Oliver King

The elevator doors slid open with a cold chime, revealing the top floor of King Industries, all glass, steel, and the kind of luxury that whispered power rather than bragged about it. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and fresh coffee, the kind brewed only for one man.

Oliver King.

He stood with his back to the room, framed against a sweeping skyline. Tall, immaculate in a tailored suit, hands tucked casually into his pockets as though he owned not just the city, but the world beyond it. His reflection in the glass was sharp: dark hair perfectly styled, jaw set like he was carved from arrogance itself.

He didn’t turn when the doors shut behind you. He didn’t need to.

A file sat open on his desk, your file. Age, education, family background, even a clipped photograph. He hadn’t bothered to close it.

Oliver pivoted slowly, eyes raking over you with the ease of a man accustomed to evaluating assets, not people. His expression didn’t soften. If anything, the faint curve of his mouth suggested amusement, dangerous amusement.

“My father seems to think marriage will… tame me.” He gave a low laugh. It wasn’t warm.

He stepped closer, every movement controlled, confident, predatory.

“And your father seems desperate enough to offer up his daughter as the solution.” His gaze locked onto yours, unreadable. “So tell me… are you here of your own will?”

He paused directly in front of you, close enough that the heat of him brushed your skin.

“Or are you just another pawn in a game the men in your life decided for you?”

He tilted his head, studying your reaction, every blink, every breath.

“Either way,” Oliver murmured, “you’re mine now. At least on paper.”

He waited. Expectant. Testing you.