YOUNG MASTER PLEASE BE GENTLE

CHAPTER ONE The Billionaire in the Shadows Rain streaked across the wide glass windows of Xander Industries, smearing the city’s evening lights into watery brushstrokes. Liana Brooks gripped her umbrella and pressed the button for the elevator, silently praying she wouldn’t be late. Again. The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped in, clutching her damp portfolio to her chest. This was only her second week as a junior copywriter, and she was already drowning in revisions, feedback loops, and coffee-fueled nights that bled into dawn. And then there was the man upstairs. Damien Xander. The name had weight in the city. Whispers. Power. A reputation like dark velvet—elegant, expensive, and impossible to touch without leaving fingerprints. Everyone in the company walked with a tighter spine when he entered the room. He rarely came down to the lower floors, and when he did, the air shifted. Women adjusted their blouses. Men rechecked their ties. No one said it aloud, but they all felt it—he was dangerous, like beauty with teeth. Liana hadn’t seen him up close yet. Only glimpses from across the atrium, where he stood with his back to the world, the skyline behind him like a throne of silver and glass. But she had heard his voice once—deep, smooth, measured. The kind of voice that could talk you into anything. Or out of your clothes. She shook her head and forced herself to focus. This wasn’t a fantasy. It was a job. A chance. And she couldn’t afford to blow it. Not with rent due. Not with Mom’s medical bills creeping up like vines around her throat. The elevator dinged. She stepped out onto the twenty-sixth floor—where the big clients were handled, and where junior writers weren’t supposed to roam unless summoned. Today, she had been summoned. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floor as she approached the executive conference room. Through the frosted glass, she saw shadows move—five, maybe six people. And him. Sitting at the head of the table. Unmoving. When the assistant waved her in, Liana took a breath and pushed open the door. And then she saw him. Damien Xander. He stood slowly as she entered, and it felt like time peeled away from the room in layers. His height was commanding, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way he moved—smooth, deliberate, like a predator with infinite patience. His eyes were darker than she imagined. Not cold, not warm—just sharp, like he was always watching, calculating. “Miss Brooks,” he said. Her name sounded different in his mouth. Like it had meaning. Like it had weight. “Mr. Xander,” she replied, somehow keeping her voice steady. He gestured to a seat at the far end of the table. “Sit.” The others barely looked at her, flipping through proposal notes and project briefs. She tried to focus, to follow the conversation, but her skin prickled with awareness. He didn’t speak much. But when he did, everyone listened. He asked sharp questions. He didn’t tolerate vague answers. And then—halfway through the meeting—he looked at her. “Miss Brooks,” he said. “What do you think?” She blinked. “About… the campaign?” He waited. She cleared her throat. “I think the approach lacks emotional tension. There’s nothing for the audience to feel. No pulse. If you want to sell the product as more than a luxury—if you want to sell it as desire—you need to make the viewer ache for it.” The room went still. One of the managers shifted uncomfortably. Another checked their notes as if hoping her words weren’t real. But Damien didn’t blink. Instead, something flickered in his eyes. Interest? Approval? “Continue,” he said. And so she did. Heart pounding. Voice tight. But words came, uncoiling from somewhere deeper than logic. From instinct. When she finished, no one spoke for a moment. Then he nodded once. “Make the changes,” he said to the others. “Give her a draft slot.” Heads turned. “But—sir, she’s not—” “I said,” Damien repeated without raising his voice, “give her a slot.” He stood, gathering his notes. The meeting was over. As the others filed out, Liana stayed frozen in her chair. Unsure if she should feel triumphant or terrified. He moved closer. Not too close. Just enough. “You surprised me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to,” she replied quietly. He studied her. “That’s the problem. You should.” Then he walked out.