4. Ive got you.
The morning was bright and sunny, and the hotel was bursting with energy and vibrance.
Delegates in tailored suits, badges flashing, voices low but charged.
Screens displayed the conference agenda in elegant fonts.
Everything felt larger today. Like this event was the most important thing in the world.
To each person there and several others not attending, it surely was.
To me? Of course, it was. It was hosted by my years-old hot billionaire crush.
Real mature coming from a twenty five year old doctor, right?
I adjusted the strap of my purse on my shoulder, taking deep breaths as each step I took only gave me more and more nervousness. It was ridiculous how the sight of blood, watching women give birth almost every single day and medical emergencies never scared me the way this conference did.
All because it was hosted by him, and I couldn't imagining being in front of him while he looked at me with those eyes.
Those dreamy, dark—
I turned at the same moment someone stepped into my path.
The impact was sudden, hard, and I instantly lost my balance.
I gasped as my foot slipped, the world tilting, my body pitching forward—
And then I wasn't falling.
A firm hand closed around my arm. Another settled at my waist, steady and sure, stopping my momentum as if gravity itself had been interrupted.
Everything went quiet.
Not the lobby, no. People still moved. Voices still murmured. But for me, the world narrowed to the warmth at my side and the unmistakable solidity behind it.
I looked up.
And forgot how to breathe.
Daxton Anderson. Oh. My God.
His hand at my waist was steady, unhesitating. His other grip around my arm was firm but careful, like he knew exactly how much pressure to apply.
He was tall. So damn tall. I had felt small before. Being 5'3 didn't help. But this tiny? I had never felt this small before.
The sharp lines of his suit couldn't hide the strength beneath it. And his face—
God.
Every detail I'd admired from afar sharpened into something dangerously real. Beautiful. The dark intensity of his eyes. The clean cut of his jaw. The faint crease between his brows as he looked down at me, focused entirely on my face.
I felt my heartbeat kicking violently against my ribs, fast and uncoordinated. My pulse throbbed everywhere at once. In my wrists. My throat. Low in my stomach.
His perfume lingered in my nostrils, enchanting me further as if his presence alone wasn't enough—spicy, clean, expensive.
"I've got you." He said quietly.
His voice was lower than I expected. Calm. Deep. Very sexy. It vibrated straight through me.
My fingers curled reflexively into the fabric of his jacket.
The realization hit me all at once.
I was pressed against him. He was holding me. And he was looking at me.
Really looking.
The moment stretched. A second too long. Then another. And another.
His gaze moved from my eyes to my face, as if he were taking me in piece by piece. Something unreadable flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity sharpened into something deeper.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
The question was simple. His tone gentle. Devoid of his usual authority, that edged coldness that people knew him for.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
My throat had closed completely, words dissolving before they could form. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
Heat rushed to my face, my chest tight with nerves I'd never felt before.
Say something, Ayra.
I nodded instead. Too quickly.
His brows drew together slightly, concern threading through his composed expression. His grip didn't loosen. If anything, it steadied.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved.
Then—
"Mr. Anderson."
The spell cracked.
His assistant appeared at his side, professional and apologetic. "I'm so sorry, but the opening address is about to begin. We're already running five minutes behind."
The words seemed to pull him back into the world.
I felt the shift. The way his posture straightened, control sliding back into place like armor being re-fastened.
Slowly, deliberately, he released me. My heart fluttered as I noticed how he kept his hands ready to catch me in case I stumbled again, even after letting me go.
The absence of his touch was jarring.
"Of course." He said, his tone returning to composed authority.
He glanced at me one last time.
"Be careful." He added softly.
Then he turned and walked away, swallowed by a group of executives moving toward the conference hall.
I stood there, stunned, my heart still racing, my body humming as if electricity had passed through it.
My hand drifted unconsciously to my waist where his had been moments ago.
Get it together.
I exhaled shakily and forced myself to move, joining the stream of attendees heading in the same direction.
But nothing felt the same.
Daxton Anderson now knew that I existed.
The conference hall was immense. Rows of plush seating curved toward a stage bathed in cool white light, screens towering on either side with the Anderson Global Tech emblem pulsing softly.
I took my seat two rows from the front, hospital crest pinned neatly to my lapel, notebook resting untouched in my hands.
My heartbeat still hadn't settled.
I told myself it was adrenaline. The near fall. The embarrassment. The shock of recognition.
It wasn't.
The moment I looked toward the stage, I found him.
Daxton Anderson sat in the centre, posture relaxed but alert. One arm rested along the chair beside him, jacket perfectly tailored, presence unmistakable even from a distance.
And just like that, my breath caught again.
He was listening to someone speak beside him, head inclined, attention sharp.
I shifted in my seat, forcing my gaze back to my notes.
Focus.
The opening address began. Words flowed across the stage—innovation, collaboration, progress—but they washed over me in fragments. I wrote things down out of habit, my pen moving automatically, even as my thoughts lagged behind.
All of a sudden, I felt it.
The weight of a gaze on me.
I looked up.
He was looking at me. Not openly. Not obviously. His gaze lifted slightly, angled back just enough to find mine across the rows.
The contact was brief. A few seconds long.
My heart stuttered.
I looked away first, heat rushing to my face as if I'd been caught doing something improper. My fingers tightened around my pen, knuckles whitening.
Don't do that.
I stared resolutely at the stage, willing myself to absorb the speaker's words.
Thirty seconds passed. Maybe a minute. The sensation didn't fade.
I glanced his way again, slow and controlled.
Relief bloomed in my chest, swift and foolish.
Then the speaker paused, and the hall shifted—applause rippling through the room. People moved. Stood. Sat.
And then...
His gaze found me again.
This time, it lingered. Not casual anymore. More intense. Calculated.
As if he were simply confirming something he'd already noticed.
My pulse climbed higher, each beat echoing too loudly in my ears. I swallowed, suddenly aware of my breathing, of the way my chest rose and fell.
What was he thinking? Why was he looking at me? Was I simply imagining it?
The questions unsettled me more than it should have.
I lowered my gaze, tracing the edge of my notebook with my thumb, grounding myself.
When I looked back up again, he was facing forward, attention towards the second speaker.
As if nothing had happened.
But so much had.
The rest of the session passed in fragments. A slide change. A speaker switch. Notes I barely remembered taking. Every few minutes, that same awareness would return—subtle, insistent.
Sometimes I caught him watching me. Sometimes I suspected it and didn't dare look.
Each time our eyes met, something unspoken tightened between us. A line drawn thin and electric, stretching across the hall.
When the session finally broke for lunch, the room erupted into movement. Chairs scraped back. Conversations resumed. People stood and clustered.
I remained seated for a moment longer, breathing through the strange mix of nerves and anticipation pooling low in my stomach.
Lunch break did nothing to ease the tension. If anything, it made it worse.
The conference hall rearranged itself into smaller discussion zones—round tables, networking clusters, soft lighting replacing the stark brightness of presentations. People mingled easily, confidence rolling off them in practiced waves.
I moved toward the refreshment table, keeping my head down, reminding myself why I was here.
Hospital representative. Doctor. Professional.
Still, I felt him before I saw him.
That same subtle pull, like standing too close to a live wire.
I poured myself water, fingers unsteady around the glass, and glanced up without meaning to. He stood across the hall, deep in conversation with two men and a woman I recognized from the keynote. His posture was relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing minimally as he spoke.
He looked... effortless.
As if command wasn't something he tried to exert, but something that simply followed him.
One of the executives laughed at something he said. Daxton's mouth curved—not a full smile, just a slight lift at the corner. Controlled. Rare.
My stomach flipped.
I turned away too late.
His eyes lifted. And found mine.
This time, he didn't look away.
The space between us felt suddenly too small for such a vast room. My heartbeat accelerated, a quick, traitorous rhythm that made my breath shallow.
I should look away.
I didn't.
His gaze was calm. Assessing. But there was something else threaded through it now—curiosity sharpened by intention.
He wasn't just noticing me. He was aware of me.
I felt exposed in the strangest way, as if he could see the exact moment my composure wavered. The exact second my fingers tightened around the glass.
Then someone spoke to him, and the connection broke.
I exhaled slowly, realizing I'd been holding my breath.
Get a grip, Ayra.
I shifted toward a quieter corner, opening my notebook again, pretending to review notes while my mind replayed every fraction of a second I'd just lived through.
Across the room, movement caught my eye.
Daxton had turned slightly, his body angled just enough that, from the corner of his vision, he could still see me.
I knew because I felt it.
Because when I glanced up again, his gaze flicked to mine instantly.
Like he'd been waiting.
Heat bloomed low in my stomach, unfamiliar and unsettling. I swallowed hard, pulse thudding.
This wasn't how admiration was supposed to feel. This wasn't distant or harmless anymore.
Someone beside me asked a question about the afternoon panel. I answered automatically, nodding, smiling when required.
But the moment I was alone again... There he was. Every time.
Sometimes I caught him watching while he thought I wasn't looking. Sometimes I sensed it and looked up to find him already turned away, as if he'd withdrawn at the last second.
The next session began, and we returned to our seats.
This time, I didn't let myself look. Not for a while.
But halfway through the presentation, a ripple of awareness slid over me again. I lifted my eyes slowly, cautiously.
He was turned slightly in his chair. Watching me. Something in his expression shifted when our eyes met—subtle, but unmistakable. The crease between his brows deepened, not with irritation, but with focus.
I looked away first this time, my heartbeat racing, palms damp against my notebook.
This was ridiculous.
I didn't know him. He didn't know me. Yet, we gazed at each other as if we understood everything about the other.
By the time the session ended, I was aware that every glance we stole added weight to the silence between us.
And if this was what not speaking to him felt like, I had no idea how I was supposed to survive the moment we finally did.