The Aurelio International office glittered under the evening lights, an open expanse of Italian glass, chrome, and curated art. It was far past working hours, but Rihanna remained seated in the executive wing, her laptop aglow, casting soft light onto her tired face.
"Still here?" a voice rumbled from behind her.
She turned. Lorenzo Moretti stood by the doorframe, no jacket, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looked more undone than she'd ever seen him — yet no less intimidating.
"I was finalizing the client brief. You mentioned a possible early review."
He stepped in. The click of his shoes echoed on the marble as he walked toward her. "That wasn't an order, Rihanna. You didn't have to stay this late."
She offered a small smile. "I wanted to."
His lips curved — not quite a smile, more like approval veiled in something darker.
"Dedicated. I like that."
He moved behind her, glanced at her screen. His cologne was warm, expensive, disarming. She felt her skin prickle — awareness threading through her veins.
"You handled the market segmentation well. But this—" He leaned in closer, his fingers brushing over the touchpad as he highlighted a section. "—needs a bit more edge. Sell the ambition. Don't just report it."
His hand lingered over hers for a second too long.
She nodded, pulse quickening. "I'll revise it tonight."
"No," he said simply. "You'll have dinner with me instead."
She blinked. "Sorry?"
Lorenzo smiled now — that slow, powerful curve of control. "Not a date. Just... company. You've earned it."
There was no room to decline. His tone was gentle, but final.
Later that night, over candlelight and expensive wine at a private corner of a rooftop restaurant, Rihanna listened as Lorenzo spoke — not about work, but about Florence, his childhood summers in Sicily, his taste in architecture. His voice wrapped around her like velvet, smooth and dangerous.
"You don't talk about your home," he said after the second glass.
She looked away. "It's not as... fascinating as yours."
"Try me."
A flicker of hesitation passed over her. "Small town. Very green. People know each other. Nothing like this place."
"That sounds... honest," he said. Then, softer: "I envy that."
She met his eyes — and found something stirring beneath the surface. Not warmth. Not cruelty either. Something between.
He touched the rim of his glass, watching her. "You're not like the others, Rihanna."
She smiled faintly. "You don't know me yet."
His gaze sharpened. "No. But I will."
Back in her temporary flat, Rihanna stood in front of the mirror later that night, lipstick faded, heart still thrumming. She pressed her hand to her chest.
That look in his eyes…
Something about it felt intoxicating. Dangerous.
But she was already too deep to step back.