Alexander Reid did not believe in distractions.
Distractions were weaknesses, cracks in discipline that allowed chaos to seep in.
And Alexander Reid had spent his entire life mastering order. He had learned early that control was not optional. It was survival. It was power. It was the only thing standing between dominance and irrelevance.
"Where is the quarterly report I requested yesterday?"
His voice was calm. Measured.
Deadly.
The boardroom went unnaturally still.
Twenty executives sat around the long glass table, the city skyline looming behind them like an audience to their discomfort. Laptops were open. Tablets glowed. Pens froze mid-note. No one spoke.
Alexander's gaze swept the room slowly, deliberately. He didn't rush silence. Silence worked for him.
"Well?" he pressed.
At the far end of the table, a man in a tailored navy suit shifted in his chair. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple as he cleared his throat.
"S–Sir, finance is still reviewing the final projections," he stuttered.
Alexander leaned back slowly, clasping his hands together, elbows resting on the chair's armrests. His expression didn't change. That was what made it worse.
"Reviewing," he repeated softly.
The word hung in the air like a threat.
Everyone in the room knew that tone.
Calm was never a good sign.
Calm meant destruction was coming—quietly, efficiently, without mercy.
"I don't pay people to review," Alexander said evenly. "I pay them to deliver. On time. Ideally before I ask."
The man swallowed hard. "It will be ready by noon."
Alexander tilted his head slightly. "It was due at eight."
Silence.
No excuses followed. None dared.
"You see," Alexander continued, rising from his chair, "delays cost money. They cost confidence. They cost reputation."
He straightened his suit jacket, movements precise, every gesture controlled. He didn't raise his voice. He never had to.
"If any of you cannot keep pace with this company," he said coolly, "then Reid Holdings is not the place for you."
A collective inhale rippled through the room.
"Yes, sir," the man muttered.
Alexander nodded once. "Meeting adjourned."
The scrape of chairs echoed sharply as people rose, gathering their things with hurried efficiency. Conversations were hushed. Eyes stayed down. No one lingered.
Fear followed Alexander as he strode toward the exit—an invisible force tightening spines and quickening steps.
Outside the boardroom, his assistant Clara fell into step beside him, tablet clutched to her chest.
"Mr. Reid, your ten o'clock meeting with the investors has been moved forward," she said briskly.
"Of course it has," he muttered.
She hesitated, then added, "Your father also called."
Alexander stopped abruptly.
Clara nearly collided with him.
"No."
"He said it's urgent."
"It's always urgent," Alexander replied coldly. "Ignore it."
He resumed walking, irritation simmering beneath his composed exterior.
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him inside a box of mirrors.
His reflection stared back at him—perfectly groomed, impeccably dressed, untouchable. Not a hair out of place. Not a crack in the armor.
Alexander exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his jaw.
And then—uninvited, unwelcome—
Her face flashed through his mind.
Flushed cheeks. Messy hair. Eyes too honest for someone drowning in alcohol.
That reckless laugh—sharp and raw and unguarded.
His jaw tightened.
"Enough," he muttered to the empty elevator.
He hadn't thought of her since yesterday morning.
Except he had.
More than once.
The way she'd frozen when he tossed the money onto the bed. The way her chin had lifted, pride blazing through humiliation.
She hadn't taken it.
No one ever refused his money.
The elevator chimed.
Alexander stepped out, posture straightening instantly as the familiar mask slid back into place. Power. Authority. Control.
His office occupied the entire top floor—glass walls framing Manhattan like it belonged to him. Sunlight reflected off steel and glass, the city alive beneath his feet. He dropped into his chair, opened his laptop, and began scanning reports.
Numbers blurred together.
Focus.
Clara's voice filled the room as she outlined his schedule, but her words faded into static.
Instead, another voice surfaced.
"You're quiet," she had slurred, eyes glinting with challenge. "That makes you dangerous."
Alexander snapped his laptop shut.
Clara jumped. "Sir?"
"Coffee," he said sharply. "Now."
She hurried out.
Alexander leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
He had slept with countless women.
Models who posed and preened. Escorts who understood the rules. Socialites who calculated the value of a night before dawn ever broke.
None of them lingered in his thoughts.
None of them mattered.
So why—
He stood abruptly and walked to the window, bracing his hands against the glass.
Why had that night felt different?
It had been messy. Unplanned. No expectations. No negotiations.
She hadn't tried to impress him. Hadn't asked his name. Hadn't clung to him like opportunity wrapped in perfume.
She had challenged him.
"You were drunk," he told his reflection.
So was he.
And yet his body remembered her too clearly—the way she reacted to him, the way she fit against him like she belonged there. Like she hadn't been pretending. Like she hadn't been performing.
His phone buzzed on the desk.
He ignored it.
Clara returned with the coffee, setting it carefully beside him. "The investors are waiting."
He nodded, lifting the cup.
The call was ruthless.
Alexander dismantled arguments with surgical precision. He shut down objections before they finished forming. He commanded the virtual room with quiet authority, bending the deal until it snapped into place.
By the time the call ended, the contract was sealed.
"Well done, Mr. Reid," someone said.
Alexander ended the call without responding.
Praise meant nothing.
The silence returned.
And with it—her.
The way she'd wandered his apartment that morning, disoriented and vulnerable. Naked. Real.
He took a sharp sip of coffee, scalding his tongue.
"You don't care," he told himself.
He didn't even know her name.
Didn't want to.
And yet—the memory of her walking out, refusing his money, refusing him—
It gnawed at him.
By late afternoon, his patience had worn thin. A junior executive stumbled through a presentation, voice trembling.
Alexander cut him off. "Are you nervous?"
The man stammered. "I—I just—"
"Because you should be," Alexander said icily. "You're wasting my time."
The man nodded frantically.
But even as Alexander spoke, his thoughts betrayed him again.
You think you're better than us?
He pressed his fingers to his temple.
Evening descended, the city igniting below him in rivers of light. Alexander stood alone in his office, watching headlights bleed into motion.
Best night of my life.
The thought surfaced—and stayed.
It unsettled him.
He had never thought that about anyone. Never allowed himself to.
Control was everything.
And yet, one nameless woman had slipped through his fingers and lodged herself beneath his skin.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
He stared at it, irritation flickering.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he set the phone down slowly, decisively.
Alexander Reid did not chase.
But for the first time in years, as the city pulsed beneath him and her memory refused to fade, he realized something deeply disturbing.
Control was slipping.