~~SINVEER'S POV ~ OFFICE SCENE~~
The door clicks.
Heels. Sharp. Measured.
She's here.
Ah... this feisty little thing. Always so collected, so professional—until someone pushes the wrong button. And Marla, of course, shoved the whole damn console.
I don't turn.
Not yet.
"Close the door," I say.
She does.
The silence stretches, and I drink it in. She's standing there, perfectly still, probably thinking about how to justify breaking three ribs and giving my favorite bedwarmer a concussion in front of the security team.
I should be angry.
But I'm not.
I'm hard.
"Marek says Marla has a fractured wrist, three bruised ribs, and a concussion."
I say it flat, but in my head?
How will you defend yourself now, Liach?
She answers like she's brushing lint from her blouse. "She walked in. She talked. I responded."
I turn slowly, finally facing her.
And gods—
She looks fucking bored.
Like violence is just her coffee break.
"What kind of response was that, Liach? Military-grade assault?"
And then, the thought that wrecks me:
Fuck. This girl.
What kind of PA responds to her boss's whore like that?
The kind that makes my cock twitch just by standing there.
The kind who knows exactly what she's doing.
She meets my stare without blinking. "She got in my face. I put her back in her place."
I should reprimand her.
Instead, I smile.
Not warm.
Not kind.
The kind of smile that creeps up when you're imagining a woman's moans against the desk she thinks she owns.
My palms itch.
I press them to my face, trying to breathe.
Because now?
Now I'm thinking about all the different ways I could take her.
Bent over the desk.
On her knees, skirt hiked, lips red with lies she keeps spinning so perfectly well.
I lower my hands, still smiling.
She's turning me on, and she knows it.
I chuckle—because it's either that or unbuckle my belt.
"You don't really give a fuck do you?"
Her response only makes it worse.
Cool. Sharp. Fire wrapped in silk.
"No sir, I never did."
My cock twitches again. Harder this time.
The adrenaline is a drug, and she's the hit I'm trying not to take.
But gods, I want to.
I want to bury myself in her until she screams my name and forgets every fake role she's ever played.
She walked to her office—slow.
This pretty little thing is going to make me break my reserve.
One of these days, she'll push me too far.
And I'll stop pretending I'm in control.
~~~~~
"She's just a placeholder."
I say it with exactly the right edge.
Not bored. Not cold.
Just casual enough that she'll believe it.
Because I want her to hear it.
She's eavesdropping. I know it. I'd bet a million-dollar arms deal she's sitting right outside the door with her spine too straight and her mouth too still.
Let her think I don't see her.
Let her burn.
Marek shifts like he didn't catch the undercurrent, nodding, still rattling off logistics. I barely listen.
My mind's already on her.
What she'll wear.
How she'll look beside me.
What I'll want to do to her the moment those politicians stop staring.
---
The night arrives.
She steps into the car and my cock twitches before I even meet her eyes.
Fuck.
Blood-red silk, slit high, neckline low. Legs that don't quit. Thighs that look like they could crush a man's skull and beg for more.
She's not a placeholder.
She's a weapon.
She doesn't speak, and neither do I. Not yet.
Because right now, I'm trying not to say every dirty thing that passes through my mind.
How would she look in chains?
How long could I keep her on her knees before she starts shaking?
What would her voice sound like when I finally break her?
I adjust my cuffs and pretend I'm unaffected.
I'm lying.
---
At the Kastro estate, cameras flash.
Eyes turn.
And I give them what they want.
I offer her my arm.
Her fingers wrap around my wrist like she owns it.
And I let her.
Let them look, I think. Let them whisper. Let them wonder if I'm fucking my assistant or grooming a queen.
When we're introduced, one of the underbosses smirks. "Who's this?"
I answer before she can.
"My assistant."
Then, a pause—meant for her. Meant to see how she holds her breath.
"And date."
I hear her inhale softly.
I don't look at her.
But I feel it—the shift in her spine, the calculated silence in her throat. She's pissed. Or intrigued. Or both.
Good.
Let her simmer.
~~~
Through the night, I touch her.
Not enough to claim.
Just enough to mark.
My fingers graze her back. Her waist.
Every brush is a whisper of what I want to do to her.
My thumb circles slowly where her hip curves. God, the way her dress hugs that body. Her ass, high and tight. That slit revealing legs that belong around my neck.
I want to take her against one of these marble walls.
Hand over her mouth.
Her thighs trembling from the inside.
I imagine bending her over the Kastro dining table—shoving that blood-red gown to her waist and fucking her until she cries my name like a prayer and a curse.
But I don't.
Because tonight is about patience.
And watching her pretend.
~~~
She leans in once, close, her voice silk-wrapped steel. "Touch me too long and I might start thinking you mean it."
My cock pulses.
I smile, slow and dark. "Touch me too long and I might forget I don't."
That shuts her up.
But her pupils flare.
I see it.
She likes this.
She wants the leash tightened, not loosened.
Later, when we move into a quieter wing of the estate, I fall a step behind her.
Her hips sway like a dare.
And I think—
Maybe I'll tie those thighs open and edge her for hours.
Maybe I'll break her legs in the car before we even get home.
But I don't.
Because I want her thinking she's winning.
That she's in control.
That I'm still pretending.
But soon?
She'll beg.
And when she does?
She won't be a placeholder.
She'll be mine weapon.