The next morning, I wore red lipstick.
Not for him. Never for him.
But maybe just a little because I knew he'd notice.
There was a power in red. Sharp. Confident. It made me feel like the version of myself I liked best—cool under pressure, immune to him. A woman who didn't blush when her boss called her name in a voice that sounded suspiciously like control wrapped in silk.
The elevator was quiet when I stepped in—just me, a delivery guy, and a girl from legal with too much perfume. My reflection in the mirrored wall was calm. I told myself I had this. Told myself that last night didn't mean anything.
Except it did.
It meant something that Dante Ashford let me in his car. That he looked at me like that. That he said my name like it burned his tongue and he liked it.
But I couldn't afford to read into things. That was how girls like me got eaten alive in places like this.
He was my boss. He was... everything I shouldn't want.
And still, I did.
---
He was already in when I walked into the office. Of course he was. I wasn't sure the man even slept.
He looked up when I set his coffee on his desk. No greeting. No thank you. Just a long, unreadable stare.
Then, finally:
"Red suits you."
I should've been prepared. Should've had a comeback. But his voice was low, unreadable, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I hated that he got under my skin so easily.
"You're five minutes early," I said instead, because I needed to say something.
"You're seven."
"Touche."
I moved to leave, but his voice stopped me.
"I'll need you with me tonight. Dinner meeting with the Monteros."
I froze.
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't in the calendar."
"It is now."
He didn't even look up from his laptop as he said it, like my entire life could be rescheduled at a keystroke.
I folded my arms. "You could've asked."
"I don't ask, Amelia. I delegate."
Of course he didn't ask. That would imply I had a choice.
"I had plans."
He glanced up then. Slowly. "Reschedule them."
And just like that, I hated him all over again.
---
The restaurant was one of those dimly lit places where you had to squint to see your food and the wine cost more than my rent.
I sat next to Dante in a private booth toward the back. The Monteros—Marco and Javier—were seated across from us, all confidence and cologne. They were investors with slicked-back hair, gold watches, and the kind of energy that made my skin crawl. Like everything in the world was already theirs, and I was just another thing to admire, then dismiss.
"Miss Hart," Javier said with a smile too smooth to be innocent. "You're much prettier than any assistant I've ever had."
I forced a smile. "I'm also smarter than any you've probably had."
Javier let out a low laugh. "Beauty and brains, I like her."
"She's not here for you to like," Dante said evenly, swirling the wine in his glass without looking up. "She's here because I asked her to be."
There was no warmth in his tone. Just steel. Control.
Javier leaned forward. "You always bring your assistant to dinners like these?"
Dante smiled—tight, cold. "Only when I want to close."
The table went quiet. Just for a second. Long enough for me to feel the shift in power.
I could feel Dante's hand rest lightly on the back of my chair. Not touching me. Just there. Just present. It felt like a warning, a signal, a line in the sand.
Mine, it said. Without saying a word.
I didn't know what it meant, or why it made my pulse trip over itself. But I hated that it made me feel protected. I didn't need protecting. I didn't need him.
The conversation turned to numbers and projections and partnership percentages. I took notes, refilled his glass, and kept my expression unreadable. Dante let them talk, let them puff up their egos, but every once in a while, his eyes would flick to me—like he was checking I was still breathing.
Halfway through dessert, Javier leaned toward me. "So, Amelia. What do you really do for Mr. Ashford?"
I blinked. "I'm sorry?"
He smirked. "You know. Besides coffee and calendars."
His gaze lowered down my button-down shirt, a few top buttons undone to reveal just enough cleavage. Clearly encouraged by what he saw his hand moved toward me—slow, casual, deliberate. A brush against the edge of my fingers on the table. Light, but clear. Like he was testing a boundary, seeing what he could get away with.
My stomach twisted.
And then—fast—Dante moved.
He caught Javier's wrist mid-motion. Calmly. Firmly. Like it was instinct.
The conversation at the table stopped dead.
"You want to move your hand back," Dante said quietly.
Javier tried to laugh, but it came out strained. "Easy, man. I was just being friendly."
Dante's voice didn't rise. That's what made it worse.
"You touch her again," he said, "and you'll find out how unfriendly I can be."
The waiter appeared just then, hovering with our starters. I wanted to disappear. I wanted the booth to swallow me whole.
Javier tugged his hand back, face tight. "Didn't realize she came with a warning label."
Dante leaned back slowly. "She doesn't," he said. "She has standards. You crossed them."
Marco shifted in his seat, clearing his throat. "Alright, alright. Let's not ruin the wine over nothing."
No one said anything for a long minute.
The waiter cleared his throat. "Would you like to hear the specials?"
"No," Dante said, eyes still locked on Javier. "We'll have the filet. Rare. All of us."
I swallowed hard and stared at my water glass, trying to get my heartbeat under control.
I should've been furious. He'd spoken for me. Taken control of the table. I hated that kind of arrogance.
But what I hated more was the part of me that didn't hate it.
The part that felt warm. Seen. Protected.
The rest of the dinner went on in careful, stilted conversation. Marco did most of the talking while Javier sulked and sipped his wine. I kept my eyes on my plate, only occasionally glancing at Dante.
He didn't look at me. Not once. Not after that moment. Not even when my knee accidentally brushed his under the table and I pulled away like I'd been burned.
But I could feel him.
His silence. His heat.
His control was back—but barely.
---
Two hours later, we were in the car again.
The door shut behind me and sealed us inside a silence that felt heavier than before. The driver said nothing. The city moved past the windows like a blur.
"You didn't have to do that," I said after a while.
"Do what?"
"Make a scene. Grab him."
Dante's voice was steel. "He touched you."
"Barely."
He looked at me then. Really looked.
"It doesn't matter if it was a touch or a stare. He disrespected you. And by extension, me."
My chest tightened, of course why did I think it meant something. "I'm not yours to defend."
Something flickered behind his eyes.
"I disagree," he said simply. "You're my assistant. My responsibility. That means something."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
"You didn't stop me," he added.
"I didn't need to."
"You let me step in."
"I didn't let you. You just did it."
He leaned back, eyes never leaving mine. "Exactly."
We didn't speak again until the car slowed outside my building.
I reached for the handle.
"Amelia."
I turned.
"If anyone touches you like that again," he said, voice like velvet over ice, "you come to me. First."
I nodded once. Then got out and shut the door behind me.
But I carried his voice all the way upstairs.
And long after I lay in bed, I could still feel his hand on Javier's wrist. Still hear the quiet, dangerous rage in his tone.
And I couldn't decide if I was scared of it... or if I wanted him to do it again.
But who am I to think about this . He's my boss and I'm his assistant