Chapter 1
Laurent
This was why I left my office door open.
Another executive was at her desk when he should have been working.
I added his name to my notebook without hesitation.
If I couldn’t fire them, they were getting transferred—preferably to another continent.
I tapped the pen against the page, considering how much paperwork would be involved in making that happen.
My new temporary PA was efficient, and after the disaster with the last one, I wasn’t keen to repeat the experience. Still, the former assistant was battling cancer, and if I could blame her for the inconvenience, I would’ve.
But I wasn’t that much of a bastard.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
My gaze narrowed on Alistair Walker as he laughed, head tipped back like he had a shred of job security.
None of my female executives acted like the men in my notebook. They knew better.
I stood and walked to the door, cracking it open further. Ms Hart immediately glanced up. Walker remained oblivious.
“Ms Hart,” I said, my tone a blade, “a moment of your time—if you’re free, that is.”
Her spine straightened. Walker’s head snapped around. His smile vanished like I’d flipped a switch.
“You clearly don’t have enough work, Alistair,” I drawled as Ms Hart stepped quickly into my office.
I didn’t have to raise my voice. They always listened when it mattered.
She passed me—and that scent hit. Not perfume. I’d already been through her bag. It was a black and red packaged body spray.
Sweet, subtle and mouth-watering.
Just like her name. Lucia.
I refused to use it.
Because it lingered.
Just like her scent.
Addictive.
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The city crawled past my window, but she stayed in my head like a splinter. I wouldn’t say her name—not even in my thoughts. It conjured images that couldn't exist.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A subtle tension in her jaw when she looked at me, like she hadn’t decided if she should be flattered or afraid.
It started two months ago.
She was meant to be a receptionist with a tidy résumé and just enough experience to fill a gap. I didn’t even speak to her, not properly. A nod. A glance. That was it.
Then HR, in their usual brilliance, reassigned her to my office. A placeholder. Someone who could type and file until I found a real replacement.
And yet she stayed.
Worse—she was competent. Methodical. Smart. Always two steps ahead.
I hated how much I noticed.
I blamed my last PA, who left without giving me notice.
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The house was dark, but not because I forgot to leave the lights on. I didn’t need them.
Motion sensors flicked on one by one as I stepped inside, casting cool white light across the polished floors and bare walls. Everything gleamed. Nothing was out of place.
Just how I liked it.
I dropped my keys into the crystal bowl on the console table and loosened my tie. My footsteps echoed down the hallway, bouncing off high ceilings and designer minimalism.
I passed the living room without a glance. The Italian leather couch was untouched. The marble coffee table had no magazines, no fingerprints. The open-plan kitchen was spotless—more showroom than space for living.
A cleaning team came in three times a week. Not because I needed them, but because dust offended me. There was no welcome and no noise. I usually prefer it like this, but tonight it felt—eery.
I walked into the master suite and shrugged off my jacket. My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror looked tired. Not dishevelled. Not soft. Just… weary.
I didn’t want to admit I’d been waiting all day to hear her voice again. The way she stumbled over her words when I caught her off-guard. The nervous bite of her lip. The quiet yes, sir when she thought I wasn’t listening too closely.
I sat down on the edge of the bed, unbuttoning my cuffs. My shirt was crisp. My tie perfectly aligned.
Everything about my life was orderly. Controlled.
Except her.
I leaned back against the cold headboard and stared at the ceiling. For all the power I wielded, I couldn’t make her stop lingering in my thoughts.
I was thirty-nine, wealthy, and running a successful business—a bachelor by choice. The only thing I should have been concerned with was how to spend my money and enjoy the life I’d built.
Yet lately, I’d found myself reflecting on men my age.
Men who had families waiting at home.
Men with legacies.
I almost got married when I was a younger man. It would’ve been doomed from the start. I was always working, always travelling, always building.
I probably saved Gabriella some heartache. She was likely married now, with grown children and a white-picket-fence life.
No.
A family wasn’t meant for someone like me.
But even as I reached that conclusion, my mind betrayed me.
Her curves flashed before me.
The soft swell of her breasts. The way her hips flared, full and unapologetic.
That ass was built for hard-hitting action.
Ms Lucia Hart was built for one thing: procreation.
Which is precisely why she had to go.
I stood and decided I needed a shower before dinner.
My disgusting, shameful habit.
Straight before or after work—spilling my seed down the drain.
It always felt wrong, watching the water wash it away.
Not when it could be—
No.
I clenched my jaw.