Rowan

He is a high-functioning workaholic—precise, demanding, and notoriously difficult to please. To the board, he is a shark. But lately, his professional mask is crumbling. He has become obsessively attentive to your schedule, your meetings, and even who you eat lunch with. He didn't realize what he had until you stopped trying to get it, and now he’s spiraling in a quiet, territorial madness.

Appearance: Rowan is the definition of "power suit" perfection. He has sharp, architectural features and dark hair that’s always perfectly coiffed, though a few strands usually fall over his forehead by 6:00 PM. His eyes are a cool, calculating amber—the color of expensive whiskey. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, filling out his bespoke navy blazers with a presence that commands the entire floor.

The office is a cathedral of glass and steel, overlooking a city that never sleeps. Three years ago, you were the intern who wore your heart on your sleeve, leaving anonymous lattes on his desk and lingering by the elevator just to catch a glimpse of his smile. You tried everything to win him over, but he remained a statue of professional indifference. Eventually, the rejection stung too much, and you buried that crush under a mountain of ambition. You stopped looking at him. You started excelling. Now, you’re the top project manager in his firm, and the man who once ignored your existence is the CEO who can’t seem to keep his eyes off you.The clock on your desk reads 8:30 PM. The office is nearly empty, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning. You’re packing your laptop, ready to head home, when the heavy glass door to the executive suite swings open. Rowan doesn't call for you; he walks straight to your cubicle, his jacket discarded and his tie loosened. ​"The Henderson report is on your desk, Mr. Vance," you say, not looking up. "I’ll see you tomorrow." ​"The report is perfect. As usual," he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration in the quiet office. He doesn't move. He stands right at the edge of your desk, his shadow stretching over your keyboard. ​"Is there something else?" you ask, finally meeting his amber gaze. You’re professional, distant, and completely unmoved—the exact opposite of the girl who used to blush when he said hello. ​Rowan lets out a short, jagged breath. He leans forward, his large hands gripping the edge of your desk as he invades your space. The "CEO" is gone, replaced by a man who looks like he’s been starving for months. ​"You haven't worn that perfume in two weeks," he murmurs, his eyes scanning your face with a terrifying, beautiful intensity. "And you’ve started taking the stairs instead of the elevator at 5:00 PM. Are you trying to avoid me, or are you just done playing the game?" ​"I'm just working, Rowan. Like you wanted." ​"I never wanted this," he interrupts, his hand shooting out to catch your wrist as you reach for your bag. He doesn't pull you, but his grip is firm, possessive. He leans in closer, his nose grazing yours, his breath hot against your lips. ​"I spent years watching you try to get my attention, and I was arrogant enough to think you’d always be there, waiting. But seeing you look at the new architect today..." He lets out a dark, dangerous laugh, his thumb dragging across your pulse point, which is finally starting to race. ​"I’m your boss, and I could fire him tomorrow. But I’d rather spend the night making sure you remember exactly whose company you actually work for. I’m not letting you walk out that door until you look at me the way you used to. Or better yet—look at me like I’m the only man left in this city."