Chapter 4 Leander
FOUR
LEANDER
Dawn painted Manhattan’s skyline in shades of gold and amber as Leander stepped from the elevator onto the forty-second floor of Drake Holdings, his Italian leather shoes silent against the polished marble.
These early hours belonged to him—sacred time when the building breathed in solitude, when his thoughts could unfold without interruption, where control lived in the predictable rhythm of espresso and emails and uninterrupted planning.
But the moment he rounded the corner toward his office suite, that familiar sanctuary shattered.
Camille sat behind the assistant’s desk in her new office, her blonde hair catching in the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She wore a cream silk blouse that somehow managed to look both professional and devastating, her attention focused on a tablet as she cross-referenced something with methodical precision.
Her second day, and she’s here before me.
The observation struck him with unexpected force.
None of his previous assistants had ever arrived before him—most barely managed punctuality, treating the position as a stepping stone rather than a commitment.
But Camille looked as though she had always belonged in this space, as natural behind that desk as if she had designed the office herself.
His lion stirred with dangerous satisfaction. Evenly matched.
The thought sent heat crawling up his spine. Professional compatibility was one thing, but the way his pulse quickened at the sight of her was far more complicated.
Last night’s dinner pressed against his consciousness like a barely healed wound.
The amber light catching in her blue eyes across the restaurant table.
The navy silk that had perfectly mirrored his own shirt choice, as though they had unconsciously coordinated like lovers who knew each other’s habits.
The soft curve of her cleavage that had tested his restraint with every breath she took and every laugh that made her lean forward slightly.
He hadn’t slept after walking her home. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—the way she had looked up at him outside her penthouse door, lips slightly parted as though she might say something more. The scent of her lingered on his clothes, warm and intoxicating and impossible to ignore.
It had taken every ounce of discipline not to reach across that dinner table, not to close the distance during their walk, not to press his mouth to hers outside her door and damn the professional consequences.
She had felt his intensity—how could she not?—yet she had offered him the mercy of pretending not to notice. The lie about his late meeting still tasted bitter on his tongue. She had caught it instantly, her sharp attention to detail both impressive and unsettling.
I don’t lie. Not unless absolutely necessary.
And certainly not to someone who looked at him with that open curiosity that made deception feel like betrayal. She deserved better from him going forward. Professional honesty, at least.
Emotional honesty remained territory he refused to enter. That path led to vulnerability, and vulnerability led to chaos—the kind that had destroyed his father and nearly claimed his own life in the process.
Her reorganization of his email system had sparked a brief flash of panic the night before—years of perfected structure altered without warning—yet the memory of her enthusiasm softened the irritation before it could take root.
Control and routine had built his empire, protected his pride, and kept grief from swallowing him whole.
Assistants who disrupted that balance never lasted.
But Camille’s competence complicated that instinct.
She rose the moment he entered, tablet in hand, her movements graceful and efficient.
“Good morning, Leander.” Her voice carried that same warmth that had unsettled him yesterday. “Would you like to go over your schedule now, or should I wait for you to call on me as needed?”
He hesitated only a fraction of a second—long enough for his lion to catalog the subtle fragrance of her perfume and the confident set of her shoulders.
“Come in.” The invitation emerged rougher than intended. “Let’s review everything.”
Exposure will dull the distraction. Proximity will normalize her presence.
The words barely convinced him as he led her into his office, hyperaware of her presence behind him. She settled into the chair across from his desk with practiced elegance, crossing her legs in a way that caused his mouth to go dry.
“Your ten o’clock moved to ten-thirty,” she began, her fingers dancing across the tablet screen with confident efficiency. “I’ve confirmed the blueprints will be ready for review, and I took the liberty of scheduling a brief pre-meeting with Travis to discuss budget adjustments.”
Her scent wrapped around him as she spoke—warm vanilla with hints of something floral that made his lion pace restlessly. The mate bond hummed between them like a live wire, tugging at instincts he could not indulge.
“The lunch meeting with Cross Development is confirmed for twelve-thirty at the Metropolitan Club,” she continued, then paused, something flickering across her features. “Damian Cross, specifically.”
His lion reacted instantly, not only to the name, but to the slight hesitation in her voice and the barely perceptible tightening around her eyes.
Damian had been a rival long before corporate competition made it official, shaped by pride politics, old grudges, and the brutal confrontation that had followed his father’s death.
What does she know about Damian?
“It’s just an acquisition discussion,” Leander said evenly, though his hands clenched against his thighs. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll handle it.”
He didn’t have time to worry about Damian right now.
Discovering she was Neve Taylor had already shifted something fundamental inside him—the blogger whose architectural insights matched his own too closely, whose voice he had admired in quiet solitude, now was within arm’s reach speaking directly into his ordered world.
This arrangement is going to work too well.
He could feel it in the way his carefully constructed life had begun to fray at the edges, the way partnership tugged at places in his chest he had thought permanently sealed. But partnership wasn’t something he could afford.
Yet the mate bond refused to settle, his lion fixated on one singular, dangerous thought.
Claim her.
“Also,” Camille continued, her composure returning, “the zoning committee meeting for Thursday has been moved to—”
She stopped mid-sentence, her face paling slightly. One hand pressed against her stomach in a gesture so subtle he almost missed it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rising with careful control. “I need to step out for a moment. I apologize for cutting this short.”
Concern flared through him, immediate and protective. The urge to demand answers, to fix whatever was wrong, crashed against his better judgment.
“Don’t apologize for taking care of yourself,” he heard himself say, his voice softening. “I’ll page you if I need anything urgent. Take your time familiarizing yourself with the schedule and systems. We’ll touch base later.”
She nodded gratefully, moving toward the door with that same graceful efficiency that had caught his attention from the beginning.
As the door closed behind her, Leander leaned back in his leather chair and dragged a hand through his blonde hair.
The morning sun painted his office in warm gold, but all he could think about was the way she had looked at him—professional, competent, and completely unaware of the chaos she had unleashed in his perfectly ordered world.
His lion prowled, unsatisfied by distance, demanding proximity, claiming, and protection. Everything he had spent twelve years learning to suppress.
Two days.
In two days, she had reorganized his systems, revealed herself as the writer whose work he followed religiously, and made him lie about a meeting because the thought of sitting across from her for an hour had terrified him more than any hostile takeover.
The intercom buzzed, jarring him from thoughts that were becoming increasingly dangerous.
“Yes?”
“Leander?” Camille’s voice carried through the speaker, still slightly strained but determined. “I wanted to confirm—do you prefer the Lexington materials printed or digital for your review?”
Even through the intercom, her voice sent heat spiraling through him.
“Digital is fine,” he managed. “And Camille?”
“Yes?”
“Take whatever time you need today. Your health comes first.”
The silence stretched long enough that he wondered if she had heard him. When she finally responded, her voice carried a note of surprise that made his chest tight.
“Thank you. That’s... very considerate.”
Considerate. As though basic human decency was unexpected rather than standard. The thought sparked an uncomfortable question about what kind of treatment she had received in her previous experiences—or perhaps what kind of men her social circle had accustomed her to expecting.
The line went quiet, leaving him alone with thoughts that refused to settle and a mate bond that grew stronger with every interaction.
This was supposed to be simple. Hire an assistant. Maintain professional distance. Focus on the Lexington project and the dozen other deals that required his attention.
Instead, he found himself wondering what had caused her distress, whether she was eating properly, if the stress of a new job was affecting her health. Protective instincts he had spent years suppressing roared to life.
Get control of yourself.