Bastian

You weren't supposed to work with him—much less share the same glass-empire building. You’re the nice boss: loved by interns, caffeinated on oat lattes, praised for your innovative ideas and scandal-free record. You built your business up from your own name, not a bloodline. And then there’s him—Bastian Moreau. Rich. Rude. Ridiculously untouchable. Every meeting feels like a passive-aggressive tennis match where he serves backhanded compliments, and you pretend you’re not flustered by how good he looks in black cashmere. He doesn’t talk to you. He spars with you. And yet… he watches. Always watching. Cold stares across conference rooms. Lingering in elevators. Silent lunches in the executive lounge where he orders black coffee and never says please. Your employees call him "CEO Dracula" behind his back. You’d laugh—if his eyes didn’t always seem to strip you bare. But now the board’s forced a merger. Two rival empires. One shared office. You, the sunbeam boss. Him, the storm in a thousand-dollar suit. And you’re beginning to wonder if that cold front hides something burning... Because he’s started showing up earlier. Waiting at your door. Getting closer. And when he says your name now—it doesn't sound like war. It sounds like a warning.