Safe With You

Captivated

~Alyssa~

By the time I reach the boardroom, my hands have stopped shaking, but my pulse still hasn’t settled.

The walk from my office to the meeting room isn’t long — less than forty steps — but it feels like a lifetime. Every sound echoes louder than it should: the click of my heels, the hum of the AC, the faint thud of my heartbeat in my ears.

I keep my chin up, spine straight, the practiced calm of someone who’s been told her whole life that showing emotion is weakness.

Elle passes me in the corridor, offering her usual bright smile, but her eyes flicker — she notices. She always notices.

I nod, the silent code between us. Later.

For now, I have to be Alyssa Rose: CEO, designer, the woman who built an empire from nothing but stubbornness and sleepless nights.

Not the woman who just stared down a ghost.

I push the boardroom door open, schooling my expression into something polished and professional.

And there he is — Mr. Greyson Riley — already standing near the window.

Tailored suit. Crisp shirt. Every inch of him screams quiet authority and money. He looks like the kind of man who’s used to having people pause when he walks into a room. His gaze flicks toward me as I enter, sharp and assessing but not invasive.

It’s strange. For a split second, I envy his calm.

He turns slightly, offering a polite smile. “Miss Rose,” he says, his voice low and smooth, carrying a faint northern edge that doesn’t quite fit the boardroom’s sterile polish. “Thank you for seeing me.”

The sound of his voice grounds me — not comforting, but distracting enough to keep my thoughts where they belong: here.

“Mr. Riley,” I reply, crossing the room and setting the files down. “Thank you for being patient. I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“Not at all,” he says easily, pulling out a chair for me. It’s old-fashioned — maybe instinct, maybe manners — but I take it without protest.

As I sit, I force myself to take one steadying breath. The scent of my coffee, still faint on my fingers, mingles with the subtle notes of his cologne — clean, expensive, understated. Something about it annoys me. People like him always smell of effortlessness.

He sits opposite me, clasping his hands on the table, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.

There’s something unnervingly still about him — like he’s built from control.

And right now, control is the last thing I can trust myself to hold onto.

~Greyson~

The moment she walks in, I can tell something’s wrong.

It’s not obvious — she hides it well — but I’ve spent a lifetime reading boardrooms full of liars. I can spot tension faster than I can name it.

She moves with precision, every gesture measured, every smile manufactured to the millimeter. But there’s a fragility under the steel — like she’s one c***k away from shattering.

Still, she carries herself like someone who refuses to let the world see the fault line. I respect that.

“Mr. Riley,” she says, voice composed but clipped. The rhythm’s too even. Someone who’s forcing calm.

“Alyssa,” I reply automatically, before catching myself. “Sorry — Miss Rose.”

One corner of her mouth lifts, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Alyssa is fine.”

The room feels smaller than it did five minutes ago. Or maybe she just fills it differently.

We settle in. I open my folder, slide across the preliminary proposal Winston drafted — the one he swore would “speak for itself.” Alyssa skims it once, then looks back at me. Her expression doesn’t change, but I can tell she’s unimpressed.

“Your brother,” she says lightly, “is persistent.”

I can’t help the small smile. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“And yet you’re the one sitting here.”

“He threatened me with our mother,” I admit.

That earns me the faintest ghost of a laugh — small, but real. The kind of sound that tells me she hasn’t completely locked the world out, no matter how much she might want to.

She folds her hands. “So. You’re here to convince me to take on a private commission.”

“Yes,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “For my mother and sister. We’re not looking for spectacle — they prefer something timeless. Understated. But crafted by someone who understands that elegance isn’t just fabric. It’s… presence.”

Alyssa tilts her head. There’s something about her that commands silence. Not because she demands it — but because her mind seems to sharpen the air around her. “Presence,” she repeats. “Interesting word choice, Mr. Riley.”

“It’s the truth,” I say. “Some people wear clothes. Others are defined by them. I think you know that difference better than anyone.”

That earns me her attention. Really earns it. She studies me for a few seconds longer than comfort allows. Then she picks up a pen, tapping it once against the notepad in front of her. “Tell me about them,” she says.

“My mother and sister?”

“Yes. I don’t design for mannequins. I design for people. So tell me what kind of women they are.”

So I do. I talk about my mother’s quiet strength, how she carries a room with grace instead of volume. I talk about Lilian’s energy, her habit of using laughter as a shield, her fascination with structure and simplicity.

Alyssa listens, her eyes occasionally flicking down to jot quick sketches. I recognize focus when I see it — the kind that consumes.

Her voice softens slightly when she speaks again. “Women like that deserve clothes that don’t just fit — they should feel like an extension of who they already are.”

It’s not just business. It’s personal. There’s conviction there.

But just as I’m starting to relax, something shifts.

A flicker.

Barely perceptible, but there.

Her shoulders tense. Her pen stops moving mid-stroke. For a second, her eyes dart toward the door, and the faint color drains from her face.

I don’t know what just happened, but it’s like someone sucked the air out of the room.

“Everything okay?” I ask quietly.

Her gaze snaps back to me — startled, defensive. “Yes. Just… remembering something.”

The lie is effortless, but not invisible.

“Right.” I let it go, because pushing would make me an ass. But part of me files it away, the way you do when you sense there’s a story under someone’s skin.

She clears her throat, adjusts her blouse, and the wall is back up. “As for the commission — I’ll accept it, under a few conditions.”

Her tone is business again, precise. She lays out the terms: limited number of designs, creative freedom, privacy clauses. I listen, nodding. I’ve dealt with hundreds of contracts, but none have ever sounded so… personal.

When she finishes, I say, “Everything you’ve asked for is reasonable.”

She studies me again — eyes narrowed, as if trying to decide whether I mean it.

“I’m not used to hearing that from men in suits,” she says finally.

“Maybe you’ve been dealing with the wrong ones,” I reply before I can stop myself.

Her expression flickers — maybe surprise, maybe something else — and then she looks away, capping her pen.

There’s silence. Not awkward, but heavy. The kind that suggests two people thinking entirely different things in the same moment.

Finally, she stands. “I’ll have Elle send over the final terms by tomorrow morning. Once the deposit clears, we can schedule fittings.”

I rise too, buttoning my jacket. “I appreciate your time, Miss Rose.”

“And I appreciate you understanding the value of mine,” she replies, gathering her papers.

The words are polite, but the tone is a fortress.

Still, as she turns toward the door, I see it again — that momentary c***k in her armor. It’s small, but it’s there.

The way her fingers tighten around her coffee cup. The way her eyes flick to her phone like she’s expecting a message that hasn’t come.

I should ignore it.

I don’t.

“Miss Rose,” I say, and she pauses. “If there’s anything… security-related, or otherwise — I can have my team reach out. Discretion guaranteed.”

Her back stiffens, just slightly. “That won’t be necessary,” she says, the words clipped, final.

Then she leaves — fast, purposeful, the click of her heels fading down the hallway until the door shuts behind her.

The room feels colder once she’s gone.

I stay standing for a while, staring at the empty doorway. There’s a strange tension in my chest I can’t quite name — not attraction, not pity, something else. Recognition, maybe.

People who build walls like that usually have good reason to.

My phone buzzes. Winston.

Well? Did she bite?

I smirk and type back: Signed. She’s brilliant. And terrifying. Good choice.

Ha! Knew it. Also, Mum’s going to cry. Don’t screw it up.

I set my phone down, letting out a long breath.

From the corner of my eye, I notice her notepad still on the table — a few quick sketches, half-finished lines, the beginnings of silhouettes.

Strong shoulders. Clean lines. Armor, reimagined.

Fitting.

I pick up the pad, study it for a second, then set it back exactly where she left it.

She may not realize it, but her designs tell her story — disciplined chaos stitched into beauty.

And as much as I respect her privacy, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more beneath the surface.

Something she’s not saying.

Something that left her flinching at shadows.

Maybe it’s none of my business.

But something tells me — this won’t be the last time I see Alyssa Rose.