Chapter 1: Louis Miller

Louis POV

If one more person used the word *synergy* in my boardroom today, I was going to throw my titanium fountain pen directly into the drywall.

My chest felt tight, the invisible weight of Miller-Ventures pressing down on my shoulders like a physical anvil. It was only 10:00 AM on a Tuesday, and I was already vibrating at a frequency that could probably shatter crystal. The Tokyo merger was supposed to be the crown jewel of our fiscal year, a multi-billion-dollar acquisition that would solidify our dominance in international logistics. Instead, it was turning into a logistical nightmare of endless revisions, legal jargon, and high-stakes posturing.

I paced the length of my office, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the skyline that usually anchored me. Today, it just felt like a cage.

"The numbers don't make sense," I muttered to myself, shuffling through the spreadsheets spread across my mahogany desk. "If they adjust the tariff projections by even half a percent, our European sectors are going to take the hit."

I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache blossoming right behind my eyes. I was the CEO. I was supposed to have every single variable mapped out, every contingency planned, every fire put out before it even caught a spark. But right now, the variables were spinning out of control.

I needed a solution, and unfortunately, the only person capable of giving it to me was currently sitting right outside my double doors, likely plotting my demise via malicious compliance.

"Winston!" I called out, not bothering to use the intercom. My voice sounded a little too sharp, a little too close to the edge of a panic attack, but at this point, I didn't care.

The space was larger than most people expected, even for a man of my position. It was not just one room but a luxury suite divided into sections. The outer part belonged to William’s office, and beyond that lay mine. The arrangement had always been intentional. His space came first, mine second, a quiet but visible reminder of the hierarchy within the company. Anyone entering would see his desk, his screens, his work area before reaching my own inner office.

It was a subtle division, but a clear one.

The door didn't just open; it glided. Winston stepped into the office with a stack of folders balanced perfectly in one hand and a tablet in the other. He didn't look flustered. He never looked flustered. While I felt like my tailored charcoal suit was slowly suffocating me, Winston looked like he had just stepped out of a high-end menswear catalog—every line crisp, every hair perfectly in place, his expression a smooth, unreadable mask of absolute professional detachment.

It was infuriating.

"There is an intercom on your desk for a reason, Mr. Miller," Winston said, his tone flat, even, and thoroughly unimpressed by my internal crisis. "The legal team on the floor below us doesn't need to hear you sounding like a stranded mariner."

"The Tokyo files," I demanded, ignoring his jab because I simply didn't have the emotional bandwidth to argue about office etiquette. "The revised projections for the 2:00 PM briefing. Legal is breathing down my neck about the European tech holdings, and if we don't have a counter-proposal ready, they're going to stall the entire contract."

Winston closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click. He walked over to my desk, his movements measured and calm, and smoothly laid down a bright, neon-green folder directly on top of my tablet.

"The Tokyo files have been sitting there since 7:45 AM," Winston said smoothly.

I blinked, staring at the folder. It was practically glowing under the office lights. "Why is it green?"

"Because you have a tendency to bury important international mergers under your breakfast napkins," Winston replied, offering a razor-thin, textbook smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The green signifies urgency. I also took the liberty of restructuring the counter-proposal three hours ago. We aren't giving up the European sectors. Instead, I drafted a clause that forces them to absorb the closing costs of our logistics infrastructure in exchange for a limited non-compete."

I picked up the folder, opening it quickly. My eyes flew down the lines of text, analyzing the financial models he had built. It was flawless. It didn't just solve the problem; it completely flipped the leverage back into our hands.

A wave of relief washed over me, so sudden it made my knees weak. But right behind that relief came the familiar, irritating sting of pride. He had done it again. He had anticipated my panic, handled the multi-billion-dollar issue before I even realized it was an issue, and made it look entirely effortless.

"You could have told me this morning," I muttered, trying to sound authoritative while feeling thoroughly handled.

"I attempted to," Winston said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. "But you were currently having an existential crisis regarding the catering options for next week’s board dinner. I prioritized the survival of the company over your sudden aversion to salmon."

"It wasn't an aversion to salmon, it was a valid concern about dietary restrictions!" I snapped, my face flushing warm. I tossed the folder onto the desk, leaning back against the edge of the mahogany wood. "Stop doing that. Stop reading my mind. It's unsettling, Winston. I am the CEO of this firm. You work *for* me."

"And a stellar job I do," Winston countered, his voice dripping with that quiet, sharp-tongued independence that always kept me on the defensive. He reached out, his long fingers adjusting the alignment of my desk calendar by a precise millimeter, entirely to provoke me. "If I didn't anticipate your moves, Mr. Miller, you would have accidentally purchased a fleet of broken-down cargo planes in South America during your first quarter."

" I put in effort in those. Can't you see??"

"An effort that almost cost us eighty million dollars. Luckily for you, I know how to use a backspace key." Winston stepped back, crossing his arms. "Is there anything else you require assistance with, or can I return to my desk to ensure you don't inadvertently declare bankruptcy before noon?"

I glared at him, my jaw tight. I wanted to fire him. I had wanted to fire him every single week for the past six months. He was arrogant, sharp-tongued, and openly defied the corporate hierarchy that kept the rest of the world treating me like a god. But I couldn't do it. The man was simply, annoyingly, too good at his job. Without him, the chaotic machinery of my life would grind to a spectacular halt.

"Just... clear my evening," I said, my voice dropping as I checked the sleek silver clock on the wall. The digital numbers read 10:15 AM. "Every meeting, every call, every email after 8:00 PM needs to be completely blocked out. I have an indispensable personal engagement, and I do not want to be disturbed under any circumstances."

Winston’s posture shifted, an almost imperceptible pause overtaking his hands before he smoothed down the front of his vest. For a fraction of a second, the sharp, mocking glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a guarded, intense quietness.

"Your evening is already cleared, Mr. Miller," Winston murmured, his voice softer now, losing its mocking edge. "You are completely free after eight. I have also cleared my own schedule for an... indispensable engagement."

I eyed him with a sudden touch of suspicion. "Good. Then we are in agreement. The moment the clock strikes eight, our professional obligations cease. We do not exist to each other until tomorrow morning."

"An ideal arrangement," Winston said, giving a polite, formal nod that felt entirely different from his usual sarcastic compliance. He turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

I let out a long, ragged breath, sinking into my leather executive chair. I pulled the heavy silver drawers open, reaching into the very back beneath a stack of personal documents. My fingers brushed against the cool, smooth fabric of a black silk mask.

Just touching it made my heart rate spike, not with panic, but with a profound, desperate sense of anticipation.

During the day, I was Louis Miller. I was the trillionaire heir, the strict, easily flustered commander of an empire, constantly forced to hold the reins tight while a sharp-tongued secretary mocked my every move. The pressure was suffocating. Every word I spoke was judged; every decision I made carried the weight of thousands of livelihoods.

But tonight, at *L'Anonyme*, the reins would be stripped away. I wouldn't have to think. I wouldn't have to command, or decide, or defend my pride. I could simply kneel, yield the control I hated carrying, and let someone else rule.

I looked back at the green folder on my desk, a slow, weary smile touching my lips. I just had to survive ten more hours of Winston’s attitude, and then I would finally be free.