“You’re too beautiful to be alone,” my billionaire boss’s six-year-old son announced in the middle of the executive hallway, staring straight at me as if he’d just made the most obvious discovery in the world. “I think you should be my mommy.” Every person around us froze, and when I looked up to find Adrian Kane staring at me, I was certain my career had just ended in the most humiliating way imaginable.

By 1:00 PM, the Park Avenue office felt less like a global corporate headquarters and more like a high-end daycare crossed with a war room. Noah had exhausted his coloring books, migrated past the iPad, and discovered the joys of spinning in Adrian’s spare leather guest chair until he became dizzy enough to crash into the sofa.

I sat at my outer desk, staring blindly at a financial forecast sheet while my mind replayed Adrian’s words from the morning. He’s not wrong about the looking part. Ridiculous. Utterly, professionally catastrophic. I had spent two years building a fortress of cold competence precisely to avoid complications like feelings, entanglements, and billionaire bosses with cinematic jawlines.

The inner door clicked open, and Adrian walked out carrying two empty coffee mugs. He stopped by my desk, his shadow falling over my keyboard.

"You've barely touched your spreadsheet," he noted, his tone deceptively casual.

"I'm pacing myself," I retorted without looking up. "Some of us have actual work to do, while others are managing domestic crises."

"Is that jealousy I detect in your voice, Miss Miller? Wishing you could spin in a leather chair?"

I finally looked up, narrowing my eyes. "If I spun in a chair, Mr. Kane, I’d at least have the professional decency to do it after hours."

A slow, devastating smile spread across Adrian’s face—a rare, genuine expression that transformed his severe features into something strikingly magnetic. It was the kind of smile that made female executives trip over their own briefcases in the lobby.

"Touché," he murmured, setting the mugs down on the corner of my desk. "Listen, I have a conference call with the Tokyo board at two. It’s going to run for at least an hour. Noah is currently fascinated by the paper shredder. Can you... keep him contained? Bribe him with whatever corporate assets are necessary."

"You want me to babysit your CEO-in-training?"

"I am officially delegating operational control of my son to my most competent employee," Adrian said smoothly, leaning in just a fraction closer. The scent of cedar and rain wrapped around me. "Consider it hazard pay."

Before I could decline, he gave a crisp nod and retreated into his office, closing the glass door.

Ten seconds later, the door to the private suite creaked open. Noah peered out, clutching Gerald under his arm.

"Dad’s on the phone," Noah whispered loudly. "That means we have clearance for an adventure."

"We have no such clearance," I said, pointing a warning finger at him. "Your father said—"

"My father is currently talking to people in Japan about steel manufacturing," Noah interrupted, marching right up to my desk and leaning against my knees. "Steel is boring. Do you know what isn't boring?"

"I shudder to ask."

"The executive supply closet down the hall." Noah grinned, a carbon copy of the expression his father wore right before closing a hostile takeover. "It has the big scissors, the neon sticky notes, and a box of premium imported chocolates that the cleaning lady hid behind the printer."

I blinked. "How on earth do you know about the cleaning lady's chocolate stash?"

"Ghosts see everything," Noah whispered conspiratorially. "Are you coming, or do I have to execute this mission alone?"

Defeated by a six-year-old strategist, I stood up, smoothing down my pencil skirt. "Lead the way, General. But if we get caught, you’re explaining to your father why we’re trespassing in stationary storage."

The executive supply closet was a cathedral of corporate organization. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, laden with pristine reams of paper, custom-embossed folders, and rows of high-end pens. Noah immediately scrambled onto a rolling step stool, his eyes darting toward the top shelf where the illicit chocolate stash was rumored to reside.

"Careful," I warned, stepping closer and hovering my hands around his waist to catch him if he wobbled. "If you fall, your dad will have me drawn and quartered."

"My dad likes you," Noah declared triumphantly, snagging a small, foil-wrapped square of dark Belgian chocolate from behind a box of laser printer toner. He hopped down into my waiting arms with surprising agility, nearly sending both of us tumbling into a pyramid of legal pads.

I caught my balance, clutching him against my chest for a second longer than strictly necessary. He smelled like baby shampoo, sunshine, and faint traces of strawberry juice.

"You talk about your dad a lot," I murmured, setting him back on his feet.

Noah unwrapped the chocolate, popped half into his mouth, and offered the other half to me. I shook my head, but he pressed it stubbornly into my palm. "He doesn't smile much when it's just us at home," Noah said suddenly, his small voice losing its theatrical bounce. "He works on his computer until I fall asleep, and then he works more. The house is too big. It echoes."

A sharp pang of sympathy twisted in my chest. I looked down at the little boy, seeing past the billionaire’s heir to the lonely child living in a Park Avenue fortress.

"He cares about you very much, Noah," I said softly, crouching down so we were eye to eye. "He works hard because he wants to build a good life for you."

"A good life is nice," Noah replied, wiping a smudge of chocolate from his chin with the back of his sleeve. "But a family is better. That’s why you should be my mommy. You’re smart, you don't let him get away with being grumpy, and you smell nice."

Before I could formulate a safe, professional response to that devastating logic, a low, cool voice echoed from the doorway of the supply closet.

"And what else does Evelyn do, general?"

We both jumped.

Adrian was leaning against the doorframe, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing those powerful forearms, and his gray-blue eyes were fixed on us with an intensity that made the air in the small room feel electric. How long had he been standing there?

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