Stella sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee as the early morning light filtered into her apartment. It was 7:30 AM—she still had forty-five minutes before she needed to leave for work. She flipped open her laptop, hesitating for a moment before typing: Flights to Bali.
With September approaching, she knew October would come quickly. If she booked now, the tickets would be cheaper. Scrolling through the options, her eyes landed on a departure date—October 21st. Without overthinking, she confirmed the purchase. A confirmation email popped up in her inbox, making her chest tighten.
Flying still terrified her. Ever since that crash, the thought of boarding a plane sent a chill down her spine. But she had a tradition to keep. Every year, she traveled to Simel Island, spending her birthday and their wedding anniversary there before returning to reality. It wasn't easy, but she did it anyway.
She exhaled and pushed away from the desk, heading to her closet. She pulled on her usual black turtleneck sweater, a grey checkered mini skirt, and her long grey coat before slipping into her black combat boots. The outfit was second nature by now—comfortable, familiar.
Simon and Henry had just wrapped up their meeting with the African delegates, discussing several prototype developments.
"Shotguns and gas masks—revise the reports. I want more innovation on these two," Simon instructed, his tone firm and unwavering.
Henry gave a curt nod. "Understood."
"You know the drill," Simon added, his piercing gaze locking onto Henry's for a brief moment before shifting back to his desk.
Without another word, Henry exited the room, leaving Simon to resume his work, his fingers already moving across the keyboard as he immersed himself in the next task at hand.
Henry entered the office, placing a cup of coffee on Simon's desk.
"Mr. Hoverman," Simon called, a sudden thought crossing his mind.
"Yes?" Henry responded, looking at him expectantly.
"Stella." Simon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood. "Call her in." His tone left no room for argument. "And soon, you'll be working at another branch."
Henry froze for a second, caught off guard. "Why, boss?"
Simon's gaze flicked up to him, sharp and assessing. "You don't want a promotion?" His voice was smooth, but there was a quiet warning behind it.
Henry swallowed before forcing a smile. "Of course, I do." He quickly pulled out his phone and dialed. "Send Mrs. Winchester to the boss."
Simon's eyes narrowed, the name triggering something deep within him—something dark, something unwanted.
His voice dropped, cold and cutting. "Just because I called a woman here doesn't mean she's my wife."
Henry chuckled nervously. "No, boss. Her surname is actually Winchester. Stella Adams Winchester."
Winchester.
The name clung to Simon like a ghost, whispering down his spine, stirring something buried beneath layers of iron control. Coincidence? Or something else entirely? His fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.
"In that case…" His voice was measured, indifferent, but his mind was already dissecting the situation. "I want her résumé on my desk by lunch."
Henry nodded quickly, sensing the shift in the air. "Yes, boss."
As the door shut behind Henry, silence filled the room.
Stella stepped into the office, her black combat boots pressing against the polished marble floor, each step steady but unwilling. Simon's gaze lifted the moment she entered, his sharp, calculating eyes locking onto her like a predator sizing up its prey.
"Good afternoon, boss," she greeted, her voice measured, indifferent.
"Good morning, Stella," he responded, but there was something off about his tone—too light, too controlled, like a blade hidden beneath silk.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward, ignoring the chill that lingered in the air between them.
Simon slid a set of files across the desk. "I want a full report, new innovations, and edits on these two models," he instructed, his tone clipped, precise.
Stella took the files, gripping them tightly, but as she turned to leave, his gaze dropped.
His eyes landed on the diamond ring on her finger.
A sharp silence filled the space between them. His jaw clenched, and a slow, insidious fury curled in his gut. The sight of that ring—the proof that she belonged to someone else—sent an unexpected, unwelcome sensation crawling under his skin. He didn't like it.
He wouldn't allow it.
"Do it here," his voice cut through the silence like a knife.
Stella stopped in her tracks. "I can do it at my desk," she countered, not looking back.
Simon leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the desk—a controlled display of impatience. "Are you defying me, Stella?" His voice dropped lower, the weight of his authority pressing against the air itself. "You have one hour. And I want the presentation after lunch."
A slow breath left her lips, but she said nothing. Pushing back was pointless. He wielded control like a weapon, and she knew better than to challenge him outright. Without another word, she turned and settled onto the couch across from him, her movements precise, composed.
She began working, but she could feel it—the weight of his stare, the way his gaze lingered.
Watching. Studying. Possessing.
Like a beast biding its time before the kill.
Stella crossed one leg over the other, her movements fluid yet effortless as she focused on the task before her. Simon's gaze trailed down, catching the way her grey checkered mini skirt rode up slightly, exposing the smooth curve of her thighs. His fingers curled into a fist against the desk.
He had seen countless women in less clothing—women who threw themselves at him, desperate for his attention. Yet not a single one had ignited the raw, consuming desire that Stella did. She didn't have to try. She existed, and that was enough to drive him insane.
The urge to mark her, to claim what should have been his, ran through him like fire in his veins.
She finished her work, closing the file with a quiet finality. Glancing at her watch, she noted the time before lifting her gaze to him. Their eyes met.
Even in her silence, in her obedience, she radiated defiance.
And God, he liked it.
"May I leave? I'll present it after lunch," Stella said, her voice composed, unwavering.
Simon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to maintain control. He gave her a curt nod, and without hesitation, she rose from the couch and strode toward the door.
The second it shut behind her, his office felt empty.
Inside the elevator, Stella let out a breath, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Fucking asshole," she muttered under her breath, the words carrying the weight of her frustration.