Million Dollar Devil

25. Leo's POV

LEO'S POV

I see her before she sees me.

Even in a room like this, full of silk ties and polished shoes, she cuts through it all without trying. I spotted her the second she walked into the bar. The soft, tentative click of her heels. The way that green dress clings to her, melting over her curves like sweet chocolate poured warm onto skin.

And for a second, just a second, the world tilted. It unsteadies under my feet because she's not supposed to look like that. Not here. Not now. Not around these men who would strip her down with a glance and devour whatever softness they could get their hands on. Not around me, who is no fucking better.

My conversation fades into the background, something about emerging markets, about logistics chains in Southeast Asia. Bullshit that normally holds my full attention. But all I can see now is Lillian smoothing her hands down the fabric of her dress, nerves written in every small, unconscious movement.

She is out of place here. Too open. Too bright. Everything this world knows how to ruin, and I am no different. Worse, maybe.

When her eyes find me across the room, something shifts, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to show it. Not to move. Not to claim. Instead, I just watch her. Steady. Controlled.

I watch her hesitate near the entrance, clutching her clutch against her ribs like it could shield her from the weight of this place. I should look away, I should focus on the conversation. Keep it professional.

I don't. I never do anymore.

Instead, my gaze tracks her across the room.

I feel the shift in the group before she even reaches us, the sudden attention, the sharpened smiles, the low, unmistakable thrum of male interest that thickens the air like a live wire.

And it makes me fucking furious.

Because I've been good. Careful. Professional.

I've kept my hands to myself.
I've kept my mouth shut.
I've stayed behind the line.

When she finally reaches me, it takes everything I have not to reach for her. To not stake a claim so clear and violent it would silence the entire fucking room.

Instead, I introduce her with a half-smile that feels like it costs me blood to pull off.

"Gentlemen," I say, hearing my voice from somewhere outside myself, "this is my assistant, Lillian."

The word assistant tastes wrong on my tongue.

"She keeps me from losing my mind," I say instead. Half a truth. Half a confession.

They look at her the way I knew they would. Hungry. Like she's a commodity, a delicate thing they could buy, break, discard. I watch her shake hands with them, one after another, watch the way some of them linger too long, the way their eyes drop to the way her dress hugs her hips, the way her skin peeks through the slit along her leg.

just stand there, a stone in a river of noise, sipping my bourbon and pretending this isn't fucking killing me.

She holds her own, but I can see the strain in the tightness of her smile, the way she shifts her weight from foot to foot.

And then, of course, there's Alex with his casual arrogance, his slick fucking charm that's fooled boardrooms and backers and half the women from here to Madrid.

Smirking. Flashing white teeth like a jackal.

"You look familiar," he says, that lazy charm coating every syllable.