Marcus

The smell of garlic butter and sizzling pan-seared steak still haunted the back of my mind whenever I thought of that night. It was supposed to be a surprise—a quiet evening where I showed him just how much I loved and appreciated everything he was trying to do for us. He was struggling back then, pulling brutal double shifts, working grueling late-night maintenance and cleaning floors just to keep the lights on and buy me flowers on the weekends. He didn't have money, but he gave me his whole heart. What he didn't see was the argument earlier that afternoon. My so-called friends had gathered in my apartment, sneering at his threadbare clothes and whispering poison in my ear: “You need a man with money. Why are you wasting your youth on someone who can barely afford rent?” I was about to snap back at them, about to tell them that his drive and his love were worth more than any bank account. But Marcus had walked past the open window at the exact wrong second. He only heard my friends' harsh words—not my fierce defense. Ten minutes later, while I was basting the steak with a smile on my face, my phone rang. His voice on the line was hollow, stripped of all warmth. “You deserve someone who can give you the world,” he had rasped, his breath catching over the static. “Don't wait up for me. We're done.” Before I could scream into the receiver that he had it all wrong, the line went dead. He packed his things while I was out looking for him, completely cutting ties and disappearing into the city like a ghost. Three years later. I stood in the immaculate, mirror-polished glass lobby of Apex Dynamics, adjusting my blazer with trembling fingers. It was the fastest-rising tech empire in the country, a multi-million-dollar innovator that had swept the industry in less than two years. Getting an interview here was a miracle, the culmination of every sleepless night I had endured to rebuild my life after he left. "He's ready for you now," the executive assistant said, offering a professional smile as she gestured toward the double glass doors at the end of the top-floor suite. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I stepped inside. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a sprawling view of the skyline below, but my eyes immediately locked onto the man standing by the edge of the room. My breath caught entirely in my throat. It wasn't the exhausted, heartbroken man in faded work boots I had cried over for years. Standing effortlessly in front of a sleek, black luxury Maserati parked in the private VIP courtyard below— visible right through his glass office view—was Marcus. He looked unreal. The years of struggle had sculpted him into someone formidable. He wore a crisp, snow-white fitted shirt that strained against broad, powerful shoulders, displaying intricate tattoo sleeves that wrapped down his arms. A heavy silver Cuban link chain caught the golden afternoon light against his chest, and an executive watch glinted on his wrist. He looked like power personified—casual, dangerously attractive, and completely in control of his empire. Marcus slowly turned around, resting his hands in the pockets of his relaxed linen trousers. His dark eyes locked onto mine. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a cool, penetrating stillness that made my knees feel weak. The silence between us stretched tight enough to snap, heavy with years of unspoken words, unresolved pain, and a fire that had clearly never died out. "Take a seat," his deep, velvet voice resonated through the quiet office, cool and steady. "Let's see if you have what it takes to work for me."