Chapter 2

Friday night. I was curled up on my couch, scrolling through TikTok.

This was the happiest time of my week—no KPIs, no fear of Asher, just pure relaxation.

I followed a fitness creator whose username was *Feral*. He didn't have many followers, maybe a few tens of thousands, but his physique was insane.

He never showed his face. His videos only featured his perfectly sculpted, tanned muscles glistening under the gym lights.

*Feral's* style was unique.

He never spoke. He just put on some music and did simple workouts.

But that silent, raw masculinity was way more attractive than those loud, screaming fitness influencers.

Tonight, he was live.

I clicked in. There were only a few hundred people in the livestream. He was wearing a black tank top, doing push-ups. Only his torso and neck were in the frame.

Sweat trickled down his neck, pooling in his collarbone, reflecting the light.

The comments section was wild:

*“Daddy, please!”*

*“I am looking respectfully…”*

*“Feral, please step on me!”*

I smiled and typed a comment: *“Great back workout today.”*

He finished a set and paused to read the chat.

The camera tilted slightly, showing his sharp jawline and Adam's apple. His voice was deep and husky. "Thanks, but today was chest day."

The comment section exploded.

*“Omg his voice is so deep!”*

*“That voice just did things to me!”*

*“Feral, marry me!”*

His voice sounded slightly altered, but there was a bizarre hint of familiarity to it. I didn’t think too much of it.

Just as I was about to type another comment, my phone buzzed.

It was a notification from our WhatsApp work group.

**Asher:** *@Everyone. Tomorrow, 9:00 AM. Main conference room. Project debrief. Elena, you’re presenting.*

I stared at the screen. All my warm, fuzzy feelings evaporated in a second.

Asher.

Asher freaking Vance.

Even on a Friday night, he had to use work to remind me who owned my life.

I replied with a quick "Understood" and switched back to TikTok.

*Feral* had already ended his stream.

Dispirited, I scrolled through a few more videos, then casually clicked on *Feral's* profile. His location tag caught my eye.

He was in the exact same city as me.

What a coincidence.

I didn't think much of it, turned off the lights, and went to sleep.

During Saturday’s debrief, my throat was parched from speaking so much.

Asher sat at the end of the long table, expressionless the entire time. At the very end, he offered just one comment: "Better than last time, but still not enough."

After the meeting, I hid in the stairwell, fuming.

Not enough, not enough, not enough!

Did he not have any other words in his vocabulary?

My phone buzzed. It was a notification: *Feral* had posted a new video.

He was standing in a gym, his back to the camera, pulling his shirt off.

The black T-shirt slid over his head, revealing his tight, powerful back muscles, flexing like a drawn bow.

His caption: *Weekend extra grind.*

Feeling impulsive, I commented: *“Must be nice to control your own schedule. My boss is making me work on the weekend.”*

The moment I posted it, I regretted it. It sounded too personal, like a whining child.

But surprisingly, *Feral* actually replied: *“What kind of boss is that annoying?”*

My heart leaped. I quickly typed: *“An uptight, arrogant tyrant.”*

I didn’t expect him to slide into my DMs directly: *“Care to elaborate?”*

I peeked through the stairwell door to make sure no one was around, then sat down on the concrete steps and started typing furiously.

I listed Asher's crimes one by one: forcing us to work early, never smiling, his psycho obsession with details, his sharp tongue...

After reading my rant, *Feral* replied: *“Sounds like a pain. Is he at least handsome?”*

I paused.

Handsome?

My mind flashed to Asher standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his sharp jawline, and those deep, intense eyes.

*“...He’s alright, I guess,”* I typed. *“But looks don’t pay the bills. When you get yelled at by him every day, even a supermodel would get old.”*

*Feral* sent a laughing emoji. *“Have you considered getting a new job?”*

*“It’s not that easy,”* I sighed. *“And...”*

And what?

And for some reason, I wanted to know if that cold, robotic man in the office actually had other emotions, just like the ones I saw that night through the door crack.

I didn't send that last part.

*Feral* didn't push either.

We ended up chatting about other things—fitness, diet, weekend plans.

He was concise, but he kept the conversation flowing naturally. He wasn't too cold, nor was he pushy.

It was incredibly comfortable.

Before going offline, he wrote: *“Next time he yells at you, just picture him sitting at home in baggy pajamas scratching his feet. Maybe he won’t seem so scary then.”*

I laughed so hard I almost fell down the stairs.

Picturing Asher Vance in baggy pajamas scratching his feet?

That image was too cursed. I couldn't even process it.

But strangely enough, when I saw Asher on Monday, I wasn't nearly as nervous.

He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, standing by the printer with a deep scowl, trying to figure out why the paper was jammed.

I walked over. Remembering *Feral’s* words, I suddenly thought his scowling face looked a bit like... a confused golden retriever?

"Mr. Vance, do you need some help?" I asked.

He looked up, his eyes cold. "No."

Then, he clumsily yanked the jammed paper out himself. His movements were surprisingly awkward.

I bit my lip to keep from laughing and walked back to my desk.

In the afternoon, he called me into his office. He still had that frozen face. "Redo this month’s marketing budget."

"Sure, Mr. Vance."

"Elena," he called out as I reached for the doorknob.

"Yes?"

"What were you smiling about earlier?"

I froze.

"I didn't..." I stammered.