Elena's POV
People weren't exaggerating when they said Adrian Knight was impossible to please.
It took me exactly three days to realize that working for him meant living inside a storm that looked calm on the surface.
He never raised his voice.
He didn't need to.
One look from him — that cool, steady stare — was enough to make anyone rethink every choice they'd ever made.
That morning, I was five minutes early. I thought that would impress him.
It didn't.
"You're late," he said without looking up from his desk.
I blinked. "Sir, I—"
"You were supposed to have the quarterly files ready on my desk before I arrived. It's eight fifty-one. I said eight forty-five."
Technically true. Painfully true.
My heart dropped to my stomach. "I'm sorry, Mr. Knight. I'll fix it right away."
His eyes finally lifted — grey, unreadable. "You don't fix lateness, Miss Brooks. You prevent it."
I think I stopped breathing for a second.
But then he turned away, already immersed in a report. Just like that — dismissed.
You'd think I'd hate him for it.
I didn't.
Because even in that coldness, there was something strangely magnetic about him.
Like every word he spoke carried gravity.
Like you wanted to do better — for him.
That day dragged on forever. Adrian barely spoke except to correct me — "That's not the correct formatting," "Read before you send," "Pay attention, Miss Brooks."
Each word felt like a little cut on my confidence.
But then, something small happened.
Around noon, I brought him a coffee. He didn't even look up as he said, "You're still shaking."
I froze. "What?"
"Your hands," he murmured, signing a document. "You're nervous. It's distracting."
My first instinct was to apologize, but before I could, he sighed quietly — the kind of sigh that sounded more like concern than frustration.
"Eat something," he said, his tone lower now. "You skipped breakfast again, didn't you?"
My eyes widened. "How— how do you know that?"
He finally looked up. "Because your hands are cold and your voice is slower than usual. Low blood sugar."
That's the thing about Adrian Knight. He notices everything.
Before I could respond, he pulled open a drawer and handed me a small protein bar — neatly wrapped, probably one of his.
"Take it," he ordered.
I hesitated, half expecting him to snap at me again, but there was a softness in his gaze. Barely there, but real.
So I took it.
"Thank you, Mr. Knight."
He said nothing, just returned to his papers. But when I turned away, I caught the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And I swear, my heart betrayed me right then.
---
Later that evening, we left the office together. It wasn't planned —I was just wrapping up work and about to leave home when he decided to head out.
The moment we stepped outside, flashes exploded in my face. Paparazzi.
Apparently, Adrian Knight couldn't walk ten feet without being chased by cameras.
I froze, completely disoriented. The noise, the lights, the people shouting his name — it was chaos.
Before I could react, he was suddenly beside me. One firm arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close against his side.
"Keep your head down," he said, voice low but protective.
My breath caught. I could feel the warmth of his body through his suit, his scent — crisp cologne, faintly smoky — and the subtle press of his hand at my waist guiding me toward his car.
For a man who looked like marble carved into human form, his touch was steady. Grounding.
The photographers shouted questions, but Adrian didn't flinch. He opened the car door for me first, his hand resting lightly on my back.
"Inside," he said. Not cold this time. Just… gentle.
Once the door shut, the world went quiet again.
I turned to look at him as he slid into the seat beside me.
"You didn't have to—"
His jaw flexed. "I did. You work for me. That makes you my responsibility."
There was that word again — mine.
He didn't mean it the way it sounded, but the way his eyes lingered on me made something inside me twist in confusion.
I looked away, pretending to fix my seatbelt, but my heart wouldn't stop racing.
The rest of the ride was silent. The city lights painted his face in silver streaks, his profile sharp and unreadable.
I wanted to understand him — the man who could be cruel in one breath and quietly kind in the next.
But Adrian Knight wasn't someone you understand.
He was someone you learned, slowly, painfully, like a language that only made sense after you stopped fighting it.
That night, lying in bed, I kept replaying the way he'd shielded me from the cameras — the way his hand had rested on my waist like I was something fragile.
And I realized something I didn't want to admit.
For all his sharp edges and impossible standards…
I didn't fear him anymore.
I felt him.
Everywhere.
---