Under CEO'S Authority

8

Lyra’s heart hammered against her ribs. She scrambled off the bed, her face burning with a deep blush. “I’m so sorry! I—I must have slipped. My shoes, from the garden, they were a bit wet…” she stammered, unable to meet his eyes.

Charles slowly pushed himself up against the headboard. He looked dazed, more from the fall than the fever. “It’s… it’s fine, Lyra. Really. No harm done.” His voice was quiet. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, avoiding her gaze too.

An awkward silence filled the room, thick and heavy. Lyra nervously straightened her dress, desperate to say something, anything, to break the tension. Her eyes wandered to the hallway, remembering the photos she’d seen.

“I… I noticed your pictures,” she began, her voice hesitant. “You and your father… you looked very close.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t see any… I mean, is your mother…?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Charles’s face, which had been soft with confusion, immediately tightened. A shadow passed behind his grey eyes. He looked away, out the dark window.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, his voice flat and final. The warmth from a moment ago was gone, replaced by a cold wall.

Lyra felt a pang of guilt. She had overstepped. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s fine,” he repeated, but his tone said it was anything but. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “You should probably get home. It’s getting late.”

As if on cue, a loud rumble of thunder echoed outside. A moment later, the sound of heavy rain pounding against the windows filled the house. Lyra walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The world outside was a blur of water and darkness. The street was empty.

“Oh no,” she murmured. She pulled out her phone. The screen showed no available ride-share cars, and the estimated wait time for a taxi was over an hour.

Charles came to stand beside her, keeping a careful distance. He frowned at the storm. “You can’t go out in that.”

“I’ll be okay. I’ll wait for a taxi,” Lyra said, though the idea of waiting outside in the pouring rain was awful.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles said, his boss-voice returning slightly. “It’s late, and the weather is terrible. You can stay here.”

Lyra’s eyes went wide. “Stay? Here? Oh, no, I couldn’t. I’ve already bothered you enough.” The idea of spending the night in his huge, lonely house felt incredibly intimate and strange.

“It’s no bother,” he insisted, though he still seemed uneasy. “There’s a guest room right next door. It has its own bathroom. Everything is clean.” He saw the hesitation on her face and added, “It’s a practical solution, Lyra. Not a suggestion. I can’t have my secretary catching pneumonia because of me.”

He was using logic, treating it like a business problem. It made it harder to refuse.

“I really shouldn’t…” Lyra said, but another c***k of thunder made her jump.

“Please,” Charles said, and his voice softened just a little. “Stay. For my peace of mind. I’ll never forgive myself if you get sick trying to get home from taking care of me.”

An hour passed. The rain didn’t stop. If anything, it got heavier. Lyra checked her phone again. No taxis. The wind howled outside. Charles had gone to the linen closet and pulled out fresh towels and sheets for the guest room.

Seeing him, still pale and tired, making up a bed for her, finally made up her mind. It would be rude and stubborn to leave now. And a small, hidden part of her was curious about this man and the secrets in his house.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice small. “Thank you. I’ll stay.”

Charles nodded, looking relieved. “Good. The room is all yours. There are extra blankets in the closet if you get cold.” He pointed to a door across the hall. “That’s it. I’m… I’m going to try and get some more sleep.”

He disappeared back into his own room, closing the door with a soft click.

Lyra was alone in the hallway. She walked into the guest room. It was beautiful, but like the rest of the house, it felt unused and a little cold. She sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed, listening to the sound of the storm outside and the quiet of the house inside.

Her mind raced. She thought about the almost-accident on the bed, the way his arms had felt around her. She thought about the photos with no mother, and the pain in his eyes when she asked. She thought about the man who built a diamond empire but lived alone in a silent house, cooking his own meals and bandaging his own wounds.