Beneath the surface

The elevators whispered shut behind her with a soft hiss, sealing Leyla Demir into a world that looked nothing like her tiny flower shop back home. The 42nd floor of Arslan Corp’s glass-and-steel tower was silent, except for the hum of money. Everything gleamed — the marble floors, the chrome art pieces, the floor-to-ceiling windows that made her feel one wrong breath away from falling. She smoothed the front of her blouse, aware it hugged her too closely. It wasn’t intentional — she only owned two decent shirts, and this one didn’t exactly scream “corporate cool.” Especially when her full breasts pulled the buttons just slightly apart. She shifted her tote in front of her chest instinctively. A woman at the desk didn’t even look up. “You’re late.” “I—am I? Just three minutes…” “I said ten sharp.” Leyla opened her mouth to explain — train delay, rain, nerves — but then she felt it. A presence. Low and magnetic. From the hallway, he stepped into the light like it belonged to him. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black — sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms, a few top buttons undone, revealing a hint of bronzed skin and the edge of a tattoo that curled across his chest. His long, dark hair was pulled loosely back, a few strands falling forward. And those eyes... They weren’t looking at her. They were reading her. Slow. Sharp. Direct. Leyla's breath hitched. “New hire?” he asked the receptionist, voice low and rough, like the scrape of velvet over stone. “Marketing assistant,” the woman replied. “She’s late.” Miran Arslan turned to her. Not a flicker of warmth. Not a smile. Until his eyes dropped. Not far. Just a glance — at the subtle strain of her blouse, the creamy curve visible between the folds of fabric. His jaw tightened — and then relaxed into a crooked, dangerous smile. There it is, she thought. The look that melted half of Istanbul and probably ruined the rest. “You’re not what I expected,” he said finally. Leyla’s cheeks went crimson. “I—thank you? Or should I be offended?” A pause. Then a low chuckle. “That depends how easily offended you are.” She bristled, lifting her chin. “And you are?” He stepped forward, close enough that she could smell his cologne — spice and smoke and something darker. “Miran Arslan. CEO.” Of course he was. Her stomach dipped. Her heart thumped. She had no business being flustered by a man like this — carved like a myth, arrogant as sin, and probably as unattainable. Still, when he extended a hand, she took it — her smaller fingers slipping into his large, warm grip. The contact buzzed straight through her skin. His thumb grazed her wrist. Just once. Her breath caught again. He noticed. A flicker passed through his eyes. Interest? Amusement? Danger. He let her go. “Conference room. Ten minutes. Bring something to impress me.” He turned and walked off like the air belonged to him. Leyla stood frozen for half a second before the receptionist finally looked up. “Welcome to Arslan Corp.” 🖊 Leyla's POV The conference room was too quiet. No ticking clock. No murmur of city traffic. Just her heartbeat, pounding loud in her ears. Leyla sat at the long table, notebook open, fingers gripping a pen she hadn’t even uncapped. She told herself to breathe. To focus. To pretend the man across from her wasn’t watching her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. Miran Arslan sat sprawled at the head of the table, dark shirt still open at the collar, one hand curled under his jaw, the other drumming lazily on the glass tabletop. She cleared her throat and looked down at her notes. “I had a few ideas on how Arslan Corp could reach a wider demographic. Especially online. Your brand image is strong — luxury, exclusivity — but younger clients need accessibility. A hint of personal story. Emotion.” He didn’t respond. She glanced up. His eyes were fixed... on her legs. She’d crossed them without thinking — it was habit, comfort. Her pencil skirt wasn't short — office-appropriate — but the movement must’ve given him a view. His gaze lingered, slow, deliberate. Leyla shifted in her seat, thighs tensing, trying to stay composed. He finally looked up — straight into her hazel eyes. No apology. “Go on,” he said, voice low. She swallowed. Her lips were dry. She lifted the pen to her mouth and tapped it gently against her lower lip. “Right. So... i********: campaigns highlighting the behind-the-scenes of the hotel openings, maybe letting employees — not just executives — share their voices. You humanize the brand without diluting its elegance.” His stare didn’t waver. She tapped the pen again, her lip catching on the cap. i***t, she told herself. Stop fidgeting. He’s your boss. But why did he smell like night and danger? Why did his sleeves rolled up like that make her stomach flutter? And why the hell did her skin tingle like it wanted his touch?