Her heels struck the marble floor like a countdown in a sharp rhythm, each step deliberate and steady.
Elena Rossi wasn't late. She never was. Arriving exactly on time had a way of rattling men who liked keeping women waiting. Today the morning felt heavier than usual, pressing against her like a whispered dare. This is when they think you will break.
Her father's company had been bleeding money long before the heart attack took him. Now, a month past his funeral, she'd inherited what everyone called a sinking ship that couldn't be saved.
The thing is, she wasn't planning to abandon it.
In the board room, a dozen men sat around the polished oak table, some with pity in their eyes, others with hunger. They rose politely as she entered, but the tension that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"Miss Rossi," one director started, "we are glad you could….."
"I'm not Miss Rossi." She dropped her leather portfolio on the table with a satisfying thud. "I'm the CEO…" Sit down."
The room shifted. Some obeyed instantly. Others hesitated, still processing. Then the door swung open and in walked the man they had all been waiting for.
Dante Moretti.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that seemed to shrink a room. The billionaire tycoon who had quietly bought up most of their competitors in the last three years. He had already made three offers to buy Rossi Textiles and had been turned down every time, once by her father, twice by the board. Now here he was in person, his Italian suit sharper than any blade.
Now Elena understood why men called him the shark.
"Elena." His voice rolled out smooth and dark, like expensive whiskey with a bitter finish. "My condolences, though I know they are late. I would have attended the funeral, but... Circumstances."
Her jaw went tight. Don't let him see you shake. Don't let him know you have cried yourself raw every night since that hospital call.
"Keep your sympathy, Mr. Moretti," she said evenly. "You are not here to mourn. You are here to pick bones."
A few board members shifted uncomfortably.
Dante smirked as he took the seat across from her. "Sharp as ever. I respect that. But let's not waste each other's time. Rossi Textiles is drowning, and I'm offering you a lifeboat.
Her pulse hammered, but her voice came out steady. "And I'm telling you", she leaned forward, voice dropping low, "I'm not for sale."
---
Her mind raced with thoughts she would never speak aloud.
He thinks I will fold. They all do. Because I wear heels instead of wing-tips. Because I inherited this instead of clawing my way up from nothing. They see Dad's company as carcass and me as the sentimental daughter who can't let go. But I will not watch this man devour everything my father built just because he has never heard the word no.
---
Dante leaned back, studying her as if she were a puzzle he intended to solve. "You think this is about pride. It isn't. It's math. Rossi Textiles has debt exceeding sixty million euros. Your factories in Milan and Naples are running at half capacity. Creditors are circling like vultures. You really think your father would want you bleeding out when I'm offering a clean exit?"
Elena's nails dug into her palms under the table. She hated that his numbers were right. Hated how he wielded them like weapons. But her voice stayed steady.
"My father would want me to fight," she said.
Murmurs rippled through the room.
Dante's smirk faded just slightly, replaced by something sharper. "Fight me, then."
The meeting dissolved into heated exchanges, directors pleading for reason, accountants rattling off projections, lawyers warning of bankruptcy. Elena stood her ground through every word, refusing to cede an inch.
By the time she walked out of the boardroom, her pulse was pounding so hard she thought her ribs might crack.
Outside, Milan's sun blazed over Via della Spiga. Elena drew a shaky breath, her phone buzzing in her hand.
It was a message from Sofia, her best friend and executive.
"How did the vulture meeting go? Do I need to bring wine or tequila?".
Elena almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she typed back.
"Bring both. And maybe a shovel to bury me with."
---
That evening Elena kicked off her heels in her apartment and slumped into the velvet armchair. The city lights glittered beyond the window, but inside her apartment, it felt like war ruins.
Sofia arrived minutes later, dark curls bouncing, carrying two bottles in hand.
"You look like you survived a war," Sofia said, pouring tequila into crystal glasses.
"Felt like one," Elena muttered. "Dante Moretti wants to buy us out. Again."
Sofia whistled low. "The shark himself. And you said...?"
"What do you think?"
"That you would rather burn the building down than sell it."
"Exactly."
Sofia sighed, settling back in her chair. "You know he doesn't lose, right? Nobody says no to Dante Moretti."
Elena's eyes burned, fury stiffening her spine. "Then I will be the first."
When the night grew quiet and Sofia had fallen asleep on the sofa, Elena found herself staring at the ceiling, her glass still in her hand. Her chest ached with exhaustion, grief, and fear she would never confess aloud. Her confidence cracked in private.
She whispered to the silence. "I can not lose this. I can not lose him twice."
Her father's shadow lingered everywhere, in the framed photos, in the company he left behind, in the battles she now fought in his name.
His absence was still a hollow ache. The board's pity still stung.
In her mind, Dante's voice, smooth, merciless, echoed in her head. "Fight me, then."
The challenge burned in her chest like fuel.
She clutched her glass tighter, whispering into the quiet, "Watch me."
With that she drifted into a very deep, peaceful sleep. Tension drained from her limbs and eyelids, letting go of the day's anxiety.