The office was hushed, almost unnervingly so, as the clock on the far wall ticked past six. Most of the employees had gone home, their chairs pushed neatly under their desks, their computers powered down. The outer office felt deserted, shadows creeping in as the sun sank beyond the skyline.
Valentina remained at her desk, her bag still tucked beneath her chair. She was exhausted, her head pounding from staring at spreadsheets all day, but Dante Moretti's words lingered in her mind: You'll stay late tonight. I have work for you.
She hadn't dared argue.
The building was too quiet. Without the chatter of coworkers or the hum of phones, every sound magnified—the scratch of her pen, the clicking of her keyboard, the faint creak of her chair. Even the steady thrum of her own heartbeat seemed loud enough to draw attention.
The oak door to his office stood closed. But the weight of it pressed on her. She knew he was in there, waiting.
At last, his voice cut through the silence.
"Miss Cruz."
She jolted, her pen nearly slipping from her fingers. Rising quickly, she smoothed her skirt and approached the door.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Come in."
Her hand trembled as she pushed open the door. The scent of his office hit her instantly—rich leather, faint smoke, something darker she couldn't name.
Dante was at his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked less formal than he had earlier, but no less imposing. Papers were spread before him, though his attention was fixed solely on her.
"Close the door," he said.
The click of the latch echoed like a warning.
"Sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk.
Valentina obeyed, clutching her hands tightly in her lap to hide their trembling.
He leaned back, studying her in silence for a long moment. His eyes dragged over her face, her throat, the nervous curve of her shoulders. She felt flayed open beneath his gaze, her skin hot with awareness.
"You've adjusted quickly," he said at last.
"I'm trying, sir."
His lips curved faintly. "You're doing more than trying. You're obedient. Efficient. Careful. I like that."
The compliment—or was it an observation?—made her pulse quicken. She didn't want his approval. She only wanted to keep her head down, do her work, and survive.
But he wasn't finished.
"You stayed late without complaint," he continued. "Most women would've made excuses. You didn't."
She swallowed. "You told me to stay."
"And you listened." His gaze sharpened. "Good girl."
The words struck her like a touch, making her chest tighten. She hated how they affected her, how her body responded even as her mind screamed to resist.
Dante reached across the desk, pulling a single folder toward him. He opened it slowly, deliberately, then slid it across the polished wood toward her.
"Translate these notes into a formal report. Tonight."
She exhaled softly, relief trickling in. Work. That was all this was.
She opened the folder, scanning the scribbled notes. They were messy, half-written in shorthand, filled with numbers and names she didn't recognize.
"These are… unusual transactions," she said carefully.
He tilted his head, watching her. "Is that a problem?"
"No, sir. Just… unusual."
Dante leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "Curious little dove. Do you always question what's put in front of you?"
Her cheeks flushed. "No. I just… want to make sure I do it right."
His smile was slow, dangerous. "That's the right answer."
She bent her head quickly, hiding in the papers, though the words blurred under the weight of his gaze. She typed slowly, carefully, aware of every shift he made, every sound in the quiet room.
Minutes stretched into hours. The city lights glittered outside the window, but inside the office, time seemed suspended.
Finally, she placed the finished report on his desk. "Here, sir."
Dante didn't look at it. His eyes stayed on her.
"You're thorough," he said softly. "Precise. And loyal, perhaps. I can use that."
Her chest tightened. "I'm here to work. That's all."
He chuckled, rising from his chair. He circled the desk, moving toward her with the slow grace of a predator. Her breath quickened as he stopped before her chair, towering over her.
"You think you're here to work," he murmured. "But you'll learn, Valentina. In my world, roles shift. Obedience is everything. And you—" he brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers grazing her cheek "—you were made to obey."
Her breath caught. She gripped the arms of the chair, fighting the shiver that raced through her.
"I'm not—" Her voice faltered, then steadied. "I'm not yours."
His smile deepened, but there was no humor in it. Only certainty.
"You are," he said simply.
The words hung in the air, heavy, inescapable.
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
"Mr. Moretti?" Rosa's voice called softly.
Dante's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. He stepped back, his hand dropping away. "Come in."
Rosa entered cautiously, her gaze flicking between them. She held a file in her hands, but her eyes lingered on Valentina, filled with something like pity.
"I have the shipment confirmations you asked for," Rosa said, her voice steady but clipped.
"Leave them," Dante ordered.
She obeyed, setting the file on his desk. Before leaving, her gaze locked with Valentina's again, urgent, warning.
The door closed behind her, and Dante exhaled slowly, his attention returning to Valentina.
"Go home," he said at last.
She blinked. "Sir?"
"Go. Rest. Be back at eight sharp."
She rose quickly, gathering her things, her body trembling. She wanted to escape before he changed his mind, before he decided to keep her there longer.
At the door, his voice stopped her.
"Valentina."
She turned, heart in her throat.
His eyes were black fire in the dim light. "When I call, you come. No hesitation. No excuses. Do you understand?"
Her throat tightened. "Yes, sir."
"Good."
She slipped out, the air in the hallway cooler, freer—but the weight of his command followed her.
---
That Night
Valentina lay awake in her small apartment, staring at the ceiling as the city murmured outside her window. Sleep refused to come.
His words echoed in her mind. You are. When I call, you come.
Her skin still burned where his fingers had brushed her cheek. She hated herself for remembering it, for the way her body had betrayed her with that trembling shiver.
This wasn't normal. This wasn't safe.
And yet… part of her couldn't deny the pull.
She turned on her side, clutching her pillow, and prayed morning would never home.
Because morning meant returning to him.
And she wasn't sure she had the strength to resist much longer.
---