𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃

Shopping

He steps toward me, his movements deliberate, the space between us shrinking rapidly. His posture is relaxed, but the tension in his gaze is undeniable. His eyes roam over my face, searching for something-perhaps the reaction he thought he'd get but didn't.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks, his voice low, laced with a quiet challenge. There's a hint of amusement in his tone, but it's guarded, like he's testing me, seeing how far I'll push this.

I tilt my head slightly, holding his gaze with a look of mock contemplation, as though I'm truly considering the question. "It's not bad," I reply, letting my smile widen a fraction. "Could be better."

His lips twitch, and for a second, I think he might actually smile, but he reins it in, keeping that cool, unreadable expression in place. He's close now, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, his scent-faint but distinct-filling the air between us.

"And what exactly would make it better?" he asks, his voice even softer now, almost a murmur. His eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze, daring me to answer.

I take a small step forward, letting the tension build, our proximity almost electric. "Oh, I don't know," I say, my tone light, playful. "Maybe a little less attitude... and a little more action."

His eyes flare, and for a split second, the mask slips again, revealing a spark of something-desire, intrigue, maybe both. But just as quickly, he reins it in, stepping back and breaking the moment as if to remind me that he's still in control.

"We'll see about that," he says, his voice cool once more as he grabs a fresh shirt from the wardrobe and turns away to finish getting dressed.

He stops near the window, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin as he stares out at the morning sky. His silence speaks volumes-this isn't about the simple act of undressing anymore. The energy in the room has changed, charged with something unspoken, something neither of us wants to address but both of us can feel.

"Leave," he says in a gruff voice, his eyes never leaving the sky. For the first time, I don't feel like opposing him. His tone leaves no room for argument, and I quickly turn on my heels, practically running from the room.

My mind flashes with images of his body-broad shoulders, skin taut over muscle, each movement revealing the strength beneath. His back is a landscape of sinew and power, the ridges of his spine disappearing into the waistband of his pants. I feel lightheaded, a pulse of heat surging through me. Maybe I should have taken advantage of the moment, but it's too late now.

He's already moving, stepping out of the study with purposeful strides, not even bothering to close the door, as if he's too preoccupied to care whether I'm watching. His hand moves quickly, pulling on his shoes with the same efficiency that defines every one of his actions. Laces tighten, fingers slipping through loops in a smooth, practiced motion. He stands up, grabs his jacket from the hook by the door, and glances over his shoulder at me without a word.

As we make our way to the elevator in silence, the soft ding of each floor number counting down adds to the tension in the air. My thoughts are a blur, still lingering on the scene from earlier, but I try to shake them off as we pass through the lobby. Stepping into the same parking lot where he carried me home last night-my head nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath-makes my heart race again. His presence was overwhelming then, and now, standing in front of his car, I feel the same magnetic pull. The door opens with a soft click, but this time, he doesn't bother to open it for me.

"Bee Wee-wee, look ah! He didn't open the door for me! I am deducting his points for this," I think to the system in my head, but of course, no response comes. Typical. This so-called "Bee System" is as reliable as a wet match in a storm. I swear, if it wasn't for the occasional amusement, I'd uninstall it myself.

Villain Sama drives us out of the underground parking, and the world shifts from dim concrete to sunlight spilling across the streets. The city blurs past as we glide through traffic, the hum of the engine filling the silence. I decide now's the time to drop some important news, keeping an eye on his face to catch every little twitch of emotion.

"Baby," I say chirpily, "do you remember that list of companies you sent me for an internship? Well, one of them rejected me. Can you believe it? Must be something wrong with them. But anyway, the point is that the other company, NextGen Pharmaceuticals, sent me their acceptance letter yesterday! And guess what? I'm starting today! Clearly, they have excellent taste in people, don't you think?"

Talking about his own company as if I'm clueless is my new favorite game. Watching him pretend he doesn't know either is even more fun. But just as I'm savoring the moment, I realize he's already stopped the car. I glance out the window and see we've arrived at a high-end boutique-one of those places where the air smells expensive and the attendants wear looks that could slice through steel.

Oh great, are we about to have that scene? You know, the rich CEO buys his assistant clothes cliché-except Wilde's no CEO in the public eye, and I'm definitely no assistant. But hey, I'm not complaining. I was about to ask my assistant Uno to send me some clothes anyway; I can't exactly show up for my "internship" in a school uniform. And if Wilde wants to help me out, even better. Keeps my broke-girl-who-just-got-expelled act intact.

We walk into the store, and the attendants greet us with that polished, overly polite manner reserved for the mega-rich. Years of navigating places like this tell me two things: this is definitely high-end, and Wilde's a regular. Without skipping a beat, he tells them to bring out clothes appropriate for an internship at a pharmaceutical company. Immediately, I'm bombarded with options-racks and racks of crisp, professional attire. I pick out one outfit, a sleek black pencil skirt with a white blouse tucked in perfectly, and step into the changing room.

The fabric hugs my body in all the right places, and as I smooth the blouse over my hips, I glance at my reflection. Professional? Yes. But on me, these regular clothes look like they belong to some corporate vixen. I step out and give him a twirl, watching his eyes flash dangerously for just a second before he rises from where he's seated.

He walks over, selects another set of clothes-these ones are a bit oversized-and hands them to me without a word.

"Are the ones I'm wearing not good?" I ask, putting on my best pitiful face, even though I know damn well I look incredible. Too good, in fact. His expression falters, like he wasn't expecting me to feel sad about it, and now he's scrambling to figure out how to convince me to change without hurting my feelings.

Pfft. How cute.