The next morning, Lena stood in front of a sleek black SUV parked outside her tiny apartment building, clutching her portfolio like a shield.
Alexander Kane had sent a driver.
Of course he had.
The man — a quiet, sharp-eyed professional in a dark suit — opened the door without a word, and Lena slid inside, her heart thudding like a drum against her ribs.
As the car pulled away from the curb, she stared out the window at the city she thought she knew. But today, it looked different. Brighter. Sharper. As if the world was finally paying attention.
They drove north, past the usual chaos of Midtown, until the skyline gave way to quieter streets and old stone buildings hidden behind wrought iron gates. Finally, the car stopped in front of an imposing structure tucked behind high hedges — not a skyscraper, but a townhouse. Grand. Understated. Private.
The door opened, and Alexander was waiting on the steps.
He wore a black sweater and dark jeans, a look so casual it almost startled her. Yet nothing about him felt less powerful. He owned the ground he stood on, the air he breathed.
"Lena," he said, his voice a warm, rough scrape against the cool morning.
She clutched her portfolio tighter. "Morning."
He smiled — that slow, knowing smile that had unsettled her in ways she wasn't ready to admit.
"Come in."
The interior of the house was breathtaking: high ceilings, warm woods, old-world charm carefully preserved beneath modern upgrades. It smelled faintly of cedar and something clean, like new beginnings.
"This place is incredible," Lena said before she could stop herself.
Alexander glanced around, almost distracted. "It isn't mine. Not really. Rented for privacy."
Of course. Billionaires didn't "live" places. They occupied them, like kings passing through.
He led her through a sprawling living room into a smaller study where floor-to-ceiling windows framed a view of a private garden — wild and beautiful, untouched by the city's steel and noise.
"This," he said, turning to her, "is where I want to start."
Lena set her portfolio down on the heavy oak desk and pulled out her sketchpad, her fingers already itching with ideas.
"You said you wanted a home," she said, flipping to a fresh page. "What does that look like to you?"
Alexander didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved to the window, his back to her, hands in his pockets.
"I've spent my life building things everyone else wanted," he said finally. "Towers. Offices. Deals. Nothing that mattered. Nothing that... belonged."
He turned, his gaze cutting into her like a blade. "I don't want glass and steel, Lena. I want something honest."
Her pencil hovered over the page. "Honest," she echoed.
He nodded once.
For a moment, Lena simply looked at him — really looked. Past the wealth. Past the control.
There was something wounded under Alexander Kane's polished exterior. Something raw and aching.
She set her pencil down.
"Tell me what feels like home to you," she said gently.
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then, in a low voice, he said, "A porch swing. Sunday mornings. Wood floors that creak. A fire that never goes out."
The simplicity of it hit her hard. Not boardrooms. Not penthouses.
Memories.
Lena nodded slowly, sketching quick shapes and lines: a low-slung roof, wide windows, a path through a garden wild with flowers.
When she glanced up, Alexander was watching her — not the way men usually watched her, with calculation or expectation, but with something closer to wonder.
"You see it already, don't you?" he said.
She smiled a little, shy. "It's what I do."
He came closer, close enough that she could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He braced his hands on the desk, leaning in to study her sketches.
"You make it look easy," he murmured.
Lena's heart thudded painfully. "It's not," she said, her voice catching. "It's never easy."
Their eyes met, and the air between them crackled — sharp, electric, undeniable.
Alexander's hand brushed hers lightly, his touch lingering, questioning.
Lena froze, every nerve in her body screaming.
This was dangerous.
This was wrong.
She pulled back slightly, forcing herself to break the connection.
"You said you wanted something honest," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Then let's start with honesty. If I'm going to work for you, Mr. Kane... we need boundaries."
He straightened slowly, something dark flickering in his eyes — amusement, perhaps. Or warning.
"Boundaries," he repeated, as if tasting the word.
"Yes," Lena said firmly, though her pulse betrayed her. "Clear ones."
He smiled, a slow, wicked curve of his mouth that made her knees weak.
"All right, Lena Carter," he said. "We'll have boundaries. For now."
The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine — a promise and a threat wrapped in silk.
She knew, deep down, that no line she drew between them would stay untouched for long.
But she also knew one thing for certain:
Whatever they were beginning here, it was already too late to stop.