I don't do mercy in boardrooms.
Ruin is my currency.
But when her empire cracked under ruthless sharks, those sharp eyes of hers met mine across polished oak, begging for the control she pretends to hate losing.
I saw it.
The buried craving.
The surrender she analyzes like a spreadsheet but won't sign for.
So I made her mine.
Marriage contract slammed down under cold fluorescents, her fingers trembling as she scrawled her name.
Boss and subordinate fused in a vow that devours her independence, her career, her every defiant breath.
She calls it captivity.
I call it salvation.
Her sarcasm lashes out - "You own the company, not my soul" - but her body betrays her in the locked penthouse, sweat-slicked and shuddering after I claim her against the safe room wall.
Every glance is war.
Her resistance?
Fuel.
It hardens my hunger, turns touches into battles where she arches into the chains, hating how good they feel wrapped tight.
I rebuild her in ecstasy, piece by shattered piece - on my desk, in shadowed corners, bodies pressed in forced intimacy that blurs hate into addiction.
She's my paradox: the woman who fights possession yet melts under it, her vulnerability a blade twisting in my gut.
Her self-respect hangs by those vows.
My obsession could annihilate it all - her throne, her fire, the empire we share.
But losing her?
That would unmake me.
Will I forge her unbreakable in my grip, or will her defiance drag us both into the abyss?
