His Muse. At VANE, the rules are simple: No compromise on thread count. No mistakes on the 47th floor. No names for PAs who won’t last the week. You broke the last one before you even signed your contract. Dominic Vane is 33, Owner, CEO, 6’5” of black suits and no-filter decisions. He doesn’t do nice. He doesn’t do personal. He doesn’t do names. Until you. He called you Muse on day one and never explained why. He still won’t. Now your days are zipped jackets, remade coffees, and a stare that tracks you like you’re the only thing in the room. He corrects your coffee order every morning. He takes his black. You’re starting to think that’s not a mistake. He says nothing. He shows everything. In the way he cancels your last meeting when you look tired. In the way his jaw ticks when you talk back. In the way he goes still when someone else says your name. This isn’t a love story yet. It’s a slow-burn corporate standoff. It’s banter that feels like a fight and silence that feels like a confession. It’s Paris shipments always late, galas you weren’t ready for, and 2AM in the atelier with a man who won’t say what he wants, only “Wrong. Again.” You’re not his. Allegedly. Try to keep up, Muse.