Chapter 3

Ethan’s POV.

The office was silent after she left.

Rora.

Even the sound of her name sent a ripple through my thoughts, a subtle heat I couldn’t explain. She had vanished from my sight, yet I could still feel her presence lingering in the air like smoke, soft, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.

Ever since that night, I hadn’t stopped thinking about her.

Her hand.

The way it brushed mine for the briefest moment, the memory haunted me relentlessly. No other woman, no matter how bold or confident, had ever touched me like that. Not once. Her fingers had made my mind lose control, made my body betray me in ways I had never allowed before.

And yet, even with that fire burning inside me, all I wanted, still wanted was to protect her. Protect her from the world, from Liam, from Malice, from anyone who dared hurt her pride.

I stared at the empty floor where she had knelt. My anger simmered not at her, but at the circumstances that forced her there. How dare anyone reduce her to that position? How dare they make her lower herself when she had already endured so much?

Mark, my assistant, appeared quietly, sensing my need to act before I spoke.

“Mark,” I said, leaning against my desk, my voice calm yet carrying a weight that made him straighten instinctively, “prepare a space in my office for Rora Grayson. I want her to sit where I can see her every day.”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied immediately, moving to obey.

The thought of her in my office, within my sight, so close that I could hear her voice, watch her hands move, see her expressions change… it was intoxicating. I allowed myself a fraction of anticipation, though I masked it beneath the steel of control that had defined me for years.

No one had ever affected me this way. Not the women who had tried to catch my attention with flattery, gifts, or calculated seduction. Not one. Yet her touch, so innocent and unassuming, had stolen something from me. Something I didn’t want to give but couldn’t reclaim.

Two weeks later, I arrived at the company earlier than usual, anticipation coiling in my chest. I wanted to see her first, to catch a glimpse of her before the chaos of the day began.

Her desk was empty.

A pang of disappointment cut through me sharper than I expected.

Where was she?

I waited, still, my hands folded behind my back. Time stretched slowly. Employees passed, whispering, careful not to meet my gaze, careful not to disturb the storm that was quietly building in the room.

Then, finally, she appeared.

Rushing. Papers in hand. Hair slightly out of place from her hurried pace. Her eyes wide and startled, scanning the room as if she were afraid of more than just being late. And then she bumped directly into me.

Instinct took over. My hands wrapped around her waist, steadying her. My chest pressed gently against hers, not forcefully, but firmly enough to remind her I was in her front.

Her eyes met mine, wide, radiant, unguarde and for a heartbeat, the world fell away.

The urge to touch her lips, to close the gap, was almost unbearable. Her pinkish lips, her startled expression, the flush of embarrassment across her cheeks… it called to me.

But she pulled back, swiftly, and apologized.

“Sir, I...I’m so sorry!” she stammered, stepping away, her eyes avoiding mine.

I released her, my hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary before returning to my sides. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“Don’t worry,” I said quietly, deliberately calm, deliberately authoritative. “You might be late to your first meeting.”

Her relief was immediate. She drew in a deep breath, composed herself, and hurried into the boardroom.

I watched her.

Every word she spoke during that meeting was precise, confident, deliberate. She presented facts and projections with a calm authority that impressed the board members immediately. Every suggestion she made carried weight. Every pause she took, calculated.

I leaned back slightly, noting how she maintained composure even under the subtle pressure of the senior executives’ eyes. Her intelligence, her clarity of thought, the sheer audacity to remain unshaken in a room full of men and women who had probably doubted her before she even spoke, it was remarkable.

She wasn’t a spoiled rich girl. She wasn’t weak or entitled. She was serious, capable, and razor-sharp.

My chest tightened. This girl, this Grayson girl, had a presence that quietly demanded respect. My cold, professional mind acknowledged it instantly but beneath that, a part of me stirred, soft and unruly, that wanted to see her rise even higher, wanted to see her thrive, and perhaps… wanted to be the one she looked up to.

After the meeting, she came to report to me in my office.

She was hesitant at first. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the documents, her voice soft and careful.

“I… I want to thank you for everything, especially the job” she said, almost a whisper. “For… not using that night against me. I… I wouldn’t have been able to face anyone if you had…”

Her eyes fell, shame and gratitude mingling in a way that made my chest ache. She was so careful with her words, yet every gesture spoke volumes.

I rose from my chair, closing the gap between us deliberately, deliberately leaving only an inch between our bodies. Silence filled the space. Her breath hitched. Mine did too.

My hand found her waist again, firm, controlled, steadying myself as much as her.

“I wish,” I said, my voice low and calm, “to continue from where we stopped that night.”

Her eyes widened. She froze, a blush spreading across her cheeks. The tension between us was sharp, electric, dangerous, and… necessary.

Our lips were a breath away.

Then the office door opened.

“Sir, you have a call...”

Mark.

Of course. Mark, with perfect timing, ruined the moment.

She pulled back immediately, stumbling slightly, cheeks flaming.

“I...I’m sorry, Sir!” she stammered, and bolted from the office.

I cursed under my breath, exhaling sharply. That man had just cost me the only moment I had been waiting for.

I forced myself to settle, to maintain the calm of professionalism. Desire could wait. Business could not.

“Mark,” I said, straightening my jacket and stepping behind my desk, “send me her resume tonight. Every detail. I want it on my desk before tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mark replied, lifting an eyebrow but saying nothing further.

That evening, at home, I opened my laptop and checked the email from Mark.

There it was. Rora’s resume.

Her name, her education, her accomplishments, all neat, precise, methodical. Her skills, her previous experiences, her potential laid bare in black and white. Every detail was organized, every line deliberate.

I studied it carefully. This girl was intelligent. Careful. Serious. I could see the spark, the courage, the defiance, the subtle fire that had made her kneel for the first time and yet still stand tall.

I picked up my phone and sent a message, professional on the surface, personal in intent:

> “Rora Grayson, report to the entrance of [starlight mall] tomorrow morning at 9 AM for a company task. Be punctual.”

I hit send and leaned back in my chair. My mind replayed her laugh, her startled eyes, the way she had moved with quiet strength.

I noticed her dress earlier, it doesn't befit her status. Her situation must have been so bad. Just a word from her, I'm ready to do everything.

She had touched a part of me I had never allowed anyone to reach.

She would sit in my office. I would see her every day. And now… she was mine to watch, to guide, to protect. And perhaps, when the time was right… something more.

I allowed myself a long, slow exhale.

For the first time in a long time, I felt… anticipation.