LORENZO
The engine roared beneath me, but my head was louder. I should've driven straight to the office, should've buried myself in meetings and numbers until the thought of her burned itself out. Instead, I found myself cutting across the city, pulling into the dim glow of one of the bars I owned.
The bartender stiffened when he saw me — like they always did — but I barely acknowledged him. I wasn't here for pleasantries. Just silence. A drink. Anything to drown the phantom heat of her hand against my chest.
Except silence wasn't what I got.
"Never thought I'd catch you slumming it at your own bar before noon."
Arnold's voice carried from a corner booth, casual, amused. He had a whiskey in hand and that lazy smirk on his face like he'd been waiting for me.
I slid into the seat across from him. "Shouldn't you be working?"
He raised his glass. "Shouldn't you?"
We drank. Easy silence, broken only by the occasional clink of glass against wood. Until he decided to ruin it.
"So," Arnold leaned back, studying me, "Mikhaila. Bold hire, huh? Didn't think you two… knew each other."
My jaw flexed. "She works for you, not me. Keep it that way."
He chuckled. "Relax, I was just saying. She's—"
"I don't care what she is." My tone was sharp enough to slice through his smirk, but he just watched me, eyes narrowed like he was trying to dig past the surface.
"You sure about that?" he asked, too lightly.
I drained my glass, let the burn settle in my chest, and didn't answer.
Arnold let it go — smart man — and the conversation shifted to safer ground. Business. Numbers. The usual. We drank more, laughed when the liquor loosened old stories, but by the time I left, there was a weight between us. A name neither of us had any business speaking.
….
Back at the office, the weight turned into fire.
"Ms. Reynolds!" I barked the second I stepped through the doors. My secretary practically jumped out of her chair.
"Yes, Mr. Ivan?"
I slammed a folder onto her desk. "I told you to have this finalized yesterday. Yesterday. Do you understand the meaning of deadlines, or do I need to start hiring people who do?"
Her face paled, fumbling for words. My voice was too loud, too sharp — and I knew it. Hell, the room tilted just slightly when I turned, the whiskey humming in my veins.
I didn't care. Fuck, she's getting under my skin. Again. I didn't like it.
Fucking Mikhaila.
I could have her as a distraction back home but not here. Not here.
"Fix it," I snapped, already storming toward my office. "Or don't bother showing up tomorrow."
The door slammed shut behind me, and for the first time all day, the silence was absolute.
The glow of my monitor blurred the longer I stared at it, numbers swimming until they became meaningless shapes. I blinked hard, dragging a hand down my face. The whiskey from earlier hadn't worn off. If anything, it was settling in deeper, threading through my blood and dulling the sharp edge I usually lived by.
Work. Focus. That was the plan.
I leaned back in my chair, jaw tight, and forced my eyes on the documents in front of me. My pen hovered uselessly over the page.
The door slammed open.
I shot upright, ready to rip my incompetent secretary apart, but it wasn't her.
It was worse.
Mikhaila.
She walked in like she always would, like she owned the place, a stack of files hugged to her chest, her heels sharp against the floor. My secretary had specific orders: no one comes in. Not a soul.
I should've cared enough. I should've thrown her out.
But instead, I leaned back, rubbed the bridge of my nose, and muttered, "Of course it's you."
"Relax, Mr. CEO." She placed the files down with a little too much grace, like she was presenting a trophy. "I'm not here to stroke your ego. Arnold needs your signature."
"Leave it on the desk and get out," I said, voice low, roughened by the liquor.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, lips curving into that smug, poisonous smirk. "Drunk already? At this hour? How very professional of you, Lorenzo."
My eyes snapped to hers. That taunting gleam, that sharp tongue—it was always her weapon of choice. And damn if it didn't cut clean.
I let out a humorless laugh, leaning forward on my elbows. "Funny. I don't remember asking for your approval. But then again, you've always had a habit of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
Her smile faltered, just slightly. She hated when I flipped her words back.
"I don't like you," she said flatly, like it was a fact written in stone. "Never have."
The honesty hit harder than it should've, but I didn't flinch. I met her gaze head-on, letting my own distaste bleed through. "Good. Because the feeling's mutual."
Silence stretched between us, heavy but electric, like standing too close to a storm.
But beneath it, my mind twisted. Because for all the years of disdain, for all the venom in her words, I still couldn't shake the question:
Why does she get under my skin like no one else?