Author pov…

Andrew woke up at 5:00 a.m., barely catching three hours of sleep. As usual, his hand was wrapped around the piece of her clothing she accidentally left behind months ago. The soft fabric still carried her scent—warm, faintly sweet, undeniably her. He brought it closer, inhaled deeply, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

"Mine."

He folded the cloth carefully and placed it back inside the drawer. Without that piece of her, he doubt he'd get any sleep at all. He don't know when this became a ritual, but it's one he can't break.

Like every morning, he hit the gym first. Wrapped his hands with gloves and began pounding the punching bag. Two hours of brutal silence, sweat, and focused rage. Only then did he feel alive.

After a long shower, he stepped into a black tuxedo—sharp, crisp, clean, the usual armor for the day. No tie. Just enough edge to remind people who he is. Then he slid into his car—the purple Ferrari—because that's her favorite. He remember the way her eyes lit up the first time she saw it. And now? He drive it more often than any other.

He pulled up to the back side of Exodus Industries, the company he built, the one he've kept cleaner than a priest's conscience—at least on paper. No matter what the world says.

He don't use the front entrance. Never have, never will. That one's for the media, the staff, and the people who live under the illusion that they know who runs Exodus Industries.

He value his privacy.
No photos.
No appearances.
No CEO awards or public speeches.

No one knows who he is—not in this building, not in the corporate world. And that's exactly how he want it.

The back entrance is his. A place where the shadows are familiar, the security tighter, and the silence absolute. There's a private elevator only he use—key-coded, fingerprint-locked, bulletproof. It goes straight to the top floor, where his cabin sits like a king's throne room above the unsuspecting kingdom.

Today, he don't need a mask, but he carry it anyway. Just in case.
Some days, he wear it for meetings that need reminders. Other days, it just hangs by his side—silent, cold, watching.

He step into the elevator, pressing his thumb against the scanner. A soft beep welcomes him.
"Welcome, Mr. X," the system says.
He smirk.

No one in this building has ever seen the real CEO. They follow orders from the faces he've put up front—spokespeople, directors, figureheads. All puppets. The real strings pull from here.

The doors open with a soft hiss. His cabin is dimly lit, massive windows overlooking the city skyline. Her city now.

He place his phone on the table, sit back in the leather chair, and loosen his cufflinks. Her scent is still lingering on his jacket. Goddamn, he's slipping.

Get it together, Andrew.

Breakfast is usually waiting on the table for him—simple, precise, served warm. But today, he ignore it.

He open his laptop, its screen flickering to life in the quiet of his cabin. Just as the system loads, the glass door opens with a soft hiss.

Daniel Bannet walks in.his secreatry.

Sharp suit. Sharper instincts.

He's been by his side since he was fifteen, assigned by his father when things turned from brutal to bloody. Over the years, he became more than just a secretary—he became his shadow. And unlike the rest, he knows the truth.

He knows about the Black Syndicate. About Exodus. About him.

"Your schedule," he says, placing a tablet in front of Andrew. He nod without looking up. His voice is calm, neutral, always.

"Your first meeting is with Mr. Noah Grayson. In fifteen minutes."

Grayson. Tech investor. Slippery hands with polished shoes. He already don't like him.

Daniel turns to leave, giving him space. Andrew take his phone out of his pocket and dial one of Shayeli's guards. After two rings, the line connects.

"Boss," the man says quietly. "Everything is perfect. No sign of worry. Ma'am left her apartment at 7:30 a.m. sharp. She had a meeting with Mr. Rishi Malhotra—it didn't go well. She turned down his investment proposal. Later, she met a boy in front of her café. Treated him with pastries. His name's Jack, a poor kid from the alley nearby. Everything's safe on her side."

Andrew exhale through his nose. "Keep the patrol rotating," he order. "Two on the roof, one at the back lane, and one in the shop crowd. Don't let her notice."

"Yes, sir."

He hang up.

He know it's not right. Watching her every move. Controlling her safety like she's a delicate pawn in a brutal game. But he can't help it.
He can't lose her.

He still don't know who's behind the threat—who sent that bastard to her apartment that night. Until he know, she's not stepping out of his sight. That's why every night, he walk beside her. Accompany her. Let her get used to his presence, his touch, his silence.

Not as Andrew—the cold CEO.

But as Andrew—the man who only feels alive when she's near.

Andrew glance at the time: 11:12 a.m. he rise, smooth out his black tuxedo, and pull his mask over hisface.

His signature look: faceless and feared.

Daniel follows him as they exit the cabin, heels clicking in rhythm. The private corridor leads them to the meeting room—soundproofed, secure, polished. Just how he like it.

And as the doors open, Mr. Noah Grayson turns toward Andrew, extending a hand with a confident smirk.

He doesn't know who Andrew is.
He just knows the name: Mr. X.
And that's all he needs to fear.

Conference Room – Top Floor, Exodus Industries

The massive oval table stands in the center of the private boardroom, surrounded by the top minds in business, cybersecurity, and finance. The glass walls are polarized, blacking out the outside world. A sleek digital display above shows "Project Helix: Strategic Expansion Proposal".

Andrew, masked and dressed in a sharp black three-piece suit, sits at the head. His fingers are interlocked, elbows resting lightly on the table. Calm. Silent. Observing.

Celina begins, "We've reviewed the Helix pitch. If we allow full API access to external developers, we risk internal vulnerabilities. Legal isn't fully comfortable."

Dr. Kohli adds, "But from a tech standpoint, open architecture will double innovation speed. We just need failsafes."

Darius taps his finger. "What we're proposing is conditional access with back-end monitoring. In exchange, we expect Exodus to shoulder R&D for the next two quarters."

Andrew doesn't speak. He watches. The room waits.

Finally, he leans back and speaks—low, slow.

"I see a room full of experienced minds asking me to give away control... in return for potential."

The room stills.

Celina responds, trying to remain composed. "We're not asking for control. We're suggesting collaboration."

He looks at her.

"Collaboration, when convenient, turns into liability when problems arise. And Exodus does not carry liabilities."

Darius, older and more confident, leans forward. "Andrew, we've all worked with top players. Every powerful name in the market today—"

"And none of them are me," Andrew cuts in softly.

The room quiets again. Andrew doesn't raise his voice. He never has to.

"Here's what I'll offer," he says. "You'll get access. Limited. Monitored. Controlled by a third-tier node under Exodus regulation. You'll share reports weekly. And for every new revenue stream created, Exodus claims 40% ownership."

Dr. Kohli's eyes widen. "Forty? That's excessive—"

Andrew meets his gaze.

"So is trusting outsiders with my infrastructure. This isn't charity."

Andrew stands now, moving toward the digital screen, hands in his pocket.

"You came here thinking this was a negotiation. It's not. This is an invitation. You can take it, walk out with your pride, and share headlines with Exodus... or walk away, and be forgotten like the rest."

No one speaks.

After a long beat, Celina finally sighs. "If we sign, we'll need joint oversight on the legal framework."

Andrew gives a slight nod. "Done. You'll have eyes on paper. I'll keep my hand on the pulse."

Darius laughs under his breath. "You're a hard man to please, Andrew."

He turns halfway, mask catching the light.

"I'm not here to please. I'm here to own."

The contracts are passed around.

Every name signs.

Andrew sighed and glanced at Daniel. One look was enough—he knew what had to be done. As he stood, the room fell silent. The employees lining the hallway straightened up, greeting him with perfect posture and subdued voices. He didn't respond with words—just a sharp nod. That was enough.

The lobby's walls were all glass, sunlight pouring through in clean slants. From the outside, it looked tinted, reflective. No one could see in. He pulled off his mask, letting the cool filtered air touch his face. The air felt lighter without it. Calm.

From my coat pocket, he slid out a cigar, lit it, and leaned against the wall. Smoke curled through the still air—calm, measured, silent. Just like he wanted to be.

Today had been long. Three back-to-back meetings. Every room filled with suits older than him, but not wiser. They talked in circles. He listened. And then he steered.

At exactly 6:30 p.m., he shut his laptop, the room still filled with murmurs and admiration masked as small talk. He ignored them. Daniel followed behind as he walked out. They didn't speak.

45 minutes later

The city faded into the background as he drove. He should've gone to the penthouse—massive, luxurious, cold. But his car turned toward a place far smaller. A two-room apartment that smelled like cherry and quiet comfort. Her comfort.

He entered quietly. The scent hit him like a memory. His mansion never smelled like home. His penthouse? Empty. But here—this place was hers. Hers. And somehow, it calmed something in him.

He set his phone on the dining table, shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and stepped into the kitchen.

Cooking had never been his habit. Not until her. In this place, he didn't need chefs or commands. Just silence, spices, and that ridiculous pink apron she once made him wear. He didn't wear it now. But he remembered the smirk on her face when he did.

An hour later, dinner was done. 8:30 p.m. already.

He hadn't gotten the time to clean the apartment, but it didn't matter. It wasn't a mess—just lived-in. Honest.

He grabbed his keys and drove to her café.

As he arrived, he saw her through the glass—closing the place down, her movements unhurried, soft. Her floral dress swayed slightly as she walked. The lights made her skin glow gold. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

She was the calm after every storm he'd created.

Tonight, they'd eat together again.

.

.

.

As she took another bite of her food, Shayeli suddenly stood up. He watched her silently as she walked over to the table near the couch and picked up the TV remote.

He let out a low sigh, shaking his head slightly.
"You've made it a habit now—watching TV while eating?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder, the smallest smile creeping onto her lips. It was the kind of smile a child gives their mother after begging to watch cartoons.
"I always did," she said softly, her eyes not quite meeting mine. "It's just... I stopped for a while. And anyway, I'm only watching the news. I've sort of developed this new habit—keeping up with that gang tournament thing happening in the country."

Andrew eyes narrowed slightly. Why the hell would she start watching that?

She sat down in front him, flipping to the news channel—the last thing he wanted to see. His hand instinctively moved to reach for the remote again, but before he could, she gently caught his fingers mid-air.

"Just two minutes," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "I promise I'll turn it off after that. Just... trust me for two minutes, okay?"

Her eyes locked with him. No hesitation. No fear. Just that quiet sincerity he'd come to recognize. She wasn't pleading—she was asking him to trust her.

He let his hand fall back, but he didn't pull away. Neither did she. Her eyes returned to the screen. His stayed on her.

She didn't even notice. She was too focused on the headlines, the visuals, the breaking updates. But him? He couldn't look away from her. The way the light flickered across her face, the curve of her lips slightly parted in concentration, the soft grip of her fingers still resting against his fingers.

She's so damn cute.

His gaze flicked to their hands. She hadn't let go. Not even unconsciously. It was natural for her now—to touch him, to trust him. To be close without overthinking it.

And for him?
It was a fucking miracle.

Her fingers were smaller than his, but warm. Confident. Comfortable. He hadn't known peace in years, but in this moment—on this couch, with news blaring in the background and her holding his hand—he found a piece of it.

God, Andrew, focus on your food.

But he couldn't.
Not when she was right here.
And not when the one thing he couldn't control...
Was already inside his chest.

To be continued…