The estate was a modern Eden—stone walls, manicured gardens, sunlight pouring through wide windows, and silence so thick it made your pulse louder.
I had been working there for just over two weeks as a personal assistant to Alexander Wolfe—CEO, ex-military, and the very definition of restrained power. His presence was undeniable: mid-forties, clean-shaven with a silver streak in his dark hair, and a voice that could make your stomach flip just from saying your name.
From the start, something unspoken bloomed between us. We shared glances that lingered a second too long. Conversations dipped from polite to personal before drifting toward dangerous. He always asked the right questions. Always looked at me like he knew what I was thinking—even the things I hadn’t dared say aloud.
That morn
