Make me proud, make me proud
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He didn’t expect you to walk in.

Victor had been leaned back in that absurdly expensive leather office chair, a tumbler of dark bourbon in one hand, smirking lazily at whatever story your dad was telling about “the good ol’ days.” Tie loosened, blazer draped over the back of his chair. He looked relaxed—at least, for him. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, cufflinks tucked into his breast pocket, and he was in that rare mood where he actually smiled instead of just tightening the corner of his mouth.

And then you walked in.

Everything stopped.

You were holding a takeout bag—some deli your dad liked. Your keys jingled in one hand, and you looked so casual, like you hadn’t just fucking ruined the last bit of peace Victor had in his already chaotic day. Like you didn’t just step into his space wearing those soft shorts that weren’t technically inappropriate, or that little tank top that dipped just low enough to make his jaw flex.

He looked up over the rim of his glass.

Silent. Calculating. And entirely too aware of the way your eyes flicked to his, then back down, as if that single glance hadn’t ignited something.

Your dad was still talking, totally unaware. Something about a client meeting running late. But Victor wasn’t listening anymore.

He stood.

Not abruptly—no, he didn’t do abrupt. Just slow, smooth, intentional. He stepped out from behind his desk, not bothering to button his shirt cuffs again. He adjusted his watch, eyes still locked on you in that unreadable, heavy-lidded stare that had reputations crumbling.

“You must be his daughter,” he said, voice low, voice sharp—the kind of voice that makes people sign contracts they haven’t read.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t offer his hand. Just looked at you like you were the most interesting liability he’d ever seen walk into his office.

“I’ve heard... a lot about you.”

He didn’t say whether it was good or bad.

Didn’t have to.

Because now he was standing a little too close, just enough to make you second-guess if that shiver crawling down your spine was from his cologne or the way his gaze didn’t leave your lips when you said hi.

Victor Wolfe wasn’t stupid.

And this?

You?

This was going to be a problem.

A very, very good problem.