HIS WILLING SUBMISSION

(Third person’s POV)

It wasn’t supposed to be Milo Hart’s problem.

He was supposed to be curled up at home, spooning instant noodles into his mouth, not speed-walking through the financial district with a manila folder clutched to his chest like a lifeline. But of course, Ava had to come down with the flu — on the one day her internship required hand-delivering a confidential file to the most powerful man in the city.

And now he was walking into Vale Corp, a glass-and-steel behemoth scraping the underbelly of the clouds.

Milo stepped into the glittering lobby, head tilted up in awe and dread. The walls gleamed like mirrors, the floor so polished it reflected his worn-out sneakers. Everyone around him looked like they'd been printed from some luxury fashion magazine. He looked like a misplaced intern who took a wrong turn out of a thrift store.

He cleared his throat and stepped up to the front desk, trying not to shrink under the receptionist’s raised brow.

“I, um… I’m dropping this off. For Mr. Vale?” he said, holding up the envelope. “From Langton & Reeves.”

The woman looked him up and down before reaching for the desk phone. “Wait by the elevators. Top floor.”

Top floor? Milo blinked. She didn’t even ask my name.

But he obeyed, moving toward the sleek bank of elevators. He pressed the call button and tried to stop fidgeting. The collar of his too-warm hoodie scratched at his neck. He tugged it down. The envelope crinkled under his arm.

When the elevator dinged open, he barely looked up before stepping inside.

He should’ve looked.

The man inside stood perfectly still, his back to Milo, clad in a razor-cut black suit that looked like it cost more than Milo’s rent. He radiated something—presence, maybe. Like the air shifted to accommodate him.

Milo blinked. “Sorry,” he mumbled, moving to the far corner. He glanced up to find a pair of icy grey eyes watching him in the mirrored wall.

The man hadn’t turned. He was watching him through the reflection.

Weird, Milo thought. But weirdly hot, too.

He felt a twinge in his chest. His fingers tightened on the envelope.

The elevator doors slid shut, and silence fell — thick, pressing.

Milo tried not to look again. He tried. But there was something about the man’s stillness. Like he wasn’t just waiting — he was measuring.

And Milo hated being measured.

So he did what he always did when uncomfortable: he cracked his mouth open.

“You ever wonder what would happen if this elevator just… dropped?”

The man’s eyebrow lifted slightly in the mirror.

Milo flushed. “I mean, not that it will. Obviously. Fancy building. Probably reinforced with anti-death technology.”

The man said nothing.

Milo laughed nervously. “You’re probably a stockholder or something. Sorry. I talk when I’m—” he stopped himself, “—human.”

Finally, the man turned.

Slowly.

Like he had all the time in the world.

And Milo got a full look at him — sharply cut jaw, dark hair slicked back, features too elegant to be real. Eyes like glacier cracks.

Milo’s breath caught.

“You’ve got a bad habit of breaking rules,” the man said, voice low and deliberate.

Milo blinked. “Excuse me?”

The man stepped forward, gaze locked on him, then reached past Milo to press a different floor number. Their arms didn’t touch, but Milo felt the heat of him anyway.

The elevator dinged.

Milo turned to ask what the hell that meant, but the man was already walking out — composed, unbothered.

Gone.

Just like that.

(Milo's POV)

I stood there in the elevator long after the doors closed again, brain still buffering.

What the hell just happened?

That man — that walking black-and-white movie scene — had looked at me like I’d broken something that mattered. Like I wasn’t just some guy carrying a stupid envelope in a too-warm hoodie and three-days-washed jeans.

"You’ve got a bad habit of breaking rules."

His voice echoed in my skull like it had been carved into stone and dropped into water.

I stepped out at the top floor and handed the envelope to another icy-looking assistant. She didn’t even smile. Just took it like I’d been interrupting her plans to overthrow a small country.

I muttered a quick thank you and bolted.

By the time I hit the ground floor, I was half-convinced I’d just embarrassed myself in front of some elite board member or stockholder — maybe even a private security guy. Rich people always looked like they’d bitten a lemon and got off on it.

Still, something about that man stuck in my chest like a thorn. His presence wasn’t just there. It demanded. It warned. And I… couldn’t stop thinking about it.

---

Three hours later, I was home, curled up on the stained futon I called a couch, a packet of instant noodles steaming sadly beside me. I was half-watching reruns of a cooking show I couldn’t afford to emulate when my phone pinged.

I glanced at the screen.

Email from: Vale Corp HR

My stomach dropped.

“No way,” I whispered.

I opened it.

> Subject: Mr. Elias Vale requests your presence.

Time: Tomorrow. 8:00 AM sharp.

Location: 81st floor, Private Office.

Note: Dress appropriately.

My fingers nearly fumbled the phone.

Elias Vale.

That name.

Even I knew that name.

Founder. Billionaire. CEO of Vale Corp. He was on magazine covers. Business podcasts. Rumored to own a private island where phones weren't allowed and secrets went to die.

The man in the elevator… was him? I scrolled through the images google provided, trying to find a single one to oppose that.

My heart did a very inconvenient thing — it stuttered, then raced like it had no interest in letting me live.

I thought back to what I said.

“You ever wonder what would happen if this elevator just dropped?”

Fancy building. Probably reinforced with anti-death technology.

God. I wanted to die.

I stared at the email again.

Why the hell would a man like him want to see me?

I wasn’t anyone. Just a broke design graduate crashing at my cousin’s place and delivering documents for friends so I didn’t have to eat peanut butter for dinner again.

And yet… something about that meeting had shifted the air.

Not just because he was powerful. Or terrifying. Or hot in that if-you-sleep-with-him-he-might-ruin-you-forever way.

It was how he looked at me.

Not like I was in his way.

Like I was his idea.