I’ve been trying not to think about it for days. Trying to focus on work and pretend that kiss didn’t change everything. But it did change everything. Because now I know what it feels like to be touched by him, and I want more.
I want more, and that terrifies me.
Because he’s my boss. My husband. A man I barely know but can’t stop dreaming about.
Every night, I dream about him. About white dresses and chapel bells and strong arms wrapping around me. About a voice calling me princess and lips on my neck and hands sliding up my thighs. I wake up aching for something I can’t fully remember, but my body knows intimately.
And during the day, I avoid him. Take different routes through the building. Work late so I don’t have to see him in the elevators or hallways. Keep my head down and pretend my heart doesn’t race every time I hear his voice.
It’s exhausting.
By 10:00 PM, I’m alone on the floor again, staring at my laptop and not actually seeing anything on the screen. I’m too tired to focus. Too distracted to work.
But going home means lying in bed thinking about him, so I stay.
The intercom on my desk buzzes, loud in the silence like it’s impatient.
“Ms. Castellanos.” His voice fills my space, and my heart immediately starts pounding. “My office. Bring the Henderson files.”
I close my eyes. “It’s ten o’clock.”
“I’m aware. My office. Now.” The intercom clicks off.
I gather the Henderson files and head to the elevator. The ride up to the forty-second floor feels like forever, and I use the time to try to calm my racing pulse.
It’s just work. Just files. Nothing to panic about.
But when the elevator doors open, the executive level is dark except for the lights in his office at the end of the hall, and I know this isn’t just about files.
His office is exactly what you’d expect from a billionaire. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the entire city. Dark wood furniture that looks hand-carved. A leather couch that can pass as a bed. Abstract art on the walls that I recognize from auction catalogues I’ve seen online. A bar cart in the corner with crystal decanters filled with liquor.
This is his kingdom. And I’m standing in the middle of it, holding files I know he doesn’t actually need.
Ledger is at the windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city below. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and even from behind, he radiates power.
“Close the door,” he says without turning.
I do. The sound echoes in the quiet.
“The Henderson files,” I say, holding them up.
“Put them on the desk.”
I set them down and turn to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my desk.”
“No.” He finally turns to face me. “You’re going home.”
“I have work to finish.”
“You’re exhausted.” He moves closer, and I force myself not to step back. “You’re not getting enough sleep.”
“I am.”
“Liar.” His eyes hold mine. “You barely eat. You work until everyone else is gone. You look like you’re about to collapse. Why are you doing this to yourself, Savannah?”
