Wren's Pov
He didn't ask me any questions.
He just told the guard, "She's cleared," and walked toward the elevator. He didn't hold it. Didn't look back. But he waited.
I followed because I didn't have anywhere else to go.
Inside the elevator, I dripped on his marble floor. My reflection stared back at me from the polished steel.
At the last second, before the doors opened, he spoke.
"You slapped me."
The words landed like stones in still water.
My throat tightened. "You kissed me without my permission."
A long beat. His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. Then the doors opened, and he walked out first.
He didn't acknowledge what I'd said.
He led me into his office.
He walked to the side counter without looking at me. Poured a cup of black coffee. Slid it across the surface in my direction — not close enough to be warm, not far enough to be dismissive.
Then he looked at me.
"You know..." his deep voice cut through the dark room, "people might assume hell broke loose on you, looking like—that."
His gaze swept over me in a single, clinical motion. Taking inventory. The ruined hair. The shivering shoulders. The way I was barely holding myself together.
My cheeks flushed with a mix of sweet shame and bitter embarrassment.
"I had to leave," I muttered coldly, clutching the warm mug like my life depended on it.
I wasn't going to hand him my vulnerability. Definetely not to my boss. What's worse, he's a man-whore who probably had Ms. Squeaky on her knees hours ago.
He leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms. His eyes pinned me in place — unreadable, calculating, like he was already three moves ahead in a chess game I didn't know we were playing.
"You slapped me, Miss Wren. And then you ran away." He tilted his head, studying me. "I thought you'd run forever. Then you show up on my doorstep at an ungodly hour, looking like a drowned bird." A pause. "If you're here to finish the job, I suggest you drink the coffee first."
I tried to stand straight... to maintain the neutral zone I always kept around him — but my knees buckled. I braced for the hard floor.
Instead, his arm caught me. Fast and solid.
But there was nothing tender about it. His grip around my waist was functional — a means to an end. He pulled my wet, freezing back flush against his chest for exactly long enough to steady me, then released me the moment I was upright.
For a terrifying second, the heat radiating off him was the only warm thing left in the universe. I gasped, my hands instinctively clutching his forearms. His scent hit me — clean, dark, cedar and whiskey and that expensive cologne I'd smelled hours ago when his lips were on mine.
Then he stepped back.
"Careful," he said flatly. "You're no good to me unconscious."
Professionalism kicked in like a slap. I pushed back, stepping out of his hold.
"I'm sorry..." My voice cracked, sounding smaller than it ever had.
"Mn." His expression didn't shift. He turned and walked back toward his seat, already dismissing the moment.
************
And that was when my brain fully registered where I was.
We were in a room inside his office. I've been working here for quite some time now. And never did I once think I'd ever cross paths with the CEO of the company I work for — not like this. And to worsen it, be in his company at 11 PM, soaking wet, falling apart.
My body shook. I wasn't sure whether it was fear of being alone with him in his space, or the impact of the rain, or the trauma I'd just witnessed.
Memories of my fiancé and my sister came flooding back. I expected remorse. I didn't think this would happen to me in real life.
My life is worth a drama, just like in most novels.
He sat behind his desk, watching me with that controlled stillness .
"You need somewhere to sleep," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're soaking wet in my building at 11 PM. You're not fine." He glanced at the door behind the bookshelf, I'd never noticed before. "There's a guest room on the executive floor. You'll use it tonight."
I opened my mouth to argue.
"That wasn't a request." He didn't raise his voice. The weight of his words was enough. "You can argue with me tomorrow when you've had sleep. Right now, you're a liability."
I should have been offended. Instead, I was almost relieved. This, at least, made sense. He wasn't helping me out of kindness. He was managing a problem.
I wrapped my fingers tighter around the coffee mug, letting the heat bleed into my palms.
"You didn't answer my question," I said quietly.
"What question?"
"About the slap. You asked if I was here to finish the job." I looked up at him through wet lashes. "I'm not."
Something flickered in his eyes. There and gone before I could name it. "Then why are you here?"
The question hung between us. I could have lied. Could have said I didn't have anywhere else to go — which was true — and left it at that.
Instead, the words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"He was with someone else."
Leander didn't react. Neither did he soften.
"My fiancé. Raphael." I laughed, and it came out wrong. Bitter. Hollow. "He was with my half-sister. In my bed. In my house. I walked in on them."
His fingers tapped once against his desk. A single, deliberate motion.
"You're still wearing your ring," he said.
I looked down.
The diamond glinted under the office lights. I'd forgotten it was there. Forgotten I hadn't taken it off. Forgotten that my body was still acting like I belonged to someone who'd already thrown me away.
My hand trembled. I wanted to rip it off, throw it across the room, watch it shatter against his wall.
Instead, I just stared at it.
"Three years," I said quietly. "Three years, and he looked at me like I was nothing."
Leander said nothing.
"The worst part is..." I swallowed hard. "I defended him. Before I even told you he cheated, I made sure you knew he didn't hit me. I protected him. Even after what he did."
I laughed again. Bitter. Hollow.
"What does that say about me?"
His eyes held mine for a long moment. Unreadable.
"That you're loyal," he said finally. "Even to people who don't deserve it."
It wasn't a compliment.
I didn't know what to do with that.
He stood, walking toward the hidden door and pulling it open. Inside was a small but comfortable room — a bed, a bathroom, fresh towels.
"There's a robe in the closet. Towels in the bathroom. Sleep." He didn't look at me as he said it. "Tomorrow, we'll talk about what happens next."
"Tomorrow?" I echoed.
"You're still my employee, Miss Wren. That hasn't changed." He finally met my eyes. "Get some rest."
I stepped toward the room, then paused at the threshold.
"Why are you helping me?"
His fingers paused on the keyboard. Just for a second.
"Because you're here."
Before I could ask what that meant, he looked back at his screen.
Dismissed.
I closed the door behind me.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, clutching the warm mug he'd given me.
Outside, I heard the faint click of his keyboard.
He was still working. Of course he was.
I looked down at my ring again, and pulled it off my finger. Held it in my palm. The weight of it was heavier than it should have been.
Three years.
Three years of my life, reduced to a piece of jewelry I couldn't even bring myself to throw away.
I set it on the nightstand.
Then I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and let the tears come.
*************
I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the next thing I knew, pale morning light was filtering through the curtains.
I blinked, disoriented. The room was unfamiliar. The bed was unfamiliar.
Then everything came crashing back.
I shot up, heart pounding. The ring was still on the nightstand. I hadn't imagined that.
I scrambled out of bed, still in the robe, and peeked through the door.
The office was empty.
His desk was pristine. His computer was off. The coffee cups were gone.
For a moment, I felt something I couldn't name.
Then I saw the note on the desk, weighed down by a paperweight.
"Breakfast is in the kitchen down the hall."
I should have been relieved that he wasn't there. I should have been grateful for the space.
Instead, I just felt... confused.
I found the kitchen easily enough — a small, sleek space on the same floor. There was fresh coffee, pastries, fruit.
I poured myself a cup and sat alone, staring at the window.
What was I supposed to do now? Go back to the apartment? Face Raphael and Vivienne again?
The thought made my stomach turn.
And then there was Leander. His threat last night. The way he'd caught me. The way he'd looked at me — like I was a problem to be solved.
He kissed me.
I shoved the thought away.
It didn't matter. He was my boss. He was cold. He was calculating. He'd probably already filed the entire incident under "liabilities to manage."
I heard footsteps.
I tensed, turning toward the doorway.
Leander stood there, still in his suit from yesterday — slightly rumpled, but somehow still composed. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.
"You're awake," he said.
"You're still here," I replied.
"I never left." He walked past me to the coffee machine, movements economical. "There's a lot of work to do."
"At 7 AM?"
He glanced at me over his shoulder. "I don't sleep much."
I didn't know what to say to that.
He poured himself a cup, then turned to face me, leaning against the counter. His eyes swept over me — assessing, cataloguing.
"How are you feeling?"
The question was flat.
"Fine," I said automatically.
"Liar."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're not fine." He took a sip of his coffee, watching me over the rim. "You're not fine. And I'm not going to pretend you are."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it.
He was right.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted quietly. "I can't go back there. Not yet. But I don't have anywhere else to go."
He was silent for a long moment. I could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes.
Then: "You can stay here."
"What?"
"On the executive floor. There are other rooms." He said it like he was offering me a company car. "Until you figure out your next steps."
I stared at him. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you doing this?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "You barely know me. Even after what happened?And now you're offering me a place to stay?" I shook my head. "What's do you want?"
He set down his coffee. Met my eyes.
"Nothing." His voice was quiet, controlled. "You're my employee. You needed help. I provided it."
"That's not—"
"And yes," he cut me off, "I kissed you." No emotion. No apology. "That was a mistake. It won't happen again."
I didn't feel relieved, which settled something within my chest.
Instead,
"Good," I said flatly. "Because I have enough to deal with without adding my boss to the list."
He didn't react to my tone. Just picked up his coffee and walked toward the door.
"Finish your breakfast," he said without looking back. "When you're ready, I'll have someone take you to get your things."
"From the apartment?"
He paused at the doorway.
"Unless you want to see him again."
"No," I said quietly. "I don't want to see him."
He nodded once. Then he was gone.
