Behind Closed Doors

Nathaniel Cross is a man of clockwork precision and cold steel. As his executive assistant for two years, I’ve memorized the rhythm of his life: the 5:00 AM gym sessions, the double espresso at 7:15, the ruthless way he deconstructs underperforming assets by noon. He is the sun in our corporate solar system—blinding, powerful, and utterly unreachable.

He’s also the man who has haunted my dreams since the day I walked into his glass-walled corner office.

Tonight, the office is a tomb of polished marble and silence. It’s 12:15 AM. I’m only here because a courier messed up a delivery of sensitive contracts for the Singapore merger, and I needed to ensure they were in his safe before morning.

I’m locking the cabinet when I hear the heavy click of his office door.

I freeze. Nathaniel left four hours ago. He was supposed to be at a charity gala at the Met. But as I peer around the corner of my cubicle, I see him. He isn’t in the tuxedo I’d seen hanging in his dressing room earlier. He’s in a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and a t-shirt—a version of him so casual it feels like a violation to witness.

He doesn’t see me. He walks with a predatory grace toward the private elevator, his phone pressed to his ear.

"Is the room ready?" his voice echoes, deeper and more resonant in the empty office. "Good. No audience tonight. Just the equipment I requested. I’m in a... particular mood."

The elevator dings and he’s gone.

My heart is hammering against my ribs. A particular mood. The way he said it—thick with a dark, velvet promise—makes a heat bloom in the pit of my stomach that I have no business feeling.

I should go home. I should take my keys, walk to the subway, and forget I saw him. But the curiosity is a living thing, a clawing itch. I know Nathaniel Cross’s schedule. I know his mistress—or lack thereof. I know his bank accounts. But I don’t know where a man like him goes after midnight in a leather jacket.

I grab my coat and follow.

The tracking app on my phone—the one I use to ensure his car service is always on time—shows his black SUV moving toward the Meatpacking District. It stops in front of a nondescript warehouse with no signage, only a single red light above a heavy steel door.

I pull my cab over a block away and wait. I watch him exit the car. A massive man in a suit greets him with a nod, not checking ID, just opening the door as if Nathaniel owns the place. Maybe he does.

I wait five minutes before I approach. My breath hitches as I reach the red light. I’m wearing a professional wool coat over my pencil skirt, looking every bit the EA I am. The bouncer eyes me, his expression impassive.

"I'm with Mr. Cross," I lie, my voice trembling only slightly. "He... forgot something."

The bouncer looks me up and down. For a second, I think he’ll turn me away, but then he speaks into a lape...