~Leon's POV~
I stepped out of the car, nodding curtly to my primary assistant, Marcus. The business started immediately, with fittings, schedules, and logistics for the next three days.
I needed Becklan out of the way. "Marcus, take Becklan to my suite. He needs to arrange my things."
As Becklan followed my assistant, I turned back to Davies. "Any empty rooms left on this floor? He needs a place to settle his meagre belongings."
Davies quickly checked his tablet. "No, Mr. President. I'm afraid the main house is full. There are no empty rooms left, except for a few empty beds reserved in the larger hostel section for models and support staff, and Suite Three. Suite Three is where the off-duty security detail will be sleeping tonight."
I frowned immediately. "Beck can't share a room," I stated flatly. "He won't be able to sleep with a stranger. It simply won't work."
He paused, considering the cramped options. "Don't worry," I told Davies, waving off his concern. "He will share the room with me."
Davies blinked, adjusting his glasses. "Sir... who will share the room with you?"
"My maid," I replied, as if this were the most normal arrangement in the world.
Davies raised an eyebrow, trying to confirm his sanity. "Mr. President, are you talking about Beck?"
"Yes," I confirmed, ignoring the disbelief in his voice. I explained, lowering my voice, "Beck can't sleep with strangers nearby. When I hired him, he confessed he scares easily and needs a space he can call his own. He said it didn't have to be big, just private. That's why he's the only attendant in my household with a room to himself."
Davies looked at me, his face a perfect mask of confusion, as if trying to confirm if this really was the famously detached President Leon speaking with such domestic familiarity about his male attendant.
He was about to speak when Beck returned. He looked slightly distressed.
"Sir, where will I be sleeping? They said the rooms were full."
Then, Frank walked over, all easy smiles and unsolicited offers.
"Becklan! If there's no room for you, you can definitely share the room with me," Frank offered.
I immediately cut in, asserting my control. "I'm his boss, Frank. It's my responsibility to decide where he sleeps. That's none of your concern."
After my possessive display, I quickly turned to Becklan. "You will be in the room next to mine. Suite Three. Go arrange your things."
There was no way I would tell Beck he'll be sharing the room with me in front of Frank. Frank would tease me relentlessly about it for months, treating it like some romantic scandal.
Beck's face fell slightly, but he simply nodded. "Yes, Sir. I'll go arrange my things." He quickly departed.
After Beck left, and Frank thankfully followed him out, Davies turned to me, bewildered. "Why did you send him to the security suite, Mr. President? You just said he can't sleep with strangers."
I returned to focusing on the business papers, a cold smile forming on my lips.
"He won't," I told Marcus. "He will run to my room."
I glanced toward my own suite door. "He won't be able to sleep in that room once he sees the strangers. I guarantee it."
I didn't need to explain why I needed him close. He was mine to manage, mine to control.
Later that evening, after the communal dinner, Becklan came to my door to say goodnight. A formality I found both irritating and necessary.
When he left, I immediately confirmed with my security manager that the off-duty men were already settled inside Suite Three. They were big, serious men.
I knew the sight of them would be enough. He would panic.
I didn't turn in right away. I stayed up, pretending to review documents, but I was counting. Waiting.
I waited until I heard the faint, urgent knocking on my door.
It was exactly as I predicted. He was running back to me.
I waited, forcing myself to look busy, just to let him know he was interrupting me. I needed him to understand the cost of this "privilege," the price of demanding my attention.
The gentle knock came again. "Mr. President."
I stood up and pulled the door open. My face was a mask of cold annoyance. "What now, Becklan? You're interrupting me."
He stepped into the light, clasping his hands together in a pathetic, pleading gesture. His fear was naked.
"Please, Sir," he stammered, his voice trembling and tiny. "Please, may I share your room tonight? I'm scared to sleep in Suite Three."
He looked utterly distraught. "There are two strangers in there. They are very big men, sir. Too big. I can't sleep in that room."
I had to enjoy this. I put on a bored act, letting a smirk touch my lips. "Becklan, do you want me so badly that you can't be away from me for one minute?"
He panicked immediately. "No, sir! The men in that room are just too big. Trust me, I can't share the room with them."
I decided to push him further, aiming below the belt.
"Go and sleep there," I scoffed. "You're very slim. There's nothing for them to touch on your body; everything is bone."
I feigned irritation. "Just go back. I'm not going to share my room with you."
He deflated, his shoulders slumping. "Okay, sir," he mumbled, his voice thick with defeat.
Then he surprised me. "Can you please share Mr. Frank's number? Maybe he could share the room with me."
Frank. The thought of Becklan running to anyone else, especially Frank sent a sharp, possessive jolt through me.
"Frank is busy," I stated flatly. The lie was necessary.
Becklan looked devastated. "Okay," he murmured. He turned to leave, sounding dangerously close to tears. "I'll just… go and sleep in that room, then."
My control was absolute. He was turning back toward danger, willing to face his trauma just because of my rejection.
I couldn't allow that.
"Wait," I commanded, the word sharp.
He stopped instantly.
I let a hint of amusement enter my voice. "Maybe if you beg me one more time, I could let you in."
He spun around, desperation overriding his pride. His eyes were wide and pleading.
"Please, sir!" Becklan begged.
I let the moment hang, savoring his complete surrender. I felt a surge of triumph, watching him sacrifice his dignity for safety.
Finally, I stepped aside, opening the door wide. "Come in, Beck."
He hurried inside, a frantic, small shadow rushing into the safety of my room.
I closed the door and locked it with a sharp click. I let a cold, satisfied smile form on my face.
He was exactly where I wanted him. Safe, contained, and completely dependent on my mercy.
I turned toward him. Becklan was still near the door.
He looked around the massive suite, then back at me, his voice hesitant. "Where… where am I supposed to sleep, sir?"
I walked closer, my voice demanding. "On the floor."
He raised his head, his eyes wide. I could see the confusion and exhaustion battling his fear.
"What?" I challenged. "You don't want to sleep on the floor?"
He hesitated, swallowing hard before asking quietly, "Will you give me a blanket and one pillow, sir?"
"No," I said, instantly rejecting the compromise. "You sleep on the floor just like that. You earned the surface, not the comfort."
He looked at me for a long moment, the hatred in his eyes momentarily visible. Then he lowered his gaze. "Okay, sir."
He was about to obey, dropping his phone and preparing to lie down on the marble floor.
I stopped him. This wasn't about catching a cold; it was about control.
"Stop," I commanded. "Go shower. You will sleep on the bed."
His head snapped up, a mixture of disbelief and hesitant hope flashing in his eyes.
He stammered, "Sir, I didn't pack a change of clothes for the night… I only have what I'm wearing."
I scoffed lightly. "Did you live naked in your past life or something?"
I walked over to my luggage, pulling out one of my new, black silk nightwear sets.
I tossed it at him. "You see why packing a lot of clothes is important now, Beck?"
"Go shower."
He caught the silk nightwear. He stared at it, then back at me. He seemed to forget, for a single, reckless moment, that I was his boss.
With one quick, fluid motion, he ripped off his T-shirt.
I was completely unprepared. My gaze involuntarily fell on his torso.
I caught my surprise quickly, but not quickly enough.
Becklan saw it. He smirked, a small, triumphant curve of his lips.
"Remember, Mr. President?" he challenged, his voice temptingly low. "You told me I'm not attractive and I'm purely bone."
He let his eyes rake over my face, mocking my shock. "So there's no reason to cover myself since I'm not attractive to you."
The arrogance was breathtaking. He stood there, defiant and half-naked, challenging the lie I'd used to cover my attraction in the fitting room.
I listened to his words, but my gaze had already fallen.
His figure was lean, yes, but perfectly sculpted. Not bone. And my face fell, instantly, undeniably, on his damn tiny waist…