His Home

Victor

The penthouse is quiet when I step inside, but it doesn’t feel empty.

That’s the problem.

I loosen my tie and pause in the foyer, listening. The low hum of the city filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but underneath it there’s the faint sound of movement — drawers opening, soft footsteps. Domestic. Intimate. Strange.

Then it hit me. Phoenix Veyl is in my home.

Daniel’s daughter is sleeping under my roof tonight.

I drag a hand down my face and head toward the kitchen. I should have sent her to a company apartment. Or kept her in the damn hotel. Anything but this.

She’s standing at the island in soft lounge clothes — black leggings and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder — unpacking a small bag of groceries like she belongs here. Her hair is still slightly damp from a shower, curling at the ends. She looks up when I enter, and the smile she gives me is small, almost shy, but her eyes… her eyes have been watching me for eight years. I feel that weight now.

“Mr. Crowe,” she says. Formal. Respectful. It should help. It doesn’t. “I hope it’s okay. I picked up a few things. I didn’t want to impose more than I already am.”

I nod, setting my briefcase down. “Victor is fine when we’re not in the office.”

Big mistake. The permission feels too personal the second it leaves my mouth.

She bites her lip — just for a second — and turns back to the counter. “Victor, then.”

I pour myself a whiskey and watch her move. She’s efficient, graceful in a way that makes my kitchen feel lived-in for the first time in years. The scent of something fresh — basil, lemon, a woman's cooking — cuts through the sterile air of the penthouse. My body reacts before my brain can shut it down: a low pull, heat gathering low in my gut. I take a long sip and force my eyes to the city skyline instead.

“Dinner’s almost ready if you’re hungry,” she offers. “Nothing fancy. Just pasta.”

I shouldn’t. I should eat in my study, review contracts, and maintain distance.

Instead I hear myself say, “I’ll set the table.”

We eat at the long dining table that rarely sees more than one person. Conversation stays safe at first — her classes, the architecture program, how she graduated early. But then she starts talking about my projects. Specific ones. Details most interns wouldn’t know. She quotes lines from my old lectures the way other people quote poetry.

“You remember all of that?” I ask, setting my fork down.

Phoenix meets my gaze across the table. Candlelight from the low overhead fixture catches in her dark eyes. “I told you. I studied you. Everything you’ve ever built… it mattered to me.”

The air thickens. I can feel the pull again — the same one from the office this morning when I had her backed against the shelves. The urge to reach across the table, thread my fingers through her hair, and finally taste what I’ve been denying since the moment I recognized her.

*Daniel’s daughter. Twenty years old. Off limits.*

I stand abruptly. “Bring your portfolio to the study after you’re done. I want to see the latest revisions.”

Work. Structure. Control. That’s what I need.

Thirty minutes later she’s in my study, spreading prints and sketches across the wide oak desk. I stand behind her, close enough to smell my own soap on her skin. Dangerous.

She explains her concepts with passion and precision. One particular sustainable high-rise redesign stops me cold — innovative, bold, exactly the kind of thinking Crowe Atelier needs on the Elysium Ridge project.

The one no one on my senior team has been able to crack without massive cost overruns.

I stare at her work, then at her. At the way she watches me, hopeful and determined and so fucking beautiful it hurts.

“Tomorrow you’ll join the core team on Elysium Ridge,” I tell her. My voice is steady, professional. “It’s one of our most complex projects this year. Extreme site constraints, aggressive sustainability targets, and client demands that most firms would call impossible. You’ll be assisting directly.”

Her eyes light up. “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you.”

I almost tell her the truth — that I’m assigning her the project expecting her to struggle. That distance and pressure are the only ways I can keep this from spiraling into something unforgivable.

Instead I say, “It won’t be easy. Most interns wash out on assignments like this.”

Phoenix straightens, turning to face me fully. We’re inches apart. “I’m not most interns.”

No. She isn’t.

Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. The temperature in the room spikes. I can hear my own heartbeat. One step forward and I could lift her onto this desk, slide my hands under that sweater, and finally give in to every filthy thought that’s haunted me since she walked into that session room.

I step back to the wall, rebuilding my composure.

“Get some rest,” I say, voice rough. “Early start tomorrow.”

She gathers her things slowly, deliberately. At the door she pauses, looking back over her shoulder exactly like she did in my office earlier.

“Goodnight, Victor.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

I pour another whiskey and stand at the window, staring out at the glittering city that usually centers me.

Nothing feels centered anymore.

Daniel’s daughter is sleeping down the hall, her sketches still warm on my desk, her scent lingering in my study.

And for the first time in years, the walls I’ve built feel like they’re closing in — not to protect me, but to trap me with something I was never meant to want.

This project will test her.

But I’m starting to worry it will destroy me.