My Boss Refused To Touch Any Woman In The World — Until He Walked Past A Line Of Models And Grabbed My Wrist
Part 1
The heat of the grand ballroom was stifling beneath my heavy black uniform, especially with the weight of fifty powerful women staring expectantly at the double doors.
I carried my silver tray with my head lowered, stepping carefully around the trailing hemlines of silk gowns and the sharp heels of designer shoes.
Each of these women had been handpicked, flown in, and meticulously styled for a single, desperate purpose tonight.
They were here to become the wife of Greg.
A quiet, nervous energy hummed through the vast room, carrying the same whispered rumor I had heard echoing through the estate halls for five years.
Everyone knew the billionaire had everything in the world, except the ability to withstand human contact.
The smallest touch sent his body into a state of sheer, violent agony, a mysterious condition that baffled the world’s greatest doctors.
Yet tonight, his powerful family had forced his hand, demanding he finally choose a bride to secure their empire and stop the public speculation.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open, cutting the murmurs into absolute, terrifying silence.
Greg stepped into the golden glow of the chandeliers, his posture rigid and his expression entirely unreadable.
Helen leaned toward her son, her voice a sharp, commanding hiss that carried over the silent crowd.
She told him he was choosing a wife tonight, and he would not leave the room until it was done.
He didn’t acknowledge her, his gaze scanning the desperate line of socialites with nothing but profound exhaustion.
The first woman in line stepped forward, a confident smile plastered on her face as she extended a manicured hand toward his arm.
The moment her fingers brushed his sleeve, Greg recoiled violently.
His jaw clenched, his eyes squeezing shut as a visible shudder of pain ripped through his shoulders.
He took a sharp step back, raising his hand to stop her from trying again.
He told her not to touch him, his voice low and vibrating with raw tension.
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers, followed by frantic, confused whispers as the first woman stepped back in utter humiliation.
One by one, they tried.
One by one, they failed, each attempt leaving Greg looking more drained, more cornered by his own inexplicable trauma.
I kept my distance near the shadowed corner of the room, my grip tightening painfully on the edge of the serving tray.
Suddenly, Greg stopped walking down the line of eager candidates.
His gaze drifted past the wealthy heirs and supermodels, scanning the darkened edges of the room until his eyes locked directly onto mine.
My breath caught in my throat.
I tried to take a small step back, to melt entirely into the heavy velvet curtains behind me, but his focus was absolute.
He ignored the confused murmurs of his guests, walking straight past the line of furious women until he stood mere inches from my tray.
He commanded me to come with him.
Panic flared in my chest, but the entire room was watching, waiting for me to make a catastrophic mistake.
I stepped forward, my hands trembling slightly against the cool metal of the tray as I lowered it to a side table.
Greg lifted his hand with agonizing slowness, the muscles in his neck tightening as he braced himself for the inevitable agony.
His fingers closed firmly around my wrist.
The entire ballroom held its breath, waiting for him to violently flinch away.
Nothing happened.
No pain, no shuddering recoil, just complete and absolute stillness settling over his tense frame.
A stunned, heavy silence smothered the room as Greg stared down at where his skin met mine.
He announced to the crowd that he chose me.
Chaos erupted behind us, a cacophony of outraged shouts and gasps, but Greg didn’t even flinch.
His grip remained firm as he turned and dragged me out of the ballroom, ignoring the chaos we left in our wake.
He pulled me down the quiet, marble corridors, not stopping until we reached the heavy oak doors of his private study.
He locked the door behind us, dropping my wrist and taking a long, shaky breath as if he had been suffocating for years.
He stepped close to me again, his eyes searching my face as if looking for a hidden trick.
He commanded me not to move, his hand reaching out to press flat against my shoulder.
I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting him to shout in pain, but instead, I heard a slow, confused exhale.
He muttered that it didn’t make any sense.
He demanded to know who I was, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made my heart race.
I kept my gaze fixed on his polished shoes, insisting that I was just a maid who had worked here for ten years.
His eyes narrowed slightly, processing the timeline as his thumb brushed over my collarbone without a single flinch.
He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet study.
He told me that every other person felt like burning agony, but I felt like absolutely nothing.
Before I could invent another lie, the door handle rattled violently, and Helen pushed her way inside.
Her eyes darted between us, her face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated disgust.
She demanded Greg stop embarrassing the family over a servant, her voice laced with venom.
Greg didn’t even look at her, stepping in front of me to block her view.
He told his mother that I wasn’t leaving, his tone leaving zero room for argument.
Helen warned him to be careful what he was stepping into before she spun around and slammed the door behind her.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Greg turned back to me, the anger fading into something much sharper, much more observant.
He recalled his accident five years ago, the night his car lost control and his brain started treating every human touch as a lethal threat.
He took another step toward me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He noted that I had been working here for ten years, meaning I was at the estate the night of the crash.
My stomach twisted into a tight knot, my eyes darting toward the heavy mahogany desk to avoid his piercing stare.
He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.
He told me that I wasn’t surprised when he touched me in the ballroom, as if I had expected it not to hurt him.
I tried to step back, but my shoulders hit the cold wood of the bookshelves.
He pushed harder, realizing that I wasn’t just a maid who got lucky.
I looked into his eyes and finally confessed the terrifying truth: “Because it wasn’t an accident.”
