The CEO Above My Desk Chapter 123

Everything moves too fast after that. Like the second I say yes, the world doesn’t pause... it accelerates.

Rowan doesn’t even look at me again before turning. “I need a white dress,” he says to the store manager, his voice calm, controlled, like he’s ordering a meeting room instead of a wedding. “Something she can wear out. Now.”

The woman straightens immediately. “Of course, Mr. Ashcroft.”

“And shoes,” he adds. “Appropriate.”

Like this is normal. Like this is planned. Like this isn’t happening because everything is falling apart.

My chest tightens.

Rowan doesn’t stop there. “Where are your suits?”

Another woman steps forward instantly, already smiling, already ready. “Right this way, sir.”

He nods once, then glances at me—just once. Enough to make my stomach flip.

“Don’t take too long.”

Not a suggestion.

Then he’s gone.

And just like that, I’m standing there in a boutique, picking out a wedding dress for a wedding happening today.

My stomach twists.

“Okay,” Camille says gently, sliding in beside me like she knows I might bolt if she doesn’t. “We’re not panicking. We’re just… doing a very fast, slightly unhinged bridal moment.”

I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. Almost. “Yeah,” I murmur. “Super normal.”

The store manager gestures toward a section already being pulled apart by staff. White everywhere—lace, silk, satin. It should feel magical.

It doesn’t.

It feels like I’m watching someone else’s life happen.

“Okay,” Camille says again, more focused now. “We’re not doing a big gown. That’s not the vibe. You said you want a real wedding later, right?”

I nod.

“Then this is the placeholder,” she says. “So we make it cute. Re-wearable. Something that still feels like you.”

That helps. A little.

She starts pulling dresses, holding them up against me, turning me slightly, analyzing like she’s done this a hundred times before. “Not that one—too bridal bridal. Nope, too stiff. Absolutely not, you’ll hate yourself in photos.”

Despite everything, I almost smile.

Then she pauses.

“Oh.”

I look up.

And she’s holding it.

It’s simple. Short—just above the knee. White, but not harsh. Soft ivory, almost. The fabric is smooth with a slight structure, hugging the waist before flaring just slightly at the hips, giving it that effortless shape that doesn’t try too hard. The neckline curves gently—not too high, not too low—just enough to feel feminine without being overdone. The sleeves are short, delicate, barely there.

And the back dips just enough.

Not revealing.

Just… intentional.

“It’s perfect,” Camille says immediately.

My throat tightens. “It’s…” I hesitate.

Forced.

Beautiful.

Not what I dreamed of.

“Yeah,” I whisper.

She softens a little. “I know,” she says quietly. “But we’ll fix it later. You’ll get your big moment. This one… we just survive.”

God.

I nod. “Okay.”

The heels she picks are simple—white, closed toe, with a small, clean heel that doesn’t scream wedding but still fits. “You can rewear these,” she says. “Which is important because I refuse to let this be a one-time trauma purchase.”

I huff out a small laugh. “Thanks.”

A few minutes later, I’m changed.

Standing in front of the mirror.

And for a second… I don’t recognize myself.

Because I look like a bride.

Just not the kind I thought I’d be.

My fingers brush the fabric.

This is happening.

I step out.

And immediately, Rowan turns.

He’s already dressed.

And God—that shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does, but it does.

Because he looks powerful.

The suit is dark, expensive in a way you don’t need to ask about. Perfectly tailored, sharp lines, a crisp white shirt underneath, no tie—just enough undone to make it feel intentional.

Dangerous.

Untouchable.

*Mine—*

No.

I swallow.

His eyes lock onto me, and he goes completely still.

For the second time today, I stop breathing.

Because the way he’s looking at me… it’s not casual. It’s not even controlled.

It’s possession.

His gaze drags slowly from my heels, up my legs, pauses at my waist, then higher—like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s claiming me.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath.

Heat floods my face instantly. “What?” I ask, trying to sound normal and failing.

He steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. “You’re lucky,” he says quietly.

My stomach flips. “Lucky?”

His eyes flick to mine, dark, heavy. “That we don’t have more time.”

My breath catches. “Why?” I ask, even though I already know I shouldn’t.

His voice drops lower. “Because I’d bend you over in that dressing room and remind you exactly how much you mean to me before we made this official.”

My heart stutters. Hard.

God.

Something is seriously wrong with me. Because instead of being horrified… I lean in slightly.

“Then you can do that in the courthouse bathroom,” I whisper back.

His jaw tightens. Eyes darkening.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

But there’s no warning in it.

Just promise.

Everything moves quickly after that.

Too quickly.

The store manager reappears almost instantly, all polished smiles and practiced charm, a sleek black tablet in her hand as she approaches Rowan like she’s been waiting her entire life for this exact moment. “Mr. Ashcroft,” she says smoothly, her voice just a little too warm, a little too eager. “I’ve taken the liberty of applying a private client discount to your purchase today. It’s not something we usually offer, but…” She tilts her head slightly, letting her hair fall just enough to frame her face. “For you, I’m sure we can make an exception.”

Rowan doesn’t even look at her.

His attention is still on me.

Still locked in like nothing else in this room exists.

“Mm,” he says absently, already reaching for his wallet.

The manager doesn’t seem discouraged.

If anything, she leans in closer.

“I’m Elena Devereaux, by the way,” she adds, her tone shifting just enough to carry weight. “My father owns Devereaux House—global luxury line? I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

I have.

Of course I have.

And the way she says her last name?

Like it should mean something to him.

Like it should matter.

Rowan slides his card across the counter without even glancing up. “Run it.”

That’s it.

That’s all she gets.

For a split second, something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe even irritation—but she recovers quickly, flashing another bright smile as she processes the payment.

“Well,” she says lightly, tapping away, “if you ever need anything custom, Mr. Ashcroft, I’d be more than happy to personally assist you. Devereaux clients tend to receive… a more curated experience.”

Her eyes flick to me briefly.

Assessing.

Measuring.

Then back to him.

I feel it.

That shift.

That silent comparison.

My stomach twists.

Rowan doesn’t react.

Doesn’t acknowledge it.

Doesn’t even see it.

Because the second the receipt prints, she does something bold.

She turns it slightly, picks up a pen, and scribbles something quickly along the bottom before sliding it toward him.

“My direct line,” she says softly. “In case you need anything… privately handled.”

Oh. Wow.

I blink.

She really just...

Rowan takes the receipt without looking.

Without reading.

Without caring.

“Bag it,” he says, already stepping closer to me again, his hand settling at the small of my back like it belongs there.

Like *I* belong there.

“Yes, of course,” she replies quickly, but there’s a tightness in her smile now, something just a little strained as she hands over the bags.

I watch her.

Watch the way her eyes linger on him.

On us.

On me.

And before I even realize what I’m doing, I reach over. And take the receipt from his hand.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

Rowan doesn’t question it. Doesn’t care.

But I do.

Because as I glance down... There it is.

A name.

A number.

And a perfectly scripted little note:

*Call me anytime. – Elena Devereaux*