Chapter Text
“Sir, you’re not allowed to be here.”
I don’t look up.
It’s hard to miss his voice as it echoes in the dead quiet of the room, cutting across the soft hum of my laptop. My willful ignorance is a blatant move to be disrespectful, more so when I’m barely six feet from the one who had called out to me, at a monitor illuminating radiant blue light in an office with row upon row of empty desks and black screens, abandoned to the darkness of a very late night. The only other light sources are my phone screen, which flashes on as a notification comes through, and from the hallway, where the voice hails.
“Sir,” he says again, louder.
I strike the keys of my laptop harder to maintain my concentration, which fizzles immediately when he speaks again.
“Sir,” he says, for the third time, projecting with the obvious intent of intimidation, “you’re really not allowed to be in here.”
Heaving a sigh, I slide my glasses from my nose and swivel in the desk chair to face him, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. His silhouette, backlit as he stands in the doorway, suggests he’s as young as he sounds; a solid build across his shoulders and not very tall, and most notably, shaggy hair that falls in loose, messy waves down to his shoulders that could be fixed with even a $10 haircut. I peg him as a fresh high school graduate looking to make it out of his small home town, but if he’s trying his luck in California, he should have headed to Hollywood. Nothing about him indicates he has the brains for a Bay Area start-up.
“You must be new,” I say.
It’s his turn to ignore my comment. “This building is private property. Do you work here?”
I turn back to my laptop. “Maybe that’s something you should have asked first.”
I can hear the frown in his voice. “Do you have your work ID?”
“Sure.”
“Can I see it, please?”
“Maybe next time,” I murmur, continuing my work. I only have a few more lines of code to go, and it would be easier without some country bumpkin security guard distracting me.
“There won’t be a next time,” he says, clearly annoyed.
His comment makes me laugh. “That’s a shame. You’ve only just started.”
It seems I’ve ruffled his feathers. He strides up to my desk, crossing his arms pointedly in my peripheral vision, but he doesn’t make a move to touch me. If he’s as fresh as I think, he likely won’t want to cause trouble so early in his job. I wonder if he suspects that I’m more than I let on, but I figure I should take my leave before he really does try to kick me out.
“Fine. I’m going.” I’m done for the day anyway. I’ve worked far more hours than is healthy. Even when I’m sleeping, I dream that I’m in the office, writing line after line after line of code.
The boy squares his shoulders, gritting his teeth. “That’s not the problem.”
I don’t pay him any attention when he begins his spiel on trespassing and legal action, powering down my device and throwing my suit jacket over my shoulders. Into my pocket goes my phone, and into my leather briefcase goes my glasses in its case. The boy pauses when I pick my bag up to leave, stepping in my path as I move to leave.
I stare him down. He isn’t very tall; if I rise onto my tiptoes, I could likely see clear over his head, putting him at 5’6” at the most. He seems to falter at my height, even though I’m not a particularly large person, and with arms like those, I would expect he would have no trouble against someone like me. I can’t help but think he seems far too young to be in security, let alone patrolling a night shift alone in a building of this size. Yet, there he is, with a lanyard around his neck and dressed in an unflattering grey uniform that frumps everywhere except his itty bitty little waist, hugged by the belted waistband of his pants. I do have to admire the biceps.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asks, firmly.
“Not really.” Oh, to be young. I remember when I took my job far too seriously. It was a waste of time, and look where it got me. Working absurd hours for all the wrong people. I tuck my hands into my pockets, leaning my hip against the desk, which makes him frown. “What’s your name, boy?”
He rakes back his honey-brown hair, brow furrowing. His brown eyes are so large on his face that he looks almost frightened, but I can’t help noticing his features: the high nose, shapely jaw, and the thick eyebrows knitted together with agitation. He’s strong masculine features softened by long lashes, full lips, and youth, the poster child for teenaged heartthrobs and TikTok wannabe influencers. He could easily be a model with a face like if not for his height and all of that damn hair.
I wait for his answer. He still seems uncertain but responds: “Berlin.”
Cute. Very cute. It suits him.
“Listen, Berlin,” I say, cutting back enough on the sarcasm that it might go over his head, “have you ever heard of Google?”
His sceptical look shifts to a deadpan glare.
“I’ll take it that you have.” I flash him a smile. “I know I’m not your boss, so I really shouldn’t be telling you how to do your job, but I would have thought that your team would tell you a little bit about the company that operates in this building.”
I’d like to think he’s blushing, but now that the only lightsource in the room is whatever is being diffused from the hallway, I can barely make out colour, but I don’t miss the way he deflates, or how his expression loosens. He lets me by as I grab my briefcase and brush past him to take my leave. I partly expect him to come after me, blathering arguments, but he doesn’t.
The interaction amuses me so much I almost wonder if I should stay late to run into him again, but that’s not a decision I have to make actively. With the accounts I manage, my workload keeps me late in the office not a week later, and long since the building has cleared and the lights have shut off in the main building, I find myself glancing up to see a familiar silhouette wandering past. I feel myself smirk in amusement.
I know he’ll have spotted me in my private office. My door is open and the light is still on, and the room isn’t much more than a glass enclosure with patterned frosting, but I take it he’s too embarrassed to acknowledge my existence now that he likely knows who I am. But, no sooner have I redirected my attention back to my screen, finishing off a sentence in my e-mail, does his voice interrupt the comfortable, humming silence.
“Mr. Park,” Berlin says, suddenly enough that I jump a little in my seat.
I look up to see he’s in my doorway. His hair is pulled back in a little ponytail at the nape of his neck today, and while it’s still unsightly, it’s at least a little bit more intentional. I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgement, and then turn back to my e-mail. “Good evening, Berlin. I see you’ve done your homework.”
I hear him scoff. When I glance up, Berlin has whipped out his phone, scrolling with his thumb.
“Joseph Park is an American computer programmer, entrepreneur, investor, and philanthropist, best known for founding CyberJob, a cybersecurity company specialising in advanced threat protection and network security.” He gives me a pointed look.
“You found my Wikipedia page.”
The boy tucks his phone back into his breast pocket before brandishing his arms out to gesture around the room. “You own the company. Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Technically, I’m a shareholder,” I tell him, hitting the send button and looking up. “And also, I thought it would be funny to tease you.”
“Well, I kind of knew who started CyberJob when I started here,” the boy continues, unbothered by my comment. “But your Wikipedia page is really short, and it doesn’t have a picture of you, so I had no idea what you looked like. I know that’s not an excuse though, so I’m sorry I was so rude to you yesterday.”
“You don’t have to apologise, you’re not losing your job. I told you, I just wanted to make you sweat a little. Anyway, it’s not the first time it’s happened.”
“My mom taught me to apologise if I’m in the wrong. I’ve done it all my life, and I’m not about to stop now. It’s because of your ethnicity isn’t it? I didn’t realise that Park is also a Korean surname.”
I pull off my glasses to check his expression, not sure what to say. Not a lot of people admit to their racial profiling, however subtle. Berlin doesn’t appear to be digging for praise. His acknowledgement of error is as casual as a throwaway line, a mere observation, as objective as remarking on the weather. Most people would find it embarrassing to be perceived as ignorant, so I find it oddly refreshing, if not a little naïve, that he’s opening himself up to be seen as such.
“Anyway,” he says finally. “I just came to apologise. I’ll leave you to your work.”
“It’s fine. I’m more than done.” Any more work and I’ll pass out at the desk. I haven’t eaten since the pack of sushi I’d had at lunchtime, and all I want now is a nice glass of red.
Berlin stiffens to attention. “Should I see you out?”
“I’m sure I can find my way to the elevator.” I slide my laptop into my briefcase, followed by the rest of my loose items one at a time. “My car is just parked downstairs.”
“You drive to work?”
“I don’t take the bus, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I know he probably didn’t think so. Having read my Wikipedia page, he probably assumes I’m chauffeured to and from the office and own a private island that I escape to every time I need a holiday. He doesn’t say any of that out loud, wedging his hands in his pockets as I zip up my bag and pick up my coat to leave.
Berlin joins me as I walk to the elevators, standing dutifully beside me on the ride down. I expect him to wander back into his little security room behind the reception desk when he strides ahead to press the exit button for the entrance, opening the door and holding it for me.
I can’t help but stare at him. “Are you really walking me to my car?”
“Would you like me to?” he asks, completely serious.
I jerk my thumb to the only vehicle in the lot, not ten feet from the door. “It’s right there. I’ll be fine.”
His face breaks into a grin, which reveals a snaggletoothed canine that gives him a cheeky, doggish look that suggests he’s not as straight-laced as he first seemed, after all. “Okay. Goodnight, Mr. Park.”
The corner of my lips tug up instinctively. “Goodnight, boy.”
Berlin dutifully closes the door behind me after I step outside. I give him a noncommittal wave, feeling my phone vibrate as I walk the short distance to my car. It’s not hard to predict who’s calling me past ten o’clock at night, and a quick glance at the screen confirms my suspicions, which means I have no option but to take it.
“Wright,” I say into the phone. I throw the door of my car open and toss my briefcase inside as a low chuckle greets me.
The sound travels down my spine and settles deep in my empty stomach. Like always, I can’t help but feel he’s somehow watching; a quick look around yields no one else in sight save Berlin, who peers from the glass panes of the door, giving me a thumbs up now that I’ve safely made it to my car before trotting off.
“Joseph. Darling.” The phone, having connected to my car automatically via Bluetooth, plays the deep, resonant voice through the speakers. It makes my chest seize, and as the adrenaline rushes to my fingertips I throw the car into drive, crossing the white lines of the parking lot in my rush to exit, as if I can escape him. “I take it you’ve clocked off.”
“You can’t convince me that you don’t have a fucking camera following me around,” I grumble, which earns me another laugh. “What do you want, Wright?”
“Well, I thought I should check in on you. We were supposed to have drinks tonight.”
My stomach drops. Fuck. It completely slipped my mind with the dozen other requests he’d made of me, and while the rest of them had been made in a more official capacity as my main client, I expect that this invite had been the most important.
“I forgot,” I retort, as haughtily as possible. Wright can detect fear like a shark smells blood, so in the years that I’ve known him, I’ve learned that attitude is the easiest way to mask it. “I was at work. Doing what you asked me to do.”
“I know, darling, it’s all my fault. But a date is a date. Meet me in our usual room.”
“You’re staying in San Francisco?”
“I have other business,” he says simply. “Come. I’ve got a Bordeaux on ice, and I’m not finishing it on my own.”
He hangs up before I can respond. Wright doesn’t need to know what I have to say, because he knows I’ll be there, and even though I want the satisfaction of standing him up, it turns out that I just want to meet him more. Predictably, I find myself in a hotel elevator, stepping off to knock on the door of the suite he often books for his stays in the city, drawn to him like I’m under hypnosis, knowing my body desires the urge to see him more than it fears denying him.
The man who answers is not Wright, but someone I know just as well: Jacob Ellis, Wright’s most trusted lieutenant, and for good reason. He’s sharp and exceptionally capable, the sort of ex-military man whose loyalty to his employer far exceeds a reasonable contract. Despite his height and good looks, he’s surprisingly unassuming, so generically handsome that he’s just another face in the crowd, one that might draw the eyes but never compel them to linger, like a B-list actor or a stock image model. Even his body, densely packed with muscle, is carefully masked by modest clothes that suit him, but never seem to flatter. It makes him blend into his surroundings, allowing him to observe in silence, nothing but a fly on the wall, or a shadow in the background. It’s sometimes unsettling to notice him hiding in plain sight, knowing that he’s seen every unfiltered thing you did before realising that he’s right there, particularly when paired with a face that never moves, and never gives away any of what he thinks or feels.
His dark eyes slide down to mine, as expressionless as ever.
“Park,” he says curtly, standing aside to let me in.
“Ellis,” I reply, brushing past him. “Would it hurt you to pretend you’re happy to see me?”
He says nothing, but his intense stare follows me into the suite, as if I’m plotting to pull a knife on his employer. I’m more distracted by the decor; Wright likes a touch of extravagance with his accommodations, opting for hotels that offer suites with architectural embellishments. There’s coloured wallpaper and patterned carpet, a textured headboard, detailed lamps, furniture like the bed bench and the chaise onto which I dump my bag. It’s all a bit much for me. Even the champagne bucket is an intricately-shaped vessel embossed with the hotel logo, though I suppose it’s better than having it be something akin to a garden pail.
I pull the bottle from the ice to check the label. La Mondotte. When Wright drops money like this on a casual Friday night, I really can’t be mad.
“He’s in the bathroom,” Ellis says, watching me pick up the waiter’s corkscrew.
I raise my eyebrows, making a show to glance into the bedroom before cutting the lip of the foil. “Thanks for the tip. I thought he’d be hiding under the bed. Care for a glass?”
“I’m on duty.”
A smirk pulls up before I can stop it. I pop the cork, pouring out a generous serving and sauntering over to him. “If you're still on duty in ten minutes’ time, that means you'll either be watching, or joining. So what will it be?”
Ellis glares at me. I’m amused when he takes the proffered glass, until he glances over my shoulder into the bedroom and asks, “Do you need me, boss?”
I whip around to see Wright, just as he emerges from the bathroom. “No. You’re free to go.”
“Fine. I’m clocking off,” he says, and tosses his head back, the wine going with it.
My jaw drops. “Jacob.”
I turn to Wright, gesturing at his lieutenant, but he’s busy towelling off his hair.
“Drive safe,” Wright calls.
An empty wine glass is shoved in my hand. I fumble not to drop it.
“You drank it one go,” I scoff, but Ellis is already out the door, which locks behind him. “That fucking— That was fifty bucks’ worth of Bordeaux!”
“I can order another bottle,” Wright suggests, sauntering towards me and sliding a hand to the small of my back. My scowl loses its edge, which makes his grin grow wider. “Or we can spend less time enjoying wine.”
Alec Wright is… intoxicating.
It’s not just the way he had emerged from the bathroom in nothing but a pair of silk pyjama bottoms and a towel thrown over his shoulders, thick, salt-and-pepper hair flecked with moisture and steam still rising off his bare skin, carrying with it the scent of his skin and expensive bergamot soap. It’s not just the way he looks, tall and broad, with wide shoulders and bouldering arms, his physique as strong as it is healthy, the musculature softened by fleshy weight that hugs him in just the right way. It’s also in the way he conducts himself, making use of his height with his upright posture, his full beard immaculately trimmed and his nails cut neatly down to the quick, the way he exhales, almost growling, as he pulls me in closer, dark eyes glittering as he drinks me in.
Wright has aged like fine wine since I met him eighteen years ago, and at 51 years old, he still oozes testosterone. Regardless of how many times I’m in this proximity to him, my body always heats up at his touch, excitement racing up my spine right before I yield to him, meeting his lips for a kiss.
“You and Jacob always get along well,” he muses, before he kisses me again. “Must be because you kids are about the same age.”
I frown, tucking a tuft of loose hair behind his ear. Wright calls most of the people younger than him ‘kids’. I thought it was strange until I hit a certain age, and noticed how clueless some people are, even if only a few years my junior. “I never know what’s going on inside that head of his.”
Wright eases himself off me and dumps his towel on the bed bench, laughing at my comment. “You surprise me more often than he does, darling.”
“That’s obvious. Ellis only does what you tell him to do.” I pour myself a glass, biting the inside of my cheek when Wright pries it from my hand, his fingers grazing mine, lingering for much longer than necessary during the exchange.
“Thank you,” he says, eyes twinkling as he presses something to my lips. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
I obligingly take it, piercing the skin with my teeth to reveal the flavour of a grape. I hadn’t even noticed the platter beside the wine, arranged artfully with a selection of cheese, crackers, and fruit. Wright plucks another off the stem, popping it into his mouth.
“I’m going to guess you haven’t eaten since lunchtime,” he says. “It’s not good for you darling, when I know you’re working so hard.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Wright shrugs, taking a sip of his wine. “I know, I’m a tricky client. Very demanding. Always on your back.”
I raise my glass, now full and at no risk of being thieved. “This is my therapy.”
His dark eyes follow as I take a sip and swirl the wine in my mouth. I’m trying not to crumble under his gaze, or fall apart as he sets down his glass to take hold of me again, though this time he thumbs my waist as his hands slide to my hips, his gaze not once leaving mine.
“Good?” he says softly, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating in my stomach.
“It’s a $300 bottle of wine,” I remind him.
Wright smirks. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
Before I can respond, his lips are on mine, my hands relieved of the wine I’d taken so long to procure. I find I’m not bothered, searching instead for Wright’s face, savouring the way his beard feels under my fingertips. My mind is consumed by the way his lips pry mine apart and the taste of the wine on his tongue as it slides against my own. His exhale is so heavy with satisfaction that it’s more like a growl, one that I swallow at desperately like a drink that will never quench me. Even so, I can’t help but believe that the next mouthful will be the one that finally appeases my hunger for him. It never does.
Wright lifts himself from me, hovering just out of reach. His eyes are so dark in colour that only at this distance can I see a rim of brown circling the iris, like black coffee against the angled wall of a white cup. I wonder what they’re searching for so intensely on my face. Years ago, I might have been terrified to be in his scrutiny. Now, I’m fearful that he doesn’t find whatever he’s after, my shallow breath trembling as I anticipate his next kiss.
Everyone is scared of Alec Wright, and rightly so. On the surface, he’s an upstanding man. A successful businessman, a committed single father, a benefactor to many, including myself. His strong features are attractive. His silver tongue captivates audiences. His demeanour demands attention, and his charisma is so alluring that it makes people scramble to be favoured by him. One might think that being in his proximity is a privilege, until it becomes quickly evident that to be regarded by him requires ruthless ambition and a flawless performance of whatever role he has assigned to you. For people who can’t meet those expectations — it’s easier to say that there aren’t too many of them. It is just my luck that I am clever enough to be good at what I do, though I can never discount the possibility that one day, I will make a mistake so irreparable that I’ll find a barrel pressed against my temple.
His lips stretch wider.
“Joseph, darling,” he croons, so softly that I wonder if I had only wished that he had said what I had heard, until he tilts his head to kiss me again, lifting the shirt until his hands find my skin.
I always say that Wright is a man who you’re better off not knowing, but to me, Wright is dangerous for two more reasons.
The first is that I am in love with him, and that I have been for eighteen years.
The second is that he knows.
And because of that, I can’t stop him. I never have, and I never will.