12. Shadows Of Desire

Lena

My eyes flutter open slowly, the sharp light of morning seeping through tall curtains that aren’t mine. My chest tightens as reality slips in—this isn’t my apartment. The sheets smell faintly of cedarwood and expensive cologne, a scent that clings to my skin as if I’ve been wrapped in it all night.

Aaron King’s bed.

The thought makes my stomach twist, heat rushing to my cheeks. I sit back against the headboard, pulling the covers up instinctively, only to freeze when I realize—completely, utterly—I’m naked.

My heart races. What the hell did I do? Memories of last night flicker like broken glass—his voice low, the way his hand brushed my wrist, the way one decision tumbled into another until I wasn’t Lena the assistant anymore, I was just a woman unraveling in her boss’s arms.

Bold.

Reckless.

Unforgivable.

I bury my face in my hands. What was I thinking? Out of all the mistakes I could make, this one feels irreparable. I can’t let anyone at the company know. If word spreads, I’ll be shredded alive by whispers, my career finished before it even starts. There’s only one solution: I have to leave this job.

The creak of the door slices through my frantic thoughts. My head jerks up.

Aaron King steps back into the room, steam trailing faintly from the bathroom behind him. He’s wrapped in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. My eyes betray me—they trace over the lean muscle of his chest, the faint scars on his skin that tell stories I’ll never know, the droplets of water dripping from his damp hair, sliding down his neck.

He moves with the casual dominance of a man who knows exactly what effect he has. I’m frozen, pulse thundering in my throat.

His gaze flickers toward me, calm, unreadable, before he speaks. “You should eat something before you leave for work.”

Work. The word snaps me back. He’s pretending nothing happened. Acting like this is just another morning.

I scramble to my feet, clutching the sheet before realizing how foolish I look. My clothes are scattered across the floor like evidence of a crime. Flustered, I rush to gather them, slipping on my blouse and skirt with shaky fingers, trying to ignore the way his eyes follow me.

“I won’t be working with you anymore.” My voice cracks, but I force it steady. “This—last night—it shouldn’t have happened. It’s not appropriate.”

He pauses, one brow narrowing, his expression sharp in a way that makes my skin prickle. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Yes, I do,” I snap, shoving my heel onto my foot. “I quit.”

His lips twitch, not in amusement but in irritation. “Ms Lena, you signed a contract. One year. You don’t get to walk away just because you woke up with doubts.” His tone hardens, cutting through me like steel. “If you’re smart, you’ll be at your desk on time.”

And with that, he turns, leaving me stunned in his bedroom, heart pounding as the weight of his words crushes down.

At King Enterprises, I paste a mask over my face, moving through the glass corridors as if nothing happened. I greet the receptionist, shuffle files, make notes—all the motions of a professional woman who didn’t just wake up naked in her boss’s bed. Every time my phone buzzes or someone calls my name, my stomach knots, fearing the secret is already out.

When Aaron King leaves for a meeting, I breathe easier. At least for now. But then I notice someone walking down the corridor toward his office.

A woman.

Graceful, poised, every movement deliberate. She’s dressed in a tailored silk suit, her hair flowing like liquid gold over her shoulders, her heels clicking with an authority that belongs to people born in upper circles.

She looks like she belongs in glossy magazines—not in our mundane office corridors.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I call softly, hurrying forward. “Mr. King is in a meeting. You’ll need to wait—”

She doesn’t even break stride. She stops just long enough to tilt her chin and give me a slow once-over. Her smile is poised, polite—but dripping with disdain.

“I wasn’t asking for permission,” she says smoothly, her voice honeyed with poison. “I don’t wait.”

And just like that, she sweeps past me, opening Aaron’s office door and vanishing inside before I can even protest.

I stand there, fists curling at my sides, fury simmering beneath my skin. Who the hell does she think she is?

Minutes later, Aaron King returns from his meeting. His expression is cool until he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone inside your office,” I mutter, folding my arms. “Vivienne, she said. She wouldn’t wait.” His entire demeanor shifts. His jaw tightens, his eyes harden. “Vivienne?”

He doesn’t waste another second. He strides past me and into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

I sit down at my desk, my ears straining against the silence. At first, nothing. Then voices—faint but sharp enough that bits filter through the door.

“…you can’t ignore me forever…”

“…this is not the place, Vivienne …”

“…that little assistant of yours, she seems very… attached…”

My breath catches. They’re talking about me.

Then Aaron’s voice, low and final: “Lena is just an employee. Nothing more.”

The words stab through me. My chest feels hollow, rage and humiliation boiling together until I can’t breathe. Just an employee. That’s all I am to him. Last night meant nothing.

I push away from the desk, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. I storm down the corridor, vision blurring, and slam straight into someone.

“Whoa—Lena.” Collette steadies me, eyes wide. “Careful.” I open my mouth to apologize, but she’s already glancing over her shoulder at Aaron’s office. A smirk tugs her lips. “I see Vivienne’s back.”

“You know her?” I demand, still breathless. Collette chuckles softly. “Of course. Vivienne Westwood. Mr King's ex.”

The name hits like a stone sinking in water. Ex. My heart plummets.

I return to my seat, my mind a whirlpool of cruel comparisons. Vivienne Westwood. The name itself feels like luxury, elegance, sophistication. Of course Aaron King would be with someone like her. Of course she’d glide through life with poise I’ll never possess.

I glance down at myself—plain blouse, sensible skirt, nails chipped at the edges. I’m not glamorous, not unforgettable. I’m ordinary.

Nobody.

My stomach clenches as I replay Aaron’s words. Just an employee. Did he mean it? Or was it just to push Vivienne away? Either way, it burns.

I bury myself in work, typing furiously, pretending I’m not seconds from unraveling. When the phone buzzes, I flinch.

“Ms Lena.” His voice is deep, steady. Commanding. “My office. Now.”

I grit my teeth, standing slowly, smoothing down my skirt. Fine. If he wants to play the cold boss, I’ll be the cold employee.

I walk in, closing the door behind me. He’s at his desk, eyes flicking up to mine.

“Sit.”

“I’d rather stand,” I reply coolly. One of his brows arches. “You seem upset.”

“Why would I be upset?” I shoot back, sarcasm sharp in my voice. “After all, I’m just an employee.”

The silence stretches, taut as wire. His gaze narrows, unreadable, but I don’t let him see the ache beneath my anger. I turn on my heel before he can respond, leaving his office with my heart pounding.

The corridor is strangely quiet. Everyone seems tucked inside their departments, voices muffled behind glass walls. My heels echo against the polished floor, a rhythm too loud in the silence. I clutch the files to my chest, trying to keep my head down, acting as if nothing happened last night.

As if I didn’t wake up in his bed. As if I didn’t breathe him in. As if Aaron King isn’t all over my skin.

But before I can reach the elevator, a strong hand wraps around my wrist and yanks me back. The files slip from my grip, scattering across the marble. My breath hitches when I’m dragged into the shadowed alcove of the corridor.

My back collides with the cold wall, and in the next second, I’m caged.

It's my boss, Aaron King.

His arm is braced above me, the other holding my waist firmly in place. My heart is beating like a drum inside my chest, threatening to shatter my ribs. His suit clings to his tall frame, the faint scent of his cologne wrapping around me like a storm.

His face is dangerously close, his eyes molten with something I can’t decipher—anger? Desire? Possession?

“Why are you avoiding me?” His voice is low, rough, like a demand but edged with something that makes my knees weak. He leans forward, close enough that his breath brushes against the curve of my neck. His lips don’t touch, but I feel the heat of him, the tension sparking between us like fire.

He inhales deeply, and my stomach flips. “You’re different today. Distant. Cold. Why, Ms Lena?”

My pulse is unsteady. I swallow, forcing my voice out. “I’m not—” I push lightly against his chest, though my palms tremble. “I just want to focus on work. That’s all.”

His hand captures mine, pressing it flat against his chest, where his heart pounds steady and strong. His eyes burn into mine, leaving me nowhere to hide.

“Work?” His mouth twists into something between a smirk and a frown. “So last night meant nothing? To you?”

The words hit me harder than they should. Last night flashes like lightning in my mind—the way his touch consumed me, how I gave in without hesitation, how his voice carved through my restraint. My lips part, but no words come.

I freeze under his gaze, caught between guilt and the memory of how good it felt to be wanted by him.

“Answer me,” he presses, softer this time, almost vulnerable. His thumb grazes my jawline, feather-light, tilting my face upward. That single touch breaks me, shattering my resolve like fragile glass. I can’t breathe when he touches me like this.

I whisper, “I don’t know…” but the sound is too weak, too raw.

Then his lips descend.

The moment his mouth claims mine, the rest of the world disappears. The kiss is both a demand and a confession, deep and consuming, pulling me under. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place, as if he’s terrified I’ll run again. And I melt.

God, I melt into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer when I should be pushing him away.

Every line I drew, every excuse I made, dissolves in the heat of his kiss. It’s reckless, it’s wrong, but it feels inevitable. My body betrays me, answering his touch with a hunger I can’t suppress.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover over mine, his breath unsteady, his eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that exists.

“Tell me, Ms Lena,” he murmurs, his voice ragged, “was that nothing too?”

And I can’t answer, because my silence already betrays the truth.

And to avoid his question, I say, “The way you call me says everything, Mr King.” My tone seems cold and distant, he pulls himself back, taking in a moment for himself.

At night, I finally make it home. My apartment is quiet, the kind of stillness that usually comforts me. I drop my bag on the couch, exhaling, trying to shake the day off.

But then I feel it.

The weight of someone else’s presence.

I freeze.

The air feels charged, heavy. Slowly, I turn toward the lounge—and my breath hitches.

A figure stands there. Dressed in black, tall, broad. A mask covers his face, hiding every feature except the faint gleam of eyes watching me.

I stumble back, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“Who—who are you?” My voice is barely a whisper.

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there, still as a shadow given flesh.

Fear coils cold in my gut as my lungs seize. My legs feel like stone.

The silence stretches, unbearable. My heart pounds louder and louder until it feels like the whole room vibrates with it.

And then it hits me—

I might not be alone in my own home anymore. My stalker has decided to visit me.