, moving toward her with a measured, deliberate pace.
Stella's muscles tensed, her instincts screaming at her to run—to fight.
But then the figure stepped into the light.
Simon.
Her stomach twisted violently, her heart slamming against her ribs with merciless force.
No. Not him. Not now.
But her eyes—traitorous, desperate things—flickered to his arms, searching for what should have been there.
The tattoos.
The ink she had traced with her fingers, the marks she had kissed, the proof that the man she loved had existed.
Nothing.
Of course.
She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to look away, forcing herself to remember.
This is not your husband.
This is your asshole boss.
Simon stopped in front of her, close. Too close. His height, his presence, the imposing weight of his gaze sent a sharp chill down her spine.
His eyes roamed over her—slow, assessing, dark.
Something about the way he looked at her felt wrong.
Like he was trying to place her. Like he was looking for something buried deep within his mind.
Like he had already decided she belonged to him, even if he didn't know why.
"I've never seen you here before," he murmured, his voice smooth, too smooth—like velvet wrapped around a blade.
Stella swallowed, keeping her face unreadable. Do not react.
"I joined last month," she said, her voice even. "I worked at Proego before being transferred here."
Simon tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving hers.
Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few golden strands escaping around her face. He wondered if she always wore it that way. If she always smelled like this—warm, familiar, dangerous.
"You haven't introduced yourself."
It wasn't a request.
A command.
Stella's spine stiffened. Slowly, she placed her hands behind her back, straightened, and bowed.
"Stella, boss."
Silence.
Then—
"Stella."
The way he said it—**slow, tasting it, owning it—**made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Like he knew it. Like he had said it a thousand times before.
She nodded, expression blank, even as the air between them thickened—dark, suffocating, unexplainable.
She told herself that this was nothing.
That she didn't feel the way his voice wrapped around her name like a noose.
That she wasn't trapped in the presence of a predator who had just caught a scent he couldn't ignore.
Even if, deep down—she knew.