#gambit 2012

[mydearestdarlingdead]

They make me ill in the immensely pleasing way

[smilingformoney]

BREAKING NEWS: LIONEL SHABANDAR SEX TAPE LEAKED

This morning, our staff arrived in the office and found a bulky envelope waiting for us, marked: Lionel Shabandar sex tape.

Needless to say, the ladies in our staff raced to watch it and they can testify - it's real, folks. No deepfakes or lookalike actors. Media mogul Lionel Shabandar is… Read more

Ironically, you were bent over the kitchen table when it happened.

Somewhere in the cacophany of your moans, Lionel's growls and the wet sounds of hips pounding against your arse, you heard Lionel's mobile ringing.

"Nants ingonyama bagithi baba!" the phone announced, because of course Lionel's ringtone was the opening song from the Lion King.

"That fucking ringtone," you groaned in frustration.

Lionel just chuckled in the infuriatingly attractive and obnoxious way that he did, and kept pounding into you, ignoring the phone.

It stopped after a minute, and you breathed a sigh of relief — only to hear, only a few moments later:

"Nants ingonyama bagithi baba!"

You ignored it again, trying to pay attention to the way Lionel's cock was stretching you out — and fortunately, shortly after the phone began to ring a third time, Lionel's hips stilled as he let out a long groan, and you felt the familiar warm feeling of his seed filling you up.

He leaned over you and kissed your shoulder gently, murmuring words of praise as he carefully pulled out of you — and his phone began to ring again.

"Just answer it, Li," you sighed.

"Someone had better be bloody dead," Lionel grumbled. He pulled up the pants and trousers he'd left pooled around his ankles when he'd spontaneously decided to fuck you over the table, and you heard his bare feet on the carpet as you carefully pushed yourself upright, legs still trembling slightly.

"What is it?" Lionel snapped into the phone. "No, I haven't. … Why?"

There was a long silence. Then:

"…Shit."

You looked over at him and saw what could only be described as sheer dread on his face. Confident, self-absorbed Lionel Shabandar looked as if the person on the phone had just told him his art collection had burnt down and his entire stock portfolio was suddenly worth zero.

He turned away from you and quickly hurried into the next room, phone still glued to his ear as he listened to what the caller had to say.

You quickly grabbed the robe you'd discarded earlier and wrapped it around yourself. You knew whatever Lionel was hearing was bad, and you knew you'd only get in the way if you followed him for answers, so instead you pulled your own phone out of the robe's pocket to search Lionel's name and see if whatever it was was in the news.

Oh, it was in the news alright. It was on Google, Facebook, Twitter, News of the World, the BBC — every media outlet, every social media network, almost every webpage on the entire internet that Lionel didn't own had the same headline.

LIONEL SHABANDAR SEX TAPE LEAKED

Your hand flew to your mouth. That was supposed to be private! He had begged you and begged you for weeks to let him film it.

"It's only for my eyes, darling — and yours, of course. I want to see every angle of you as you take my cock."

He had even filmed it on an old camcorder, on physical tape — nothing digital, nothing that could be hacked. It would never, ever leave his penthouse.

The top trending tag on Twitter was already #shabandarsextape, followed by #shahbandarsextape for those who couldn't spell.

You knew it was a bad idea, but you tapped on the tag anyway and looked through the tweets.

Damn, Shabandar's dick is as big as his ego.

Is Lionel Shabandar single? Asking for a friend (me)

What I wouldn't give to be in Kylie Minogue's shoes… certainly do NOT want to be in [Y/n] [L/n]'s shoes though.

You frowned, confused, at the last tweet. You scrolled a little further, and found someone had actually posted the video, rather than just talking about it — and just from the thumbnail, you could see that it was not your sex tape.

Lionel had filmed it in his bedroom in the penthouse. The background was the bedroom wall you saw every day, with the giant painting of a roaring lion — it was most certainly not a window looking out onto a bright blue ocean.

You tapped on the video, which filled your screen and began to play.

It was not your sex tape — but it was Lionel's.

And Kylie Minogue sounded just as good in bed as she did on the radio.

You knew you should look away, but somehow you couldn't bring yourself to. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen, your thumbs suddenly unable to reach the screen to exit out of the video.

"Don't watch it!" you heard Lionel — the real Lionel — snap, and you were finally able to pull your eyes away from your phone to look up at him. He was flustered, panicking, his phone still in his hand and the call still connected to his PA. He crossed the room and quickly hit the side button on your phone to lock it and stop the video playing.

"Lionel —"

"It's old, from years ago, I swear," he said hurriedly. "I have no idea who leaked it, we're trying to figure it out now. Just don't watch any more of it, okay? And stay off Twitter. Stay off the internet until we figure out what to do."

Before you could say anything, the phone was back on Lionel's ear, and he was barking instructions at his PA as he left the room again, leaving you alone in nothing but a robe, phone in hand but unusable apparently, since Lionel had just ordered you off the internet.

Wait, who was he to tell you to stay off the internet? He didn't own you or the internet, as much as he liked to pretend he did. He couldn't tell you what to do. If you wanted to go on the internet, you damn well would — though you had no desire to watch any more of the video.

Even if you didn't watch the video, there were enough screenshots of it being posted as you scrolled through Twitter again. It was mostly men posting pictures of Kylie Minogue's mid-orgasm face with perverted comments as captions, but there were definitely people thirsting over Lionel too.

When we eat the rich, can we spare Lionel Shabandar just long enough for me to have some alone time with him?

I always judged [Y/n] [L/n] for dating an asshole billionaire, but you know what? I get it now.

I wonder if Shabandar made a sex tape with all his girlfriends. There must be a whole Blockbuster's worth of tapes in that mansion of his.

It wasn't just Twitter that was talking. You logged into Facebook, and you were glad you had notifications silenced, otherwise your phone would have been dinging constantly with all the messages you were getting from friends.

Hey, you okay? Seen the news.

OMG YOU NEVER TOLD ME IT WAS THAT BIG?!

Hi. It's terrible what Lionel's done to you by releasing this video with his ex. If you want to get back at him, you know where I am ;)

Dear [Y/n] [L/n], I'm a reporter with the Daily Mail and I'm writing a story about the atrocious behaviour from Kylie Minogue in releasing this video. Would you be prepared to spare five minutes to share your side of the story?

Theories were being tossed around everywhere. Lionel leaked it. Kylie leaked it. You leaked it. An anti-capitalist hacktivist leaked it. A disgruntled Shabandar Media employee leaked it.

People were complaining that Lionel hadn't said anything about it yet. Little did they know, he had said a lot about it — on the phone to his assistant. You could hear him now, his voice muffled so you couldn't make out what he was saying, but you could tell he was using his angry boss voice. Usually that voice turned you on, but you could hear genuine panic in his voice too, and that just made you worried.

At least you could be sure it wasn't him that had leaked it — but that did beg the question of how someone else got a hold of it. Did that mean there was a digital copy? If this video had a digital copy, did yours too?

The person on Twitter had raised a good point. Had Lionel made a sex tape with all his girlfriends? Did he have a collection stashed away somewhere? Were you nothing but the latest addition to his personal porn collection?

It couldn't have been Kylie that leaked it, surely. Lionel might find a way to make it out of this scandal, but it could be a death sentence for a woman's career.

Maybe it wasn't even about Lionel, maybe it was someone who hated Kylie. But as you read through the different news articles for clues, you saw a few mention that it had been sent to them by an anonymous tipster labelled as "Lionel Shabandar sex tape", no mention of Kylie at all.

When Lionel finally came back into the room, he didn't mention that you were back on the internet. He just sat himself on the sofa and buried his head in his hands.

You hesitated, waiting to see if he was going to do or say anything, but he just sat there, so you sat next to him and placed your hand on his thigh comfortingly.

"You okay, Li?"

"No, I'm bloody well not," he grumbled. His hands fell away from his face and he sat back against the sofa cushions, staring up at the ceiling as the answers lay in the crystal chandelier above him. "This was… unexpected."

You knew Lionel well enough to know that he didn't like unexpected. Pleasant surprises, yes — he loved to come home from work and find you waiting for him when he thought you were in another city. But unexpected problems? He hated nothing more. Lionel was a planner, a strategist — a control freak, some might say. He had back-up plans in case of surprises, for sure — he even had a bunker in the grounds of his mansion in case of apocalypse. But this, he had no plan for, because it was never something he thought might happen.

"Do you have any idea who leaked it?"

Lionel shook his head, still looking for answers in the chandelier.

"Well, I've been reading the news articles, and I think I found some clues."

Lionel abandoned his search for answers in the chandelier, and turned his attention to you instead, listening attentively.

"Every single news outlet that received the tape directly, as far as I can tell, is one of Takagawa's."

"Bastard!" Lionel cursed, sitting up straight. "I should have known he was involved."

"And the other thing is, they say they received it in an envelope marked 'Lionel Shabandar sex tape.' Which means that whoever leaked it, their target is you, not Kylie."

Lionel nodded, thinking. "Mmm. I don't think it was her, it'll ruin her career. So it was someone that wanted to target me… and knew Takagawa would want the heads up."

His eyes widened, realisation dawning.

"Of course. It must have been — but he's not that smart. Is he?"

"…Who?"

Lionel stood up suddenly and grabbed the shirt you'd thrown on the floor earlier in a fit of passion, ranting to himself more than you about how he was going to destroy "him."

"Lionel! Lionel, slow down. Who do you think it was?"

"Who do you think? Someone who knows about my rivalry with Takagawa. Someone I pissed off very recently. It's obvious! Why didn't I think of it before? It was Harry Deane!"

[spectrestrings]

any Lionel Shabandar headcanons? Besides the man mewls in bed?

Title: Infatuated

₊˚୧ PAIRING: Lionel Shabandar x f!reader || Gambit ₊˚୧ CATEGORIES: headcanon | smut | READER 18+ ₊˚୧ WARNING: smut ₊˚୧ WORD COUNT: 1k

⁀.✦ infatuated!Lionel Shabandar will make it obvious that he has set his eyes on you. He is an instinctual man when it comes to love, so if he falls, he falls, and there's no saving it. No matter where he finds you, as long as you have those traits that spark a fire in him, you become his prey. You could be one of his employees, a client, or even a business enemy. No matter what you are to him, he will make sure to sway you off your feet. To him, the hunting game is as exciting as the reward.

⁀.✦ infatuated!Lionel Shabandar studies what kind of romance you crave because he can crash his way into your life based on your preferences. If you enjoy quiet, mysterious romances, he will start off clichés with flowers and chocolates from a mysterious admirer, only that he doesn't bother to bribe the people seeing him into silence, so eventually you come to find out the mystery man is Lionel. If you aren't his employee but a work enemy or a client, things get a bit tougher. He is aware he risks coming off as creepy.

If you are an employee, he can find out easily about your dating life. Whether you are seeing someone or not.

As a client, that's a bit of a tougher job. Lionel, however, doesn't lack the money to find out; anything can be bought, including your friends or if he really gets serious about it, a private investigator. But he tries to leave the latter as a first option since he doesn't want to seem obsessive.

If he finds out you aren't seeing someone, then he starts leaving letters or flowers at your door. There is always the risk you might get freaked out, and in that case, he tries to find a different way to approach it. Silent romancing works harder if you aren't an employee. As a business enemy, things spice up. Ultimately, it is easier to have his gifts delivered to you there.

If you prefer fierce, loud romances, he can surely provide those too; if anything, he enjoys these more. He will shamelessly show up and ask you out, reading your interest in him like an open book. If he notices you hesitate, he will bring you as much proof as you need that he is the right choice. Manners and elegance, finances, great future prospects? You've got them all with him. Intelligence, wit, humour? Lionel isn't shying away in those departments either, so he will make you realise he is undeniably a good match.

⁀.✦ infatuated!Lionel Shabandar isn't cheap when it comes to spoiling you. If you do as much as look at an item in a certain way, you'll have it before you can spell out the sum it costs. Lionel won't let you stop him because, at the end of the day, he argues that giving you these things is like getting them for himself, which you can't argue with, so you have to let it drop. Albeit you can sense the smirk in his voice when he says.

"Darling, if you keep refusing, I will end up thinking you don't want to see me happy. I did tell you, getting something for you is like getting it for myself."

You sensed each time that the phrasing made it sound as if he was sure you would end up his partner, and to some extent, he wasn't wrong. The longer you were in his presence, the more you grew to appreciate his character. The fact that he was rich and witty was definitely a worthy bonus, but as a person, despite his peculiar quirks, he was a good man.

⁀.✦ infatuated!Lionel Shabandar will roar when he finally gets to make love to you. He was a patient man, but in all fairness, patience was not a trait he mastered nor one he desired to possess. Why should he wait? Waiting never helped anyone. When his hands are on you, he will make sure you understand what your teasing did to him, what those long days, weeks or even months of waiting made him feel.

He craves your loudness in bed; he likes to see how loud you can be, and will use any means available to have it happen. His hands, mouth, cock and perhaps even toys if you are up for them. Lionel won't let you leave the bedroom unless you have multiple orgasms because of him, and he won't let you lie about them. He will have to see them happen, feel you come undone, and if he suspects you fake it, he will go again and again, once to punish you and once to be certain you came.

He tends to top.

But if you want to take charge, he won't say no to that. He, Lionel, will let you ride him, and his hands will be glued to your hips, eyes on your tits if you face him or your ass and spine if you face away.

"Ah, good girl, my lioness, I knew you were the perfect match for me. I felt that fire in you, darling, that's it."

And he'd purr, his hips shoved up into you, hands pulling you down on his cock as if he tried to reach as deep into you as humanly possible. Even though he tends to be on top, he enjoys allowing his lioness to take charge; it's just that, naturally, he ends up on top. When he can relax and have you use his cock, he will not miss the opportunity to taunt you so you go harder, doing it on purpose to see how desperate you can be for him.

⁀.✦ infatuated!Lionel Shabandar has a guilty pleasure in bed when you ride him, and that is your thumb in his mouth, and you forcing him to suck it while you ride his cock. He couldn't quite place why sucking your thumb got his throbbing harder. It hardly mattered, because if you were willing to play dominant and do this, he would give you extra rewards, be they sexual or financial. Your willingness to please him back wouldn't go unnoticed because Lionel, despite all rumours, was beyond fair, especially with the people he fancies.

[lonelytwilightwrites]

do you have any interest in writing any alan rickman character experimenting with sex toys?

i think that different characters would choose different toys... (imo lionel prefers a vibrator but sinclair might like a cock ring LOL)

as always, i love your writing and am patiently waiting for the next one 🙈

Aww, that's very sweet of you! I'm so happy you enjoy my writing; it really means a lot to me for you to say that! Admittedly, I was rather nervous to try to write headcanons for these characters. For most characters, I don’t really have hard-set headcanons for them (for example, I could probably argue several favorite toys for each of AR’s characters and make myself believe it in the process, too, lol). Anyway, I know this place is a safe space, and I’ve chosen to interpret these as short prompts. I’m also expanding the prompt to include equipment, not just toys. I’m totally open to doing more for other characters or doing different toys with the same characters! My asks are wide open too, lol, so please feel free to send in more requests! This is my first time writing both Lionel and Judge Turpin, so please be kind!

Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys

Character(s): Severus Snape (x GN Reader), Lionel Shabandar (x Female Reader), Sinclair Bryant (x GN Reader), David Friedman, and Judge Turpin (x Female Reader)

Word Count: 1.5k

Warning(s)‼️: Sex Toys/Bondage Equipment. Masturbation. Sex. Erectile Dysfunction/Premature Ejaculation. Self-Flagellation.

Severus Snape - Collar

Severus Snape stalked the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, black cloak billowing in the dungeon’s characteristic darkness. Under the restrictive clothing he wore — layers of formal teaching robes doused in protective spells and held tightly closed with row after row of buttons — no one would have guessed the sour professor wore a thick band of leather — a collar. It was a present from his betrothed, a promise of their faithfulness given in addition to a traditional band for the fourth digit of his hand. The collar was a deep green, nearly black, embroidered with gold trim. The title “Prince” written in gold cursive attached to the front of the collar with a gold chain, almost like a necklace. Being owned, pulled between two different men, two different sides for decades might have made a collar onerous, taxing for some men, but for Severus, it was a relief. Warm relief that tasted ambrosial to belong to someone with only his interests at heart rather than their own or the entire world’s. The metal tag magically pulsed, a soft command for his presence. His cock twitched at what might, what he silently prayed, awaited him on your shared bed in your dungeon quarters.

[Author’s Note: I fully realize a more restrained Snape might not wear a BDSM-style collar. And, in that case, a more restrained Snape likely wouldn’t go for sex toys either. I think he would be very attached to his wedding ring—-perhaps his partner took the time to engrave the inside with their initials and the date—-or other items given to him by them.]

Lionel Shabandar - Your Vibrator

Lionel Shabandar did not share. So when he discovered a black heavy piece of plastic, bulbous head attached to a straight shaft with numerous buttons next to a half-empty bottle of lube buried in the covers of your side of the bed, he immediately grew suspicious. In other words, the great Lionel Shabandar, champion seducer and media tycoon, immediately grew jealous of six inches of battery-powered plastic. He knew damn well what it was before he sat on the bed and pushed the power button. A vibrator, not just a single woman’s best friend, but apparently a married woman’s as well. Did he not pleasure you enough? You always came at least once when he fucked you in bed at night…unless…unless that was pretend. A lie. What was so special about the damn toy that every woman desired one? He thought, trousers already unfastened at his ankles, black briefs pulled to his knees. He brought the massive head of the machine against the seam of his ballsack, an involuntary moan slipping from his parted lips. He dragged the toy from the root of his cock to the edge of his frenulum, grip slipping on the black silicone when the vibrations hit the sensitive skin with an intensity he was not at all prepared for. He bucked his hips, thick thumb hitting another button, the pulse of the long toy ratcheting up in its aggression. He passed the black bulbous head to his frenulum once more, a low grunt escaping from his soul as rope after rope of white cum shot from his girthy cock. The vibrator dropped from his hand, the pulses becoming immediately overwhelming post-climax. And that was how you found the proud lion later that afternoon…trousers and pants pulled down, dried cum staining satin sheets, black vibrator long dead between thick spread legs… and snore after snore slipping from a satiated Lionel Shabandar’s mouth. Somehow, the insufferable, prideful man made a mess look regal. Delicious.

Sinclair Bryant - Cock Ring

Sex after Natalie had never been pleasurable, nor simple, at least, not until you came along. Sinclair Bryant was a man often too deep inside his own head, focused five steps past the task at hand. He was forever grateful for you reminding him that sex didn’t have to be anxiety-inducing, didn’t have to be all nerves and trembling limbs. It did not keep his cock from obeying, however. He wasn’t the only man in the country who suffered from premature ejaculation, but the fact was little comfort when he could feel his erection start to soften and his balls begin to tighten while buried in your warmth to the hilt. Cock rings had been a godsend, like manna fallen from the sky. You’d ordered his first from one of the sex shops you frequented, a present gifted for his birthday night. He pulled the black silicone ring over the head of his weak erection, down his velvety flesh to the base of his shaft. Seconds later, he could feel his penis stiffen, feel the blood in his member sanctioned off from the rest of his body. Each thrust into you was that of a broken man made whole, each thrust taking him further from the failures of the past. Minutes later, you had already orgasmed, entire body shuddering, toes curling at the end of the sheets. Sinclair peeled the black silicone off his engorged member, the denied flesh purple, release overtaking him in one thrust into your warm hole. The dirty blond fell against your side, body drained, a smile of pure bliss still spread across his lips as sleep rapidly overtook him. And you couldn’t wait to order a vibrating cock ring for your anniversary.

David Friedman - Handcuffs

The first time it was an accident. The detective was desperately reaching for a bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer, only a small lamp providing a source of illumination amidst the dim room. His hand bumped into a pile of metal, a crackling noise echoing across the darkened room. He’d just locked himself in handcuffs. The handcuffs he normally kept buried deep in his suit jacket pocket. And he had no idea where the key was. David Friedman considered himself a logical man, but when a man’s been semi-hard since lunchtime and his sheets long devoid of another body, logic tended to quickly evaporate. The lube was found moments after his imprisonment, as if the object were quietly mocking him. Cold liquid soon became warm as his locked hands rubbed together, the ritual familiar for a heavily-anticipated Friday night. Jerking off was anything but familiar. His wrist couldn’t freely turn, couldn’t properly grasp his length from root to tip in one fluid motion. The metal cuffs ended up bumping into his bare belly and spread thighs. He couldn’t keep his mind from thinking how wrong this was, how dirty, how naughty. And that was where his enjoyment, his pleasure, came from that evening as he spilled himself onto fraying, stained sheets. He found the keys to his bonds the following morning on top of his bedside table, a plan for that evening already starting to be tossed around in his head. He smiled. 

Judge Turpin - Cat O’ Nine Tails

Guilt settled deep within the old judge’s chest. It was not proper, it was not moral to lust after London’s new pretty, new perfect resident. You were all golden curls, narrow hips, and bursting chest—the sort of sight that often left him breathless. Wanting. And his wanting, his desire, often bred wanton thoughts. The kind that did not just leave his chest aching in the dead of night, but also a certain member of his anatomy. His cock, buried beneath the thick fabric of his trousers, throbbed against his leg. Relieving himself would likely be the easiest, the most prudent course of action. He removed the evening jacket spanning the breadth of his shoulders, shrugged out of the thin linen shirt beneath. White-haired chest now bared to the room, he swiped an object off his dark wooden bookshelf. A cat o’ nine tails, the queen of all whips and floggers available, the chosen instrument for his self-flagellation. Each thread, each strand crafted by his own hand. His hand slipped under his trousers, fingers wrapping around the flesh of his aroused penis, liquid already bubbling out the head’s thin slit. His thoughts immediately turned to you as he began his desperate strokes, the white-hot crest of pleasure the destination he hurriedly sought. The crack of the whip echoed about the empty house, his grunt of pain bit back with practiced ease. He thought of what your thighs might look like—milky white flesh he’d love to mark surrounding a slitted center he would very much like to—the whip struck the space between his shoulder blades, liquid beginning to drip down the spine of his back. His erection throbbed against his leg once more, the flesh pulsing, already so close to satisfaction, to bone-shattering pleasure. With a few more pumps of his hand, wetness painted the inside of his trousers, the familiar smell of his release filling the sitting room. He eyed the painting on the wall, stared at the scene of the woman’s flogging, the handle of the whip absentmindedly twirling between his fingers. He flicked his wrist, braided ends tearing a new gash into the scarred flesh of his lower back. 

[neick-hitlz]

The purring of the Shabandar lion 💋

- commission sketch -

[coldkidcookieneck]

Title: Wax On, Fall in Love

Summary: You believed everything happened for a reason. You just didn’t expect that reason to be a car wash fundraiser you didn't want to attend, and an unexpected waxing session with Lionel Shabandar.

Author's note: Hey guys! I’m finally writing Lionel Shabandar 🦁 for the first time since I started writing, and I couldn’t be more excited. I hope you enjoy this little wax-on, wax-off Lionel drama as much as I had fun writing it. Let me know what you think!😉🫶🏼

Pairing: Lionel Shabandar x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

==============================================

You had always chosen the quiet corners.

The departments no one visited. The floors where the executives never wandered. The positions that kept you behind screens, buried in data, invisible, and uninterrupted.

It wasn’t accidental.

As a data researcher, you knew your place in the company hierarchy, and you were perfectly content with it. You weren’t a star, you weren’t visible—and that was the entire point. Your role didn’t come with popularity or face-time with the CEO; it wasn’t the kind of position that invited attention or admiration. Unlike Human Resources or PR, where optics mattered and presence was performance, yours was HR-adjacent and analytical, tucked safely away from the dramatic glass offices and power meetings Lionel Shabandar was known to frequent. You did your work, sent your reports, attended the necessary meetings, and went home.

No small talk, office politics, and definitely no extracurricular bonding.

In. Out. Peace.

You’d been doing it that way for nearly five years. Ever since you graduated. Ever since you started working for him.

And somehow… you never had any interaction with him.

Which suited you just fine.

Normally, your days were predictable. Work. Home. Book. Tea. Period dramas. Repeat. You liked it that way. You needed it that way.

So when the company-wide email came in about the fundraising car wash, attendance encouraged, all departments involved—you had immediately closed it.

No.

Absolutely not.

You had every intention of ignoring it… until Amelia got involved.

That morning, you were curled up in your bed, cocooned in your blanket, half-asleep and entirely content. The world could have ended and you still would have chosen to stay exactly where you were.

Your phone buzzed.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

You groaned, burrowing deeper into your pillow.

Then there was knocking.

Loud. Persistent. Rude.

You squeezed your eyes shut. If I don’t move, she might go away…

The knocking continued.

With a dramatic sigh, you dragged yourself out of bed, shuffling toward the door like a disgruntled ghost. You opened it—

And there she was.

Amelia.

With a wide grin, coffee in one hand, a bag slung over her shoulder and that determined look that meant resistance was futile.

“Come on, babe,” she said, breezing straight past you into your flat. “It’s for charity, it’s outdoors, and it’s literally one day. One. Day.”

You groaned, closing the door and padding after her. “You know I don’t do office bonding things.”

She turned, pointing her coffee at you.

“And you know,” she shot back, “that you’ve worked for Lionel Shabandar for five years and have the social presence of a ghost.”

You blinked.

“…That’s unnecessarily accurate.”

She smirked. “Exactly. Now get dressed.”

You stared at her. Then at your couch.  Then back at her.

With a dramatic sigh, you gave in.  “Fine. But I’m blaming you.”

She beamed. “As you should.”

She headed out to bring the car around while you changed, and you kept it simple. Denim shorts. Plain white t-shirt. Hair pulled into a ponytail. Comfortable. Practical. Forgettable.

You weren’t there to impress anyone.

You were there to tick the attendance box and escape.

Wax a few cars. Go home. Read. Or watch Pride & Prejudice. Simple.

That was the plan.

Amelia honked not ten minutes later. You grabbed your bag, locked the door, and jogged down.

“Hyde Park,” she announced as you slid into the passenger seat. “Prime location. Lots of foot traffic. Rich people territory.”

You snorted. “Wonderful. I’ll try not to get run over by a Bentley.”

She laughed, pulling away. “Relax, Miss No-Fun.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

She grinned. “Accurate.

Hyde Park was already buzzing when you arrived.

Tents. Banners. Buckets. Hoses. People laughing, shouting, music playing from someone’s speaker. The sun was warm, the grass was green, and the atmosphere was… annoyingly cheerful.

You spotted familiar faces from different departments—HR, marketing, PR, finance, people you only ever saw in passing or in meetings. Everyone looked oddly excited, some already damp, others flirting shamelessly while pretending to work.

You scanned the crowd, instinctively looking for a quiet corner.

A clipboard appeared in front of you.

“Name?” a volunteer asked.

You gave it. She ticked something and pointed.

“Waxing station. Over there.”

You followed her finger… and blinked.

Waxing.

You glanced back at the washing station—where people were already laughing, splashing water, with hair plastered to their faces, and flirting openly.

Of course.

Of course you’d be the one stuck on waxing.

You exhaled, tying your hair tighter and rolling up your sleeves. “Alright,” you murmured to yourself. “Let’s just do this and go home.”

And so you did.

Car after car. Hood. Door. Panel. Repeat.

You barely noticed the noise around you, too focused on the task, the rhythm, and the small satisfaction of seeing the shine come through. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t linger. You just… worked and determined to finish and leave.

And then—

“BABE!”

You jumped.

Amelia appeared in front of you, soaked from head to toe, hair plastered to her cheeks like she’d just survived a water ride.

You stared.

“…Did you fall into a lake?”

She laughed. “Worse. Marketing boys.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Why am I not surprised?”

She glanced around, then frowned. “Where have you been? This is supposed to be fun. Why are you taking it so seriously?”

You gestured to the line of cars. “Someone has to actually do the job.”

She snorted. “Even the boss isn’t here anymore.”

You blinked. “He’s not ?.”

She waved a hand. “No, he did. Earlier. While we were washing. You were back here, and then he went missing. Probably got bored.”

You hummed, uninterested. Lionel Shabandar might as well have been a myth for all he existed in your daily life.

Amelia nudged you. “Actually… a bunch of us are going clubbing later. Wanna join? I mean, I’m supposed to bring you home, so what’s the verdict, Miss Waxxer?”

You paused, considering.

Then you pictured your couch. Your blanket. Your movie. Your grilled cheese and tomato soup that you’re craving.

Easy choice.

“It’s okay, Melia,” you said gently. “I’ll just take a cab or the bus home. You go. Have fun.”

She pouted. “You sure?”

You leaned in, lowering your voice. “Besides… I think a certain someone you like is going too. Mr. Williams.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh hush, Y/N, he’s going to hear—”

You both burst out laughing.

She swatted your arm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me.”

She sighed dramatically, then hugged you. “Alright. Go home safely. Message me. And don’t work too hard.”

“You too,” you replied, hugging her back. “Message me when you’re home.”

She pulled away, blowing you a kiss before jogging back toward the chaos.

And just like that…

It was quiet again.

You turned back to the car in front of you, gripping the cloth a little tighter.

Wax. Go home. Cook. Movie. Simple.

With that goal firmly in your head, you picked up the pace. Faster strokes. Firmer pressure. You just wanted to be done—to finish the car in front of you and disappear back into your quiet little life.

Your arm was already starting to ache when you leaned in to polish the side panel, brow furrowed in concentration.

And then you heard it.

A voice behind you.

Calm. Smooth. Mildly amused.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

Not because the comment was rude, but because the tone was… different.

Controlled. Cultured. Unhurried.

The kind of voice that didn’t belong to the chaos of splashing water and laughing coworkers. The kind that made your spine straighten before your brain even caught up.

You turned.

And there he was.

Lionel Shabandar.

Crisp white button-down, sleeves neatly buttoned at the wrist, dark slacks sitting obscenely well on his frame. No jacket. No tie. Just effortless authority. Sunlight caught the edge of his watch, glinting softly as he stood there like he belonged exactly where he was.

His hair—golden-blond, softly wavy, was brushed back, catching the light in a way that made him look unreal. Like something lifted straight from a billboard.

Which, you realised belatedly, wasn’t far from the truth.

You’d seen him before. Of course you had.

In boardrooms.On screens.Across corridors. On massive billboards towering over the city.

Always distant. Always untouchable.

Never this close and never looking at you.

Your breath stalled.

His gaze flicked briefly to the cloth in your hand… the wax smudged across your fingers… the faint streak of polish on your cheek which you knew was there as you forget to wipe it after seeing it on the car window.

Then back to your eyes.

A slow smile curved his lips.

Not polite, friendly but interested.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, his voice lowering just enough that it felt like a secret meant only for you.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Heat rushed to your face.

You turned quickly back to the car, hoping the distraction of work would ground you.

It didn’t.

You were just finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You blinked. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out without asking, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath hitched.

You could feel the heat of him behind you—his chest just inches from your shoulder, his presence overwhelming in a way that made your thoughts scatter uselessly.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

And then… he didn’t move away.

Instead, he stayed.

Guiding. Teaching.

His voice was low at your ear as you worked the panel together.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly. “Like this.” “Yes… exactly.”

You swallowed.

This was supposed to be a fundraiser.

Not a moment. Not… whatever this was.

You were so absorbed you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t even blink.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery.

“Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

You stiffened but Lionel didn’t hesitate.

He slid an arm lightly around your waist and drew you in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

Your eyes widened.

His hand was warm through your shirt. Possessive in a way that made your stomach flip and your pulse spike. You stood there, frozen, as the man raised his phone.

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You gently stepped away, clearing your throat, and busied yourself with gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing out rags. It was the last car anyway.

Even though you knew the cleaning crew would take care of everything.

You felt his gaze on you before he spoke.

“You do know you don’t have to do that.”

You shrugged. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

Behind you, you heard fabric shifting and then the soft sound of rags being collected and buckets being filled.

You turned, startled.

He was helping.

Lionel Shabandar—rolling up his sleeves, collecting dirty clothes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You stared.

He caught your look and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed softly, unable to stop yourself.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle, as if he were amused by something only he could see.

You finished cleaning quickly after that, movements efficient and purposeful, doing your best not to think about the way his gaze followed you as you worked.

When everything was done, you slung your bag over your shoulder.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

His voice stopped you immediately.

You looked back.

This time, he didn’t speak right away. He studied you—properly. Not the passing glance from before. Not the distracted curiosity of a man accustomed to faces blurring together.

This was thoughtful, measuring and intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last. “How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his eyes.

“That explains it,” he murmured.  “I would have remembered you.”

Warmth crept into your cheeks.

You gave a small, polite smile, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

You turned back, in a heartbeat and quick step, giving you away.

He hesitated, just a fraction of a second.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

He walked you toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting near the curb was a sleek Rolls-Royce, dark and gleaming under the streetlights.

The driver straightened when he saw Lionel.

Lionel opened the passenger door for you without hesitation.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, a discreet compartment stocked with drinks—champagne chilled in silver, crystal glasses, a bottle of whiskey bearing a lion engraved into the glass.

Of course it did.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

The driver glanced back. “Where to, Mr. Shabandar?”

Lionel turned toward you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

You realised it at the same time.

“…Carrington,” you said gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened—interested.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, like he was testing the sound of it. “Alright.”

You gave the driver an address.

“Understood,” the driver said, and the car began to move.

Lionel shifted slightly toward the drinks compartment.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” he said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s okay, sir,” you replied.

“Drink?” he asked. “I have champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you. Then poured himself a measured glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light.

The car settled into a quiet hum.

The city slid past the windows.

You took a sip.

The day finally caught up with you.

Your eyelids grew heavy.

The warmth of the seat, the steady motion, the quiet presence beside you—

You didn’t even realise you’d leaned until a gentle pressure touched your arm.

“Miss Carrington.”

You stirred, blinking.

Your head had fallen against his shoulder.

“Oh—!” You straightened immediately, mortified. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” Lionel said, smiling softly.

You noticed then how close he was. How relaxed. How unbothered.

“We’ve arrived.”

The car slowed to a stop.

“Thank you for the lift, sir,” you said quickly. “I really appreciate it.”

You reached for the door,

“Wait. Let me.”

He stepped out first, walked around, and opened the door for you.

You paused, then smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You nodded and said, “Good night, sir. Safe travels.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

And then, so quietly you almost thought you imagined it, 

“Yes… a good night indeed.”

You walked to your door.

Before unlocking it, you glanced back.

He was still there.

Watching.

You lifted a small wave, half-shy, half-dazed,then slipped inside and closed the door.

The moment it shut, you leaned back against it, and laughed. Softly. Breathlessly.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

You stayed like that for a moment, forehead against the door, cheeks warm, heart doing something wildly unprofessional, before forcing yourself to straighten.

Get a grip.

It was just a day. A fundraiser. A lift home.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and headed for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the wax, the sun, the exhaustion… and him. Or at least, you tried to.

It helped. A little.

By the time you were dressed in soft pyjamas, hair damp and loose, you felt calmer. More like yourself.

You moved through your routine on autopilot—tomato soup simmering on the stove, grilled cheese crisping in the pan, sparkling apple drink poured into your favourite glass.

Normal things. Safe things.

You curled up on the couch, tray balanced on your lap, Pride and Prejudice already playing.

This was your comfort. Your reset.

Darcy appeared on screen, stiff and reserved, delivering his first lines with that familiar, controlled arrogance.

You smiled faintly.

And then—

his hand on your waist.

You blinked and shooked your head.

Focus.

The film continued. Darcy walked closer. Spoke softly.

His voice near your ear.

You groaned quietly and sank deeper into the couch.

“Stop it,” you muttered to yourself.

You tried to concentrate on the dialogue, on the music, on literally anything else, but your mind betrayed you at every turn.

The way Lionel had looked at you when he said your name. The warmth of his shoulder beneath your cheek. The calm certainty in his voice.

At some point, halfway through the film, your eyes grew heavy.

You drifted.

And then—

“Miss Carrington.”

Your eyes snapped open.

Darcy stood on the screen, mouth moving,but for a split second, you could’ve sworn you’d heard him.

You stared at the television.

“…I’m losing my mind,” you whispered.

You laughed softly, shaking your head, pressing your palms to your face.

You told yourself it was just exhaustion. A long day. Too much sun. Too much everything.

And yet, every time Darcy spoke, every time he stepped closer, every time his tone softened, your thoughts wandered.

You finished your soup. Your sandwich. Your drink.

The film rolled on.

And no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, he kept appearing anyway.

After the ordeal with Harry Dean and PJ Puznowski, after too many conversations that felt like chess matches and not nearly enough that felt like breathing, Lionel Shabandar wanted something different.

Not louder. Not grander. Not another evening spent in a tailored suit beneath chandeliers, surrounded by admiration that asked nothing of him and offered even less.

His PR department had suggested a fundraiser—something visible, personable, approachable. A gala at his manor was the obvious choice. It always was. Women fawning, donors eager, reputations polished over crystal glasses and rehearsed charm.

Once, he would have welcomed it.

Now, the thought exhausted him.

So he chose something else.

A car wash.

Simple. Public. Unpretentious.

A place where his staff could exist as people rather than extensions of his name. Where laughter didn’t need scripting and goodwill didn’t require rehearsals.

Hyde Park was perfect.

On the day of the fundraiser, Lionel arrived to find his employees in denim and shorts, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, music playing softly from somewhere near the tents. There was no rigid structure—just motion, water, sunlight, and noise that felt… honest.

He made a brief appearance. Launched the event. Smiled for a few photos.

There were, inevitably, attempts at flirtation. He accepted them with polite amusement and moved on. He hadn’t come to linger.

After an hour, he returned to the office. Finished what needed finishing.

Later, he found himself back in Hyde Park—not to rejoin the event, but to walk its perimeter. To breathe. To keep an eye on what he had set in motion.

That was the justification.

The truth was less tidy.

When he returned, the fundraiser was winding down. Staff were laughing, soaked, flushed with success. Someone, Williams, he thought—invited him out. Club, drinks, celebration.

He declined with ease. Praised them. Thanked them. Wished them a good night.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

He saw you at the far end of the row.

White shirt. Ponytail. Denim shorts.

Waxing the final car with a focus that bordered on excessive—as though you intended to scrub every trace of the day from it.

The others had gone. Laughter had drifted away.

He assumed you have been left with the last one. Or had chosen to stay.

Either way, you were alone.

Lionel paused, watching you for a moment longer than he meant to, before stepping closer.

“You’re going to wear the paint off at this rate.”

You froze.

He immediately regretted the timing, you were the only one there after all. His tone hadn’t been sharp, but it was unmistakably his.

When you turned, he understood the hesitation.

Not fear.

Awareness.

You looked at him the way people did when distance collapsed all at once, when a name became a presence.

He recognised it instantly. The stiffness. The careful stillness.

Shy, he realised. Or simply unused to being seen.

You weren't striking in the way billboards demanded. There was no performance of you, no studied posture, no invitation.

Just… easy.

The kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be looked at, and therefore lingered longer.

His gaze dropped briefly, wax on your fingers, a faint smudge on your cheek you clearly hadn’t noticed.

The corner of his mouth lifted before he could stop it.

Endearing, he thought. Unexpectedly so.

“I assume,” he said smoothly, “that you’re the one responsible for this car now?”

You blinked, once, twice, then nodded too quickly.

“Oh—uh—yes. I mean—if—yes. Yes, I am.”

His brow lifted just a fraction.

“You don’t sound very convinced.”

You swallowed, glancing briefly at the space between them, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.

 “Just… surprised, sir. I didn’t think you were still here.”

He leaned in slightly, hands slipping into his pockets, voice lowering,not intentionally, but instinctively.

“I rarely miss opportunities I find… worthwhile.”

Colour bloomed across your cheeks and you turned back to the car too quickly.

Lionel smiled.

He observed you finishing the side panel, focused and methodical, when he stepped closer.

Too close.

“You’re pressing too hard,” Lionel murmured.

You glanced at him. “I am?”

He didn’t answer verbally.

Instead, he reached out, his hand closing over yours on the cloth.

Warm. Firm. Controlled.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Gentler. Let the wax do the work.”

Your breath caught.

Lionel felt it, felt the sudden stillness beneath his hand. Warm. Tense. Relaxation

He should have stepped back but he didn’t.

He stayed, guiding your movements, his voice low near your ear.

“Small circles,” he instructed softly.” Like this.”

“Yes… exactly.”

He hadn’t expected this when he’d walked back into the park.

Hadn’t expected you.

You both were so absorbed, that both of you didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.

“Uh—excuse me?”

You both looked up.

The man stood there staring, keys dangling from his fingers, eyes darting between you… Lionel… and the cloth still in Lionel’s hand.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that—are you—” He laughed nervously. “Is Lionel Shabandar waxing my car?”

Lionel didn’t blink. If anything, he smirked.

“Team effort,” he replied smoothly.

The man’s face lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “Mate—can—can I get a picture?”

Lionel felt you stiffening again but he didn’t hesitate.

His arm settled at your waist, light but certain.

It felt… right.

As though you fit there and always had.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “She did most of the work.”

The camera flashed.

The man thanked you both at least six times, shook Lionel’s hand like he was royalty, and left grinning like an idiot.

And Lionel…

…didn’t immediately move his hand.

You stepped away first.

Not abruptly, just enough to put space between them. A soft clearing of your throat, then you were moving again, gathering bottles, stacking brushes, rinsing rags as though the work still required your attention.

It didn’t.

It was the last car. The cleaning crew would handle the rest.

You stayed anyway.

Lionel watched you quietly.

Not because you had to, but because it was right.

There was no distaste in your movements. No impatience. No sense of being above any of it. You worked with the same quiet diligence you had given the car, treating the aftermath as though it mattered.

He was… surprised.

Too many people mistook service for something beneath them. Too many wore their status like armour, looked at mess as though it were contagious.

You did not.

Something in his chest shifted, subtle, but unmistakable.

“You do know you don’t have to do that,” he said gently.

You only shrugged, not even looking up. “I don’t mind. Makes it easier for them later.”

What a girl, he thought, before he could stop himself.

Without comment, Lionel rolled up his sleeves.

If you noticed, you didn’t say anything.

He joined you, collecting rags, stacking buckets, lifting crates as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It felt… grounding.

You glanced at him then, surprise flickering across your face. He caught it and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he asked mildly. “Am I doing it wrong?”

You laughed,soft, genuine, unguarded.

“No, sir. Just… unexpected.”

The corner of his mouth curved, slow and subtle. Amused, not by your reaction, but by how easily you had drawn it from him.

They finished quickly after that.

Lionel watched your movements—efficient, purposeful, as though you had done this a hundred times before. There was no lingering, no attempt to draw attention to yourself. And yet, somehow, his gaze followed your anyway.

When you finally slung your bag over your shoulder, the evening felt… finished in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“Thank you for your help, sir.”

You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The word left his mouth before he’d fully decided on it.

You stopped immediately and looked back at him.

This time, Lionel didn’t speak right away. He studied you properly, not the passing glance from earlier, not the distracted awareness he gave most people who passed through his orbit.

This was thoughtful. Measuring. Intent.

“I’ve never seen you in my office,” he said at last.

“How long have you worked for me?”

“Five years,” you replied quietly. “Data research.”

Something flickered in his chest.

“That explains it,” he murmured. “I would have remembered you.”

The faint colour that crept into your cheeks did something entirely unreasonable to him.

You adjusted the strap of your bag.

 “I should get going.”

You took two steps.

“Wait.”

Again.

Your quick step gave you away when you turned back in a heartbeat, and he noticed. Of course he did.

Lionel hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. Not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he didn’t want the moment to end.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “You’ve been on your feet all day.”

You blinked.

 “Oh—no, it’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to be felt.

“Then let me take you home.”

Your breath caught.

“…Alright.”

Good.

They walked toward the park entrance, the night air cooler now, calmer. Waiting by the curb was his Rolls-Royce, dark and immaculate beneath the streetlights.

The driver, Adam, straightened instantly.

Without thinking twice, Lionel opened the passenger door for her.

You paused—then slid inside.

The interior was quiet luxury: soft leather, polished wood, crystal glasses secured neatly beside champagne and whiskey etched with his crest.

Of course it was.

Lionel entered from the other side, the door closing with a muted thud.

“Where to, Mr. Shabandar?” the driver asked.

Lionel turned towards you, a faint smile touching his mouth.

“Where to, miss—”

He stopped.

Just for a beat.

Ah. You idiot.

“…Carrington,” you supplied gently. “Miss Carrington.”

His gaze sharpened, interest deepening.

“Miss Carrington,” he repeated, as though testing the sound of it.

Yes. That would do nicely.

You gave the driver her address, and the car eased into motion.

“I apologise for not asking your name earlier,” Lionel said. “That was… discourteous.”

“It’s alright, sir.”

“Drink?” he offered. “Champagne, whiskey… or water.”

“Water would be nice.”

He nodded, retrieved a chilled bottle, and handed it to you before pouring himself a measured glass of whiskey. The amber caught the low light as the city slid past the windows.

The quiet settled.

Then he felt the weight against his shoulder.

Your head, resting there, unguarded.

Lionel adjusted instinctively, careful not to wake her.

How, he wondered, had I not seen you before?

The thought lingered as he relaxed back into the seat.

When the car slowed and the driver announced their arrival, a ridiculous impulse crossed his mind, to carry you inside rather than wake you.

He dismissed it just as quickly.

Instead, he spoke softly.

“Miss Carrington.”

You startled awake immediately, mortified.

“I—I’m so sorry—”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, smiling despite himself. “We’ve arrived.”

You thanked him, sincere and warm, and reached for the door.

“Wait. Let me.”

Lionel stepped out first, walked around, and opened it for you.

You paused, then smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Safe travels, sir. And good night.”

“Good night, Miss Carrington.”

The words followed you as you walked away.

And Lionel found himself thinking—then, quite absurdly, muttering under his breath,

“Yes… a very good night indeed.”

He watched your back retreat, wondering, not for the first time that evening, whether you had heard him or not.

He didn’t move the car.

Instead, he remained where he was, eyes fixed on you until you reached the building. Anything could happen in seconds, he knew that better than most. Only when you glanced back while unlocking the door did his shoulders ease.

You gave a small, shy wave.

Lionel almost laughed.

Adorable, he thought, entirely unhelpfully, as you slipped inside.

When the door closed behind you, he remained still.

Only when the light in your flat flicked on did he finally turn back toward the car.

Adam caught his expression in the mirror, and, wisely, said nothing.

“Home,” Lionel said at last.

As the car pulled away, your building disappearing behind them, his thoughts drifted, not to headlines, not to optics, not to strategy, but to a woman in a white shirt and denim shorts, waxing a stranger’s car with quiet diligence.

To the way you had smiled so easily. To how naturally you had fit at his side. To how he had somehow not seen you around not once, and how unacceptable that now felt.

For the first time in a long while, Lionel Shabandar found himself grateful for a decision made without calculation.

A simple fundraiser.

And the inexplicable sense that fate, at last, had met him halfway.

Next Morning

Then, just like the previous day repeating itself, you woke to your phone buzzing instead of your alarm.

Once.Twice.Relentless.

Half-asleep and already knowing exactly who it was, you answered without looking.

“Hello—”

“BABE—OH MY GOD—YOU AND LIONEL—WHAT—WHEN—HOW—”

You shot upright, heart slamming into your ribs.

“What?”

“THE PICTURE,” Amelia screeched. “THE CAR WASH—YOU—HIM—IT’S EVERYWHERE— I’M COMING OVER RIGHT NOW, BABE—”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Lionel who?”

Silence.

Then—

screaming.

The sound blended with the rush of yesterday crashing back all at once—

Hyde Park. Wax on your hands. His voice at your ear. His arm around your waist.

Your hands shook as you scrambled for your phone, pulse racing.

And there it was.

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

And beneath the headline—

you.

In his arms.

Smiling.

Lionel's Office That Morning

Lionel Shabandar did not wake up expecting chaos.

His mornings were precise, meticulously scheduled, calibrated down to the minute, and always predictable in a way that left no room for surprises or sentiment. Each day unfolded exactly as the one before it had: coffee brewed to the same strength, briefing notes waiting on his desk, markets already moving in patterns he understood well enough to bend if necessary.

Control was not merely a preference; it was a discipline.

Coffee. Briefing. Markets. Power.

For exactly three minutes, the routine held.

Then, uninvited, you slipped into his thoughts.

White shirt. Rolled sleeves. The faint crease between your brows as you concentrated. The way you laughed when he raised an eyebrow at you, soft, surprised, unguarded.

Your head on his shoulder.

Lionel exhaled slowly and set the thought aside.

Indulgence was a luxury along with sentiment was a weakness.

He had a day to run.

His phone lit up.

Once, twice and then again.

By the time he picked it up, the screen looked like a Christmas tree.

Three missed calls. Five messages. A calendar alert that had absolutely nothing to do with this.

And then,

PR: URGENT – CALL ME NOW

He frowned.

The screen refreshed.

And there it was.

A photo of him at the car wash.

Sleeves rolled. Expression softened. Framed in warm afternoon light, close enough to feel intimate, clear enough to be intentional.The man who had asked for the photo had captured far more than he realised.

His arm around—

He froze.

You.

Your head tilted slightly toward him. Smile small. Unaware. Comfortable.

Too comfortable.

The headline loaded beneath it:

Lionel Shabandar Joins Fundraiser Pictured with Mystery Woman

His jaw tightened.

He stared at the image longer than he should have.

Not because of the press. Not because of the cameras, the clarity, the way the shot was already circulating like currency.

But because of the way his hand rested on your waist.

Because he remembered exactly how warm you had been, how you laughed and how you tried, unsuccessfully, to pretend he didn’t affect you.

And how he absolutely knew he had.

Footsteps approached at speed, heels clicking with barely contained panic.

A knock.

The door opened, and Lisa stepped in, her heels clicking too quickly for a woman who usually prided herself on composure.

“Sir… the phones are… busy,” she said carefully. “PR is requesting guidance. And—”

She hesitated, “There are inquiries about the woman in the photo.”

Lionel didn’t look away from the screen.

“She works for the company,” he said evenly.

Lisa paused, fingers tightening around her tablet.

Lionel added, without lifting his gaze, “She’s your colleague, Lisa.”

The correction was subtle,but unmistakable.

Then, more quietly—firmly,“And she is not for public consumption.”

Silence filled the room.

Lionel finally leaned back in his chair.

A slow smile touched his lips.

Not amused.

Intent.

“Find her schedule,” he said. “Clear mine.”

Lisa blinked. “Sir?”

“I want to have lunch with my employee.”

He rose, moving toward the window, the city stretching beneath him, orderly, obedient, predictable.

For a moment, he shook his head faintly, a quiet huff of breath leaving him.

Five years, he thought. And I didn’t notice you.

He watched the morning traffic below, already recalculating his day, not in numbers or markets this time, but in timing.

“Lisa,” he added without turning.

“Yes, sir?”

“Have Adam bring the car.”

She hesitated. “To the office?”

“No,” Lionel said calmly. “To her address.”

Lisa’s brows lifted, just slightly—but she nodded.

“Understood.”

Lionel remained at the window long after she left.

Yes, he decided.

Chaos, apparently, had a face.

And it was wearing a white shirt and denim shorts.

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[voxophile]

Day 138: Alan as Lord Lionel Shabandar - Gambit (2012).

Love the arrogant git ❤️ So gorgeous in this film.

[vintageisbest]

GAMBIT PREMIERE (2012)