THE HIGH GROUND

BOUND TO THE KING

As Bella arranged all the urgent files properly on Daemond’s desk, she also organized the desk precisely as it was before. Every folder was perfectly aligned with the edge of the mahogany wood, the legal contracts stacked in neat, chronological order, and his custom fountain pen resting exactly two inches from the leather blotter. She took a small step back, smoothing down the front of her navy skirt, making sure not a single stray paper was out of line.

Just as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the heavy ebony doors swung open.

Daemond walked in, looking like a Greek god sculpted from marble. He moved across the room with a fluid, predatory grace, stripping off his suit jacket with a practiced, effortless motion. The crisp, white, body-hugging shirt he wore underneath clung to his frame, making his muscles pop and rendering the sharp, rigid lines of his eight-pack slightly visible beneath the high-quality fabric. As he walked toward his desk, he reached up with one hand, casually unbuttoning his shirt's upper few buttons. The action left his strong neck and a tantalizing portion of his chest half-visible in the dim afternoon light of the office.

Bella stood there, completely mesmerized. Her mind emptied of all corporate briefs, acquisition numbers, and flight schedules. How could someone look so charming, so breathtakingly handsome, after a stressful morning out of the office? He was absolutely flawless, possessing the kind of perfect figure any woman would die for. Bella couldn't resist his charm as she stared at him unknowingly, her gaze tracing the sharp line of his jaw down to the exposed collarbone. For a few long seconds, she forgot how to breathe.

"If you are done staring at my body, shall we proceed, Miss Swan?"

He said it in a cold, playful tone, his eyes still fixed downward on his laptop as he booted it up. He didn't even look up at her, yet he couldn't ignore how perfectly she had kept everything in its place. He noted the meticulous arrangement of his files, a small wave of satisfaction washing over him, though his expression remained an unreadable mask.

*Oh damn,* Bella whispered in her head, a sudden rush of heat flooding her cheeks. *How the hell does he know I was staring without lifting his eyes? Every time!*

She gulped in sheer embarrassment, desperately wishing the pristine glass floor would open up and swallow her whole. She forced her posture to straighten, trying to reclaim whatever dignity she had left.

"The Tokyo files," she said, her beautiful voice cutting through the sudden tension in the room, though it held a slight, nervous tremor. She stepped closer to the desk, gesturing to the neatly arranged folders. "I have rescheduled the date for the event, after discussing through the other companies' representatives. It is on this Friday, at sharp 9:00 AM. I have also booked the royal suite at the Grand Hyatt for you, and the next-door room for your bodyguard, Mr. Robert."

She took a quick, shallow breath, her heart hammering against her ribs as she delivered the final piece of logistics. "If the date and the stay are okay, shall I proceed with the flight booking, sir?" Bella practically gasped for air after talking so rapidly, her chest heaving slightly as she waited for his approval.

"No," Daemond said simply, his voice cold and flat.

"But sir... flights won't be available on such short notice..." Bella couldn't even finish her sentence, her eyes widening in mild panic at the thought of losing the premium first-class slots she had painstakingly monitored.

"We will travel by my private jet," Daemond said, finally shifting his gaze to the screen of his tablet, his long fingers scrolling through a new set of data.

At first, Bella was just relieved. *Okay, that's good,* she thought, her shoulders relaxing a fraction of an inch. A private jet meant fewer commercial delays, less frantic airport running, and a much more controlled schedule. But then, a split second later, the literal meaning of his sentence caught up with her brain. Her internal gears ground to a screeching halt as she focused entirely on that one specific word. *WE.*

"Uh... excuse me, Sir," she asked nervously, her voice dropping an octave as she took a cautious step closer to the desk. "I think I have mistaken myself. Did I hear... *we*?"

"No, Miss Swan, you heard right. It would be wise to leave someone in care for your grandmother," he said in a cold, even voice, still without looking up at her.

Bella froze, a cold shock running through her veins. Her mind started racing, frantically trying to construct a barrier between her personal life and the overwhelming, suffocating presence of Daemond King Jr. "But—"

She shockingly tried to come up with an excuse right then and there. She opened her mouth to tell him that her grandmother couldn't possibly be left alone, that she didn't have anyone else to look after her on such short notice, that a trip across the world was simply out of the question for a brand-new assistant on her first day.

But Daemond cut her off before she could even formulate a cohesive lie. He knew her tactics already. He knew she might make an excuse out of her grandmother to get out of the assignment, to keep her distance from him, to maintain that neat little boundary she so desperately clung to.

"You signed to be my personal assistant, didn't you, Miss Swan?" Daemond teased in his cold, velvet tone, his eyes flicking up for just a fraction of a second to catch the look of absolute defeat on her face. It was a subtle reminder of the ironclad contract she had signed—a contract that bound her to his grueling schedule, his demanding lifestyle, and his beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

Bella’s jaw tightened. She glared at him, a fiery spark of stubborn resistance flaring up in her dark eyes. Beneath the edge of the desk, her hands balled into tight fists once again. She knew when she was beaten, but she didn't have to like it.

Turning on her heel, Bella went back to her desk, intentionally stomping her heels against the polished marble floor like an angry child throwing a silent tantrum. Every step she took echoed loudly in the quiet, expansive executive suite, a blatant, rebellious declaration of her utter annoyance. She grabbed the edge of her chair, pulling it out with a little more force than necessary, and practically threw herself into the seat.

Inside the private office, behind the flawless glass partition, Daemond watched her entire display out of the corner of his eye. As the sound of her furious typing began to echo through the workspace, a slow, unbidden warmth crept into his chest. His usually stoic, unreadable face suddenly lit up with a tiny, amused smirk.