All Chapters of Behind The Desk, Under The Mask: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Winston POV The beauty of running a multi-billion-dollar corporation from behind the assistant's desk is that it runs entirely on predictable human flaws. And my current favorite flaw was pacing around the corner office, currently waving a highlighter like a weapon. By 4:15 PM, the executive suite looked less like a corporate headquarters and more like a war room. Louis had thrown his jacket over his chair, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and looked thoroughly, delightfully disheveled. His usually immaculate hair was falling across his forehead in a way that made me want to fix it—or mess it up further, I hadn't decided which. The secret to destroying an empire like Miller-Ventures isn't to blast through the front doors; it's to become the very machinery that keeps it running. I had spent three years meticulously embedding myself into every system, every decision, every weakness that Louis Miller possessed. And there were many. "Winston!" He yelled my name, completely bypas

Winston POVThe warm amber glow of L'Anonyme wrapped around me like a second skin. I was sitting casually with the familiar faces of the club's floor hosts, my back against the dark marble counter, the leather of my mask a comforting weight against my skin. The thunderstorm outside had faded to a gentle drizzle, and the club hummed with that particular energy that only existed in spaces where the powerful came to shed their power.The hosts were gathered around me in their usual loose semicircle, their voices low and teasing as they watched yet another wealthy member in a designer suit walk away from me with slumped shoulders. I'd lost count of how many I'd dismissed tonight. Three? Four? They all blurred together—same desperate energy, same performative confidence that crumbled the moment I didn't immediately fall to my knees."That's the third one tonight," one of the hosts whispered, shaking her head with a laugh. Her name was Elena, a sharp-eyed woman who had been working the floo

Louis POV The command landed like a stone dropping into still water, ripples spreading through my chest, my stomach, my thighs. *Breathe.* Such a simple instruction. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath until the air rushed out of me, shoulders dropping an inch. He watched me obey. That was the first thing I noticed — the way his eyes tracked the rise and fall of my chest, the way he waited until I'd exhaled fully before moving again. "Stand up." The words were quiet. Not a request. I rose, my legs steady despite the tremor running through my hands. He was taller than me up close — I hadn't registered that before. I had to tilt my head back to keep his gaze, which put my throat on full display, vulnerable and exposed. His gloved hand came up again, but this time he didn't touch my chin. He traced the collar of my shirt instead, following the line of the fabric where it met my skin, his knuckles brushing against my pulse point. I felt it jump under his touch, a traitoro

He steadied me with the same economy he used to straighten my schedule—no flourish, no apology—just the sure, practical motion of a man who made problems stop. The heat of his palms radiated through my jacket and onto my skin like an aftershock. For a second the corridor narrowed: tile, light, the soft whoosh of a distant sliding door. Everything else fell away, the way irrelevant details did when some vital instrument recalibrated. He released me before I had time to become foolish. Then, almost immediately, he stepped back and the professional wall clicked back into place. He adjusted his tablet, cleared his throat, and said nothing else. The silence between us was not empty; it was full of things we had no room to name in the presence of other people—cedar and leather, the tilt of a jaw under a mask, the residue of surrender. I smoothed my jacket with fingers that still trembled and shoved the small, incandescent map at the base of my neck further under my collar. The building's

I stared at the screen for what felt like a full minute, the two lines of text burning into my retinas. My father's words sat there, cold and expectant, demanding an answer I wasn't sure I had. *What's the new update?* *Or the next move.* The silence in my office was thick, almost suffocating. I could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant click of a keyboard somewhere down the hall, the soft rustle of my own breathing. Then, through the wall, it came. Laughter. Louis's laughter—low, rich, the kind of sound that made the air feel lighter just by existing. And beneath it, deeper and more commanding, Miller's laughter, the kind that had built empires and crushed competitors without breaking stride. They were laughing together. The sound hit me like a physical blow, unexpected and sharp. I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I exhaled, the air rushing out of me in a slow, unsteady stream. Father and son. Laughing. Together. It shouldn't have