Zander's POV
I pull off the apron and stretch, feeling the satisfying crack of my spine as I exhale.
"Have a good night, Mr. Vale," my personal chef says, gathering his things before heading toward the door.
"You too," I reply.
The moment the door closes behind him, I lean against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck.
Cooking lessons.
Of all the things I imagined myself doing in life, learning how to cook was never on the list.
And yet—here I am.
This is what I've become. A man who spends his nights learning how to dice onions properly so he doesn't poison the love of his life.Well, I think dryly, at least I haven't burned down the kitchen like Mr. Jones and I'm not trying to hence the lessons.
I let out a breath and check the time.
My current daily schedule consists of:
Work.
After work, drive out of town to a secluded cottage and plant flowers by hand.
Drive back, have cooking lessons.
End the night making plans for dates with Ivan.
It's insane.I am insane.
But I don't care.
I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter, about to take a sip when my phone dings.
I glance down at the screen and immediately smile—Ivan.
He's the only one who texts me these days. Honestly the only one who texts me ever.
I reach for the phone, my chest already warming in anticipation of whatever complaint or comment he's about to send—
But my smile falters.
"Come home for family dinner."
Grandfather.
My mood drops instantly.
"Busy," I type back, sending the message without hesitation.
I don't need to think about it.
I know what will happen if I go.
The same old conversations, the same veiled insults, the same suffocating expectations.
I refuse.
Before I can dwell on it, another message comes through.
Ivan.
"So exhausted. I had to hold still for two hours."
My smile returns instantly.
I love these messages—his random rants, his whining, the small glimpses into his life that he shares with me without hesitation.
And, as expected, a few minutes later, my phone rings.
"Hello," I answer, putting the phone on speaker as I head to my office, my hands already reaching for some unfinished work.
I barely get the word out before Ivan launches into a rant.
"Like, does he think I'm a doll or something? 'Ivan, stand there. No, not like that—like this.'"
I chuckle, shaking my head.
I've learned something important over the last few days: When Ivan rants, he doesn't always want a solution.
The first time he told me about something irritating, I had immediately offered to have the photographer replaced—but he had scoffed, telling me he was just venting.
It was a foreign concept to me.
I'm a problem solver. If something is wrong, I fix it. That's how I've always been.
But this?
This is different.
So now, I just listen.
"So how was your day?" Ivan asks after a while, his tone more relaxed now.
I groan, leaning back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"I swear, I'm surrounded by idiots. They forget this isn't the Dark Ages—if I hadn't gone through the final advertisement approval, we would've been blasted for having archaic, outdated views. I swear, these old men should just retire."
I don't even realize how much I'm talking until I stop—and then it hits me.
I told him so much.
Usually, I keep my frustrations private, bottled up beneath controlled expressions and strategic silences.
But with Ivan, I just… say things.
Like it's natural.
Like it's easy.
We talk for an hour.
And when we finally say goodnight, I lean back in my chair, smiling to myself like a fool.
I push my phone aside and turn to my computer, scrolling through my emails, scanning for anything important.
I click through various reports, half-reading them, my mind still lingering on the conversation I just had—
Until I see it.
An email from a designer. I open it without thinking—
And immediately regret it.Images.Of Ivan.In lingerie.
I should close the email.
I should look away.
But I don't.
Instead, I stare.
The sheer fabric clings to his body in all the right places, his skin golden under the soft studio lights.
The designs are exquisite, delicate lace wrapping around his slender waist, framing his perfect thighs, his collarbones, the smooth curve of his back.
And his eyes—
His goddamn eyes.
Sultry. Teasing. Knowing.
Like he's challenging the camera, daring it to want him more.
I swallow hard, shifting in my chair.
I shouldn't be looking at this.
I really shouldn't.
And yet—
I feel it.
The familiar heat pooling in my stomach, the slow, agonizing burn of desire building in my veins.
I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair.
No.
I won't—
I glance around the empty room as if someone might catch me.
Which is ridiculous, because I'm alone.
I press my back against the chair, my hand slowly trailing downward, my pulse pounding.
"I really shouldn't do this."
That's what I tell myself.
But I do it anyway.
I free myself, my fingers wrapping tightly around my length, my breath coming out in short, ragged exhales.
I don't rush—not at first.
Instead, I take my time, my eyes drinking in every detail, letting the images of Ivan consume me.
His lips parted slightly, his body poised like a work of art, his skin so soft-looking I ache to touch it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my hips jerking into my hand as I stroke faster, the tension coiling too tightly inside me.
I barely last a few minutes before heat rushes through me, my body tensing as I spill into my hand with a groan.
The aftermath is instant shame.
I reach for the nearest paper towels, wiping myself off quickly, already feeling ridiculous.
What the hell am I doing?
I inhale deeply, forcing control back into my body, willing away the heat still lingering in my veins.
Then, without thinking, I type out a response to the designer.
"I want all 23 designs."
I send the email.
And then—I just sit there.
The cold air heavy on my exposed lower half, my face buried in my hands.
I am so fucking doomed.