Come to my office. Now!

If Javed thought the morning sun would burn away the intoxicating haze of the night before, he was dead wrong. Instead, daylight only brought a cold, harsh dose of reality. When Javed walked into the dining room at eight AM, his heart was already hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He had spent hours practicing a casual, unflappable expression in the bathroom mirror. But the moment he saw Martin, all that preparation evaporated. Martin was sitting at the head of the long table, the dark silk robe replaced by a sharp, tailored navy suit. His silver-streaked hair was perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaven. He was typing on his tablet, a cup of black coffee steaming beside him. He looked every inch the ruthless billionaire CEO—and absolutely nothing like the man who had trapped Javed against the kitchen counter hours ago. "Good morning," Javed said, his voice a little tighter than he intended. Martin didn't even look up from his screen. "Morning. Food’s on the sideboard. Help yourself." The sheer coldness of it was like a slap in the face. Javed stood there for a beat, a flush of intense embarrassment warming his neck. Right, he thought, a bitter edge twisting in his stomach. Last night was a fluke. A moment of weakness he’s already regretting. Javed silently vowed to keep his distance. If Martin wanted to pretend he hadn't whispered scandalous promises into Javed’s ear in the dark, then fine. Javed could play the part of the polite, invisible houseguest perfectly. Unfortunately, David had other plans. "Oh, good, you're both awake!" David burst into the room, already dressed in shorts and a polo, looking bright-eyed and entirely too energetic. He grabbed a piece of toast from the sideboard and turned to Javed. "Change of plans for today. The caterer for the gala called, and there’s a massive issue with the liquor license. I have to drive into the city to sort it out and pick up the promotional banners." Javed blinked. "Wait, you're leaving?" "Just for the day," David said dismissively. "But we can't afford to lose a whole day of planning. So, I told Dad that you can take over my half of the prep. You’ll be working directly with him in his office on the VIP auction catalog." Javed’s stomach dropped. "David, wait—surely I can come with you to the city? I can help carry the banners." "Don't be silly, I’ve got it covered," David laughed, waving his hand. "Besides, Dad’s a perfectionist. He needs someone with an actual brain to help him cross-reference the donor list, and you’re way better at spreadsheets than I am. Right, Dad?" Martin finally lifted his eyes from his tablet. His gaze bypassed David entirely and locked onto Javed. There was no warmth in them, only a cool, calculating intensity that made Javed’s skin prickle. "Javed is more than capable," Martin said, his voice flat. "Go lock down the caterer, David. Javed and I will handle things here." Ten minutes later, Javed found himself standing in the doorway of Martin’s private study. The room was massive, lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, leather bound books, and a massive glass desk overlooking the lake. The scent of sandalwood and expensive paper filled the air—the exact same scent that had crowded Javed’s senses the night before. Martin was sitting behind the desk, reviewing a stack of folders. He didn't invite Javed to sit. He just waited until the heavy door clicked shut behind them. "Before we begin," Martin said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, "we need to establish some ground rules. Last night was... an anomaly. A lapse in judgment that will not be repeated. If we are going to work together this summer, I require absolute professionalism." Javed swallowed his pride, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine by me." "Good. Then here are my three house rules for you," Martin said, lifting three fingers. "Rule number one: do not interrupt me when I am working. If my door is closed, you do not knock unless the house is on fire." Javed nodded. "Standard corporate behavior. Got it." "Rule number two: no bringing strangers into this house. David mentioned you like to frequent the local nightlife. Whatever you do on your own time is your business, but I do not want random men from the city wandering around my property." Javed’s jaw tightened. "I have a little more class than that, Martin, but noted." "And rule number three," Martin continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvety low. His dark eyes drilled into Javed’s. "No flirting with me. No lingering glances, no accidental touches, and no late-night trips to the kitchen in your underwear. Am I clear?" A startled laugh escaped Javed’s lips before he could stop it. "Flirting with you? You’re the one who trapped me against the counter last night!" Martin didn't smile. He didn't even blink. His expression remained deadly serious, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he stared Javed down. The sheer gravity in his eyes sent a sudden, violent pulse racing straight to Javed’s core. The air in the room instantly grew heavy, thick with the unsaid truth: Martin wasn't making the rule because he was annoyed. He was making the rule because he was terrified of his own lack of control. "Am I clear, Javed?" Martin repeated softly. Javed caught his breath, the amusement dying in his throat. He nodded slowly. "Clear." For the next three hours, they worked in a tense, suffocating silence. Martin assigned Javed to organize a heavy filing cabinet containing years of past charity archives. It was tedious work, but it kept Javed on the opposite side of the room. As Javed pulled open a drawer near the bottom, a heavy leather binder caught on the edge, spilling several loose papers and old folders onto the Persian rug. "Damn it," Javed muttered, dropping to his knees to gather the scattered documents. Among the corporate tax receipts and old gala programs, a small, glossy piece of photo paper caught his eye. It had fallen face-up. Javed picked it up, intending to slide it back into a folder, but stopped. It was a photograph of a younger Martin. He looked to be in his late twenties, standing on the deck of a sailboat, laughing. His hair was completely dark, free of any silver, and his smile was radiant, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked relaxed, wild, and devastatingly happy. It was a stark contrast to the guarded, stone-faced man sitting just a few feet away. "What do you have there?" Javed jumped slightly, looking up to find Martin standing over him. He hadn't even heard him approach. "I’m sorry, it fell out of the folder," Javed said honestly, holding up the photo. "Is this... you?" Martin looked down at the photo. For a fraction of a second, a shadow of profound vulnerability crossed his face, softening the harsh lines of his features. He reached down, taking the photograph from Javed's fingers. "Yes," Martin said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that hadn't been there before. "That was taken in Greece. The summer before I got married." Javed stayed on his knees, looking up at him. "You look incredibly happy." Martin let out a short, humorless breath. "I was young. I thought I knew how my life was going to go. I thought if I followed the script—married the woman my family approved of, took over the firm, built the empire—everything would fall into place." He stared at his own younger face. "My marriage wasn't a romance, Javed. It was a corporate merger. Twenty years of maintaining appearances until there was nothing left but resentment. By the time the divorce was finalized last year, I realized I’d spent two decades pretending to be a man I didn't even recognize." Javed felt a sharp pang of empathy in his chest. Without thinking, he stood up, stepping closer to the older man. "You don't have to pretend anymore, Martin. You're free now." Martin’s eyes snapped up from the photo, locking onto Javed's face. The distance between them had vanished. Javed could see the subtle gold flecks in Martin’s dark irises, could hear the slightly ragged edge to his breathing. "Free," Martin whispered, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. The silence stretched between them, no longer cold, but charged with a heavy, magnetic longing. "We... we should probably get back to these files," Javed murmured, his throat suddenly dry. He bent down at the exact same moment Martin did to reach for the remaining folder on the floor. Their movements collided. Martin’s large, warm hand clamped down directly over Javed’s. An instant shockwave of heat ripped through Javed’s skin. Neither of them moved. For three long seconds, their hands remained joined on the floor, their breathing the only sound in the massive room. Javed’s heart hammered against his ribs, his fingers twitching under Martin’s heavy palm. Martin pulled away first, ripping his hand back as if he’d been burned. He stood up abruptly, clearing his throat, but his discipline failed him. Before he could turn away, his dark eyes dropped like a physical weight to Javed’s mouth, lingering on his parted lips with a raw, starved hunger that made Javed’s knees weak. "That's enough for today," Martin said, his voice suddenly rough and strained. He turned his back to Javed, walking toward the glass doors leading out to the terrace. "Take the afternoon off, Javed. Go down to the lake. I have phone calls to make." Javed spent the rest of the afternoon practically vibrating with nervous energy. He tried to read by the pool, but the words blurred. He tried to swim, but the cool water did nothing to soothe the phantom heat of Martin’s hand on his. By nine in the evening, David still hadn't returned from the city, texting that he was caught in heavy traffic. The mansion was completely silent. Javed was up in his bedroom, pacing the floor in a clean t-shirt and shorts, trying to convince himself to just go to sleep. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his palm. Javed looked down at the screen. It was a text message from an unknown, local number. He tapped it open. Come to my office. Now!