I cross my legs as I sit across from Tylon at a private table set for two. According to the terms of our agreement, we're required to meet weekly to discuss updates.
Tonight's location? A five-star restaurant nestled in the heart of Manhattan, perched atop a sleek five-story building.
The skyline glitters through the glass ceiling above us, casting a dim, dreamy glow over the room. Candlelight flickers against polished silverware, and the air smells of rosemary and aged wine. It's the kind of place people make reservations for months in advance—romantic, extravagant.
Tylon is wearing a sharp grey suit, his tie slightly loosened as if to suggest he has better things to do than impress. He's busy scrolling through emails on his phone, barely sparing me a glance. I clear my throat— loud enough for it to be a clear message.
He doesn't look up, instead he rolls his eyes and sighs. "What?"
I push back in my seat, turning slightly, to stand and leave. Before I can rise, his hand reaches across the table to press gently on my shoulder, grounding me in place. "I'm sorry," he says, finally sliding his phone into his suit pocket.
"You know I don't sit at a table where respect isn't being served, Tylon," I reply, my tone crisp. "Especially when it's a case where my service is the one needed."
"I'm sorry," he squeezes my hand in a silent gesture of apology, his expression softening. "By the way, Zuri, you look stunning."
I glance down at the emerald-green silk dress hugging my figure, the fabric catching the light with a soft sheen. Ripples drape loosely around my curves, artfully hinting at cleavage without giving too much away.
It's a good choice—elegant, sexy. I toy with the gold snake pendant hanging around my neck, fingers brushing its cool surface. "Thank you," I respond, but I don't meet his gaze.
At that moment, I decide he doesn't deserve a compliment in return. Not when I had to remind him that I was sitting in front of him. Men should know how to treat women. Then—and only then—do they deserve them.
I pull the menu toward me, fingers gliding across the edges as I change the subject. "It seems as if Makai will be a hard nut to crack but I sense he's interested."
It's just speculation, but it's progress. Not progress worth mentioning but Tylon wants to hear it.
He leans in, his hands on the table clasped together, suddenly more alert. "How so?"
"He was paying too much attention to my attire. Then he commented on my lipstick." I pause, measuring my words. "He said the shade was distracting."
Tylon's brows knit together. "Interesting, did he make a move?"
"No." I shake my head, firm but calm. "He didn't do anything. But the way he looked at me—it wasn't inappropriate, just… thorough. Peculiar, even. Like he was trying to figure me out."
He chews his bottom lip, a habit he's never outgrown, and one I've come to recognize as a sign that he's thinking too hard. "So what, he just stared at you?"
I nod. "Like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet."
Tylon sits back, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his water glass absentmindedly. "Do you think he suspects anything?"
"Not yet. But he's cautious. Observant. He's not just some naive pretty boy. There's something underneath the charm—something sharp."
He exhales through his nose. "Alright. Keep your distance. But if he ever crosses a line—"
"I'll handle it." My voice is steady. "Just let me do what you hired me to do."
He nods slowly and picks up the menu, signaling the waiter with a casual wave. As he does, I study him—searching for the cracks beneath the surface, the flaws in his structure I might've missed.
But all I see is Tylon. My annoying friend for 2 years. Sharp-tongued. Impatient. Loyal, in his own maddening way.
I think he cares about me—enough not to throw me to the wolves.
But then again… maybe he would.
Just with a warning first.
✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
Makai Huxley isn't known for getting close to his employees. I've read articles that describe him as charismatic, even gentlemanly, but always reserved. Polished. There's an invisible line, and everyone knows not to cross it.
So why don't I sense it?
It's like the thread between us has already been tugged, and neither of us wants to admit who pulled first.
I wish more women understood—when you want a man to want you, never make it obvious you want him. Play the game. Make him believe he's winning.
Worse if he's egotistical and needs the illusion of power. You let him chase the yarn you dropped at his feet. Meanwhile, you hold the other end of the string, guiding every move.
Makai is a famous bachelor. No failed marriage, no public scandals. No slip-ups. He keeps his private life under lock and key, and if anyone has ever gotten close, he's buried the evidence well.
That only makes me more curious about what I'll uncover.
I glance at the time glowing at the bottom of my screen—11:47 p.m. I close the laptop with a sigh and place it gently on the nightstand. I double-check that my alarm is set for 6:00 a.m., then slide under the covers, tugging the duvet over my shoulders.
✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦
The alarm blares far too soon.
I groan, slapping my phone until the sound dies. The dull throb in my head tells me I didn't get enough sleep, but there's no time to linger. I drag myself out of bed and move on autopilot—shower, lotion, black pencil skirt, cotton blouse, light makeup, and a nude gloss this time. No lipstick.
The morning traffic was horrendous, the elevator speed devastating, and by the time I reach the office, my heels are clicking over polished tile thirty minutes past start time. I'm breathless, my hair windblown despite my best efforts. I barely set my handbag on the desk when I hear the quiet creak of a door opening behind me.
Makai is standing there, holding a folder in hand. His tailored suit is a slate black today—sharp, composed, and unforgiving, much like the expression on his face.
"You're already late," he says, not bothering with a greeting. "And it's your first week."
I raise a hand to my forehead, pretending to wipe away sweat, though what I'm really doing is buying time—trying to find an excuse that won't sound like a high schooler scrambling for extra credit.
"The coffee shop was frantic this morning," I say smoothly, holding out the drink I picked up for him on instinct.
He takes it, eyes narrowing slightly as he brings it to his lips. He sips slowly, the rim of the cup lingering at his mouth longer than necessary. I can feel his gaze settle—not on my eyes, but lower. It lingers at my lips, quiet and unspoken, like a thought he won't voice.
"I see," he replies.
The way he's looking at me makes my skin hum. It's not indecent, not overtly flirtatious—it's restrained, which somehow makes it worse. The control he holds is palpable. It clings to the air between us like static.
"Would you stop looking at me like that?" I blurt, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
His eyes finally lift to meet mine. There's a flicker of amusement there, faint but deliberate.
"Like what?"
"Li… like—"
"Like what, Allesha?" he says again, but this time his voice dips an octave lower. Smooth. Intentional. He steps closer, shrinking the already narrow space between us.
I can smell his cologne—something woodsy, expensive.
"Are you attracted to me?" I ask suddenly, dropping the hesitation. My voice steadies with the kind of power I've always known how to wield.
I'm not some timid girl caught in his orbit. I have to remind myself of that—especially when it starts to feel like he's the one pulling the strings.
He doesn't flinch. Just reaches behind me, calm and unbothered, to pick up the folder I brought in—filled with the contracts I spent the night drafting. His hand grazes my shoulder in the process, barely skimming the fabric of my blouse. The touch is fleeting, almost accidental. But I feel it anyway.
I don't give him a reaction.
He straightens, flips open the file, and skims its contents. "Who wouldn't be?" he says casually, eyes still fixed on the documents. "You're quite… alluring."
He closes the folder with a soft thud and meets my gaze again. "But I don't fraternize with my employees," he adds with a wry half-smile. "Especially not one who actually knows how to do her job."
With that, he raises the folder in a mock salute and turns, disappearing into his office without waiting for a response.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand there for a moment, heart thudding, my breath shallow.
Thing is, I don't know why.