Chapter 3

The office at night was a different world.

By day, Moreau International buzzed with energy, phones ringing, heels clicking, conversations bouncing from French to English across glass-walled conference rooms. But once the sun sank beyond the Paris skyline, silence descended. The city lights glittered below, the Seine shimmered in the distance, and the building became a fortress of shadows and reflections.

Bella Carter was still at her desk at 9:47 p.m., her eyes gritty from staring at spreadsheets. A stack of investor reports loomed beside her, each one needing to be cross-checked before the morning. She stifled a yawn and pushed her glasses higher up the bridge of her nose.

She wasn’t usually the last to leave. But tonight, the workload was brutal, and her boss’s expectations ....well, they weren’t exactly forgiving.

She typed one last figure into the spreadsheet and saved the file. That was when she noticed the light.

Alexander Moreau’s office glowed faintly across the floor, a solitary beacon in the sea of darkened rooms.

She blinked. He was still here?

Curiosity tugged at her. Usually, he disappeared promptly at eight, off to some dinner with investors or a late-night gym session. Yet there he was, silhouetted against the window, tall and motionless, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at Paris.

Bella hesitated, biting her lip. She should leave him alone. It wasn’t her place to intrude. But something about the way he stood there so still, so heavy with… something pulled her to her feet before she could stop herself.

She knocked gently on his glass door.

His head turned, eyes sharp, catching her like a deer in headlights. “Miss Carter.”

She slipped inside, holding her notebook as if it were a shield. “You’re still here.”

“As are you.” His voice was calm, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze. “Overtime is not mandatory.”

She smiled faintly. “Neither is it for CEOs.”

One corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but closer than she’d ever seen.

“I wanted to make sure tomorrow’s reports were accurate,” she said, stepping closer. “The last thing we need is another Lambert situation.”

His eyes softened almost imperceptibly at the mention. “You handled that better than most seasoned managers.”

She blinked, startled. “I thought you’d be furious.”

“I was.” He turned back to the window, the city’s lights reflecting off his chiseled features. “But not at you.”

The honesty in his tone surprised her. He always seemed untouchable, above emotion. Yet tonight, his voice carried something raw beneath the ice.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the window.

He nodded. She joined him, the two of them standing side by side, Paris stretching endlessly below. The Eiffel Tower glittered in the distance, casting its golden glow across the city.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

He glanced at her. “You sound surprised.”

“No,” she said softly. “I just… forget sometimes. When you live here, you stop noticing.”

His gaze lingered on her profile, her eyes lit by the reflection of the city. “I don’t forget,” he said quietly.

She turned, startled by the admission. For the first time, his expression wasn’t a mask of steel. There was a weight there, loneliness, perhaps. Something he rarely let slip.

Before she could speak, he moved, reaching for the carafe on his desk. “You should drink something. You look exhausted.”

She raised a brow. “Are you… concerned about me, Mr. Moreau?”

His eyes locked on hers. For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. Then, in a voice lower than usual, he said, “You work harder than anyone I know. Someone should be concerned.”

Her chest tightened. The Ice King, concerned about her.

He poured water into a glass and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed—barely a second of contact, but her skin tingled as if electrified. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he pulled back, retreating behind his careful control.

“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting the glass to her lips to hide her racing pulse.

They stood in silence for a while, the hum of the city filling the space between them. Bella felt the weight of his presence, commanding, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

Finally, she broke the quiet. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

He turned. “Of what?”

“This.” She gestured toward the reports on his desk, the skyline, the endless cycle of work and perfection. “Being… the Ice King.”

The faintest flicker of surprise crossed his features. Then, to her astonishment, he laughed. A short, low sound, as if he hadn’t let himself laugh in years.

“Is that what they call me?”

She flushed. “Not to your face.”

His eyes glimmered with amusement, but it faded quickly, replaced by something more thoughtful. “Yes,” he said at last. “Sometimes I get tired. But empires are not built on comfort.”

She studied him, her chest tightening at the loneliness in his tone. “Maybe not. But they don’t last without warmth either.”

His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, she thought he might say something, something real, something vulnerable. But then his phone buzzed on the desk, shattering the moment.

He glanced at it, expression shuttering once more. “Go home, Miss Carter. It’s late.”

She hesitated, wanting to push, to stay, to peel back the layers of the man before her. But his tone left no room for argument.

“Good night, Mr. Moreau.”

She slipped out of his office, her pulse still racing, her skin still tingling where their fingers had touched.

Behind the glass, Alexander Moreau stood rigid, staring at the door she’d just closed. His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Because for the first time in years, his control had almost slipped. And it terrified him.