The next day came. The office was too quiet, by now Elena was used to Adrian’s sharp strike of his shoes, the clipped commands, the low hum of his voice that made the walls feel too close. But today, there was only silence. But that morning, his office was dark, curtains drawn, his chair empty, his presence missing.

For hours, she worked under the heavy weight of his absence. Whispers moved through the corridor.

When noon arrived and there was still no sign of him, she decided to check on him.

The room inside was dark, Adrian sat on the leather sofa, jacket tossed aside, tie undone, shirt opened at the throat. A glass of whiskey dangled from his hand. His head rested against the cushion, but his eyes were open, sharp even through tiredness.

She froze. She had never seen him disordered, vulnerable, human.

“Mr. Voss?” she asked softly.

His lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You don’t knock anymore, Elena?”

“You missed your meetings,” she said, trying to sound quick though her chest tightened.

“They can wait,” he muttered, taking a long sip. “They always wait.”

This wasn't him, Adrian Voss doesn't miss his meetings. She knew something was wrong.

She walked further into the room, closing the door behind her. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed on the window, staring at the city beyond the glass. Finally, he said, low, “It’s the anniversary.”

She frowned. “Anniversary of what?”

His jaw flexed. “The day my life ended.”

Her breath caught, but she waited.

Finally, he spoke again. “My mother died when I was fourteen years old, she was the only person who loved me, protected me,and believed in me.”He laughed bitterly. “My father told me to stop crying and be a man, he didn’t grieve, he built walls. I buried everything-grief, weakness, love. Especially love.”

The silence ached in the room. Elena’s chest ached as she pictured it: a boy with too much loss, forced to be tough too early.

“That’s why you hide behind all this?” she asked softly. “Why do you push everyone away? Because caring means losing?”

His head snapped toward her, eyes blazing. “Closeness is weakness, Elena, and closeness gets to destroy you.”

But she didn’t back down. “No. You want me to believe you’re all cruel and powerful, but I don’t see you that way. I see you, Adrian. I see what’s underneath.”

For the first time, she saw not the ruthless billionaire but a boy who had lost everything.

She whispered,” You're not weak for missing her.”

He froze. Then suddenly he moved, like a storm breaking.

In two steps, he was on her. She stumbled back against the wall, the air knocked from her chest as his body closed in mercilessly. One hand slammed against the wall above her head, the other gripping her wrist, pinning it beside her.

“You don’t see me,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. His breath was hot against her face. “You have no idea what I am.”

Her heart raced. “Then show me.”

He clenched his jaw. His grip on her wrist tightened just enough to make her gasp. He dragged her arm higher, locking her in place, his chest nearly brushing hers.

Her heart faltered as his other hand slid down from the wall to her jaw, he leaned her face up. His thumb traced her bottom lip, slow and intentional, before pressing lightly until her mouth parted.

Elena’s breathing fastened. “Adrian…”

He swore under his breath, and then he closed the distance, not fully, not yet. His lips barely touched hers, brushing once, twice, just enough to drive her insane. His breath twisted with hers, hot and uneven.

Then his mouth traced lower across her jaw, down the line of her throat. His stubble scraped her skin, his lips grazing the sensitive touch under her ear. She shivered, caught between fear and fire.

His hand released her wrist only to grip her hip, hard, fingers digging into her. He pressed her into the wall, every inch of his power and heat consuming her.

“You hate me,” he murmured against her skin, his teeth grazing her neck. “Say it.”

“I—” Her voice cracked. Her body trembled.

His hand slid up her side, lingering just beneath the curve of her breast before exiting, almost mockingly. Her back curved against her will.

“Say it,” he demanded again, his lips brushing hers now, the taste of whiskey between them.

“I hate you,” she whispered. But her lips betrayed her, leaning toward his.

Their mouths collided—half-kiss, half-battle. His lips claimed hers roughly, bruising, possessive. Her gasp broke between them, and his tongue brushed hers, just for a moment, just enough to burn her to her bones.

Then he tore himself back with a ragged curse. His grip released her, though his chest still heaved against hers.

Elena’s body slumped against the wall, startled, her lips swollen, her breath worn.

His eyes were dark, tormented. He stared at her as though he wanted to devour her whole and hated himself for it.

“Get out,” he snapped, his voice rough.

She blinked, baffled. “What?”

“Go before I do something neither of us can take back.” He uttered coldly.

Her heart twisted, torn between irritation, shame, and the dangerous joy still buzzing in her veins. She shoved past him, storming toward the door, even as her lips still burned from his.

And when she was gone, Adrian slammed his fist into the wall, swearing under his breath. For one dangerous moment, he had tasted what he swore he’d never allow himself to want.

And he wasn’t sure he could resist again.