บททั้งหมดของ Behind The Desk, Under The Mask: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

Louis POV I was already at the office by six-thirty, the building still wrapped in that quiet, pre-dawn hush that made the space feel like it belonged to me alone. The lights hummed on as I walked through the corridor, motion sensors flickering to life in my wake. My footsteps echoed against the marble—steady, deliberate, the sound of someone who'd decided to meet the day before it could ambush him. I didn't go straight to my office. I went to the conference room instead, the one with the glass walls and the long table that could seat twenty. I stood at the head of it, hands on the cool surface, and pictured my father sitting across from me, his expression unreadable, his expectations heavier than any contract I'd ever signed. *The board meeting.* *Father will be there.* *Camilla Everton's name will come up.* I exhaled, slow and controlled, and pushed the thoughts away. They'd come back. They always did. But not yet. Not while the building was still mine, still quiet, still

Winston POV I pulled him into a hug to ease the tension. It was supposed to be simple. Just an embrace. Just a way to diffuse the electric charge between us, the unbearable weight of almost-kissing, of lips hovering a breath apart, of everything we couldn't say. But then I realized I didn't want to let go. Not anytime soon. Louis fit against me like he was made for it, his head resting on my shoulder, his arms wrapped around my waist, his body warm and solid and real. I could feel his breath against my neck, shallow and unsteady, and it made something in my chest loosen, something I hadn't realized was tight. The pressure of my father's voice—*You're the reason he's lying helpless in there*—faded into the background. The weight of William's hospital bed, the machines, the silence, the guilt—it all receded, just for a moment. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't thinking about the mission. About the betrayal. About the text I'd sent to my father afte

Louis POV **CROWN & CAVIAR RESTAURANT ** My Maybach pulled up to the curb with a quiet, imperceptible glide, its dark tinted glass completely isolating me from the bustling city outside. As soon as the car came to a complete halt, the chauffeur stepped out to open my door with practiced, silent efficiency. I stepped onto the pavement, taking a deliberate moment to adjust the crisp cuff of my suit jacket and smooth down my lapels. In the world I inhabited, control was everything, and flawless personal composure was strictly non-negotiable. Stepping through the grand entrance of the restaurant, I was immediately greeted by the head maître d’. He offered a polite, deeply practiced bow before stepping ahead to lead me through the dimly lit, opulent corridors. The hushed, high-end atmosphere was punctuated only by the soft clinking of crystal stemware and the muffled murmurs of power diners. He guided me directly toward the secluded private dining suite tucked away at the far end of

Louis POV The door clicked shut behind Camilla. Silence settled over the private dining room. I remained standing where I was, my eyes fixed on the closed door for a long moment before I slowly lowered myself back into my chair. The coffee in front of me had long gone cold, and neither of us had touched much of the food. Oddly enough... I wasn't bothered that the date had lasted less than twenty minutes. Nor was I upset that Camilla had arrived nearly an hour and a half late. No... there was only one thing occupying my mind. I had watched Winston leave the office carrying a bouquet of white flowers and a Louis Vuitton gift bag. Less than two hours later... Camilla had walked into our date carrying those exact same items. I frowned, my fingers tapping lightly against the polished wooden table. "...Where did you go, Winston?" The question lingered unanswered in the empty room. I stood abruptly, grabbed my jacket, and headed outside. My chauffeur was already waiting beside the

Louis POV I woke to the sound of a phone ringing. For a moment, I stayed still, half-buried in the velvet sheets, the soft morning light spilling through the curtains of the room. The air still carried the faint trace of last night—warm skin, expensive cologne, and something far harder to name. I reached for the sound, my arm stretching across the nightstand. My fingers brushed against cool glass before closing around the phone. It wasn't mine. I frowned, blinking hard against the blur in my eyes as I brought it closer. The screen lit up. **Dad**. The contact name was saved along with a frowning emoji. My brows pulled together. For a second, I just stared at it, the pieces not quite fitting in my head. Then memory began to return in slow, disjointed flashes—last night, the room, the heat of skin against skin, the way things had ended before either of us had said much of anything. The perfect stranger had forgotten his phone. I lowered the phone, exhaling slowly. That exp