The elevator door glided open with a chime, spilling Valentina Cruz into the gleaming marble lobby of Moretti Enterprises. She paused for a moment, adjusting her grip on the thin folder clutched tightly to her chest. Her palms were damp with nerves, though she tried to steady her breathing before her heels betrayed her with their shaky rhythm on the floor.
She had never seen a place like this before. The lobby itself looked more like a cathedral of power than an office—polished marble underfoot, glass walls rising high, and chandeliers that bathed everything in golden light. Wealth clung to the air like perfume, but it wasn't the gentle, flowery kind. No, it was sharp. Intimidating. A reminder that she didn't belong here.
Still, she needed this job. Rent was due in three days. The envelope of bills she hid in her drawer was lighter than ever. If she didn't work now, she would lose everything.
A woman with a sleek black bob and an expression that brooked no nonsense approached, her heels tapping in perfect rhythm. "Señorita Cruz?"
Valentina straightened, almost dropping her folder in the process. "Yes, that's me."
The woman gave her a quick once-over. Not unkind, but assessing. "Follow me. Mr. Moretti's office is on the top floor."
As they moved, Valentina's heart raced faster with each step deeper into the maze of glass-walled offices. Everyone they passed seemed impeccably dressed, their eyes flicking toward her with something unreadable—curiosity, maybe even pity. She tucked a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, fighting the growing knot in her stomach.
The woman stopped before a pair of towering oak doors at the end of a hushed hallway. With a single, crisp knock, she pushed them open.
"Your new secretary, sir."
Valentina stepped into the office—and froze.
The space was larger than her entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, draping the room in daylight. The walls were lined with shelves of books and bottles of aged liquor. At the center, behind a desk of carved mahogany, sat the man himself.
Dante Moretti.
She had seen his name on the brass plaque downstairs, had heard it whispered by the receptionist and again in the elevator, but nothing could have prepared her for him in person.
He was… imposing. Dark suit tailored to perfection, the fabric stretching across broad shoulders, the crisp white of his shirt a stark contrast against his tanned skin. A heavy watch glinted at his wrist, silver and expensive, but it was his eyes that caught her breath and refused to let it go.
Cold. Piercing. Blacker than midnight, like a storm she couldn't escape.
Dante Moretti looked at her as though he already owned her.
"You may leave," he dismissed his assistant without looking at her.
The woman closed the door, and silence swallowed the room whole.
Valentina's pulse hammered in her ears. She clutched the folder tighter, fighting the instinct to step back.
Dante leaned back in his leather chair, his long fingers steepled in thought as his gaze dragged slowly—deliberately—from the top of her head to the curve of her waist, then lower, as if he were stripping her bare without ever touching her.
"So," he said at last, voice smooth and low, threaded with something dangerous. "You're the one they sent me."
His words made her feel small, insignificant, as though she were nothing more than a package delivered to his desk.
"Yes, sir," she managed, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. "Valentina Cruz. I—I'm here for the secretary position."
A ghost of a smile curved his lips, though it never touched his eyes. He rose slowly from his chair, and she realized just how tall he was. His presence filled the room, each step toward her deliberate, predatory.
He circled his desk like a lion considering whether to toy with its prey before the kill. "Valentina," he repeated, letting her name roll off his tongue. "Pretty. Innocent."
Her breath caught. The way he said it was not a compliment, but a claim.
"Tell me," he continued, his tone dropping to something darker, silk over steel, "do you know who I am?"
She swallowed hard, forcing her voice not to shake. "You're my employer. Mr. Moretti."
He chuckled, the sound low and unsettling. "That's what they told you."
Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them. The scent of expensive cologne—wood, smoke, something rich—wrapped around her, suffocating. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as though trying to uncover her secrets.
A calloused finger slid beneath her chin, lifting her face until her eyes were locked onto his. She had no choice but to look at him, trapped in the force of his gaze.
"No, little dove," he murmured, his voice like velvet wrapping around a blade. "I'm much more than that."
Heat rushed through her cheeks, not from desire, but from the sheer intensity of being under his scrutiny. She wanted to look away, wanted to breathe, but her body refused to obey.
Dante leaned closer, his lips a breath from her ear. "In this place, everyone belongs to me. The sooner you learn that, the easier your life will be."
The words struck her like a brand, searing and terrifying. She blinked rapidly, searching for composure. "I—I'm here to work, sir. Just to do my job."
He pulled back slightly, enough to study the defiance trembling in her eyes. For a moment, he said nothing. Then his smile returned, sharper this time, dangerous.
"Good," he said softly. "I like a secretary with spirit. We'll see how long it lasts."
Valentina's chest tightened, every instinct screaming that she should run. But her legs wouldn't move, rooted by the weight of his presence. She could only nod, clutching the folder like a shield, praying that whatever she had stepped into wasn't about to devour her whole.
And as Dante Moretti finally released her from his gaze, retreating to his desk, she realized the gravest mistake of her life might have already been made.
Because she wasn't walking into a job.
She was walking into a cage.