Natalie pov
This is a trick of my mind.
A cruel twist of my imagination.
A nightmare.
Yes. That's all this could be—a nightmare. If I wake up now, it'll all be over.
If I wake up now, I'll be drenched in sweat, my chest heaving, my eyes burning with unshed tears. But it'll be an illusion.
Because there's no way I'm actually facing Alex after Nine years of running, of trying to erase every trace of him from my memory.
Yet when I blink—once, twice—he doesn't disappear. He remains crystal clear in front of me, unmoving, unshaken. Like a hurricane brewing with one purpose—
To destroy me.
To tear me apart.
To leave nothing but wreckage in his wake.
The air in the office is thick, suffocating. His presence alone is a weight pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Not only is it imposing, but it tugs on strings I thought I cut off long ago. Strings that are now vibrating violently inside me, rattling through my bones.
The last time I saw him, we were twenty. Young. Reckless.
He's older now. Sharper. More masculine. Every inch of him screams power and control. His jaw is more defined, his once unruly hair now styled with precision, darker as if he's erased even the faintest light from it. The softness I once knew is gone, replaced by something lethal.
He sits behind his desk with an air of nonchalance, yet there's nothing casual about it. It's commanding. Dominating. The posture of a man who knows the world bends to his will.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin. It's a habit I remember all too well—one he used to do when deep in thought or barely suppressing his anger.
Which is it now?
I can't tell. His face is a blank slate. The eyes that once gave him away, that used to glint with warmth, with teasing mischief, are muted. Lifeless. Like someone stole the stars from them and left nothing but a deep, endless blue. A starless, moonless night.
And they are locked onto me.
A chill spreads through me. No, not just a chill—an arctic blast that freezes me to my bones.
He used to have the kind of beauty that soothed me, that made me feel safe.
Now?
It's savage. Unrestrained. The kind of beauty that destroys.
I know better than to be fooled. By the way he wears his tailored gray suit like a second skin. By the way he exudes effortless control. By the way his expression remains so perfectly composed.
It's all a façade.
A carefully crafted mask meant to lure me in—
Only to strike when I least expect it.
"Are you going to stand there all day?"
His voice slams into me, low and deep, yet smooth like silk. But underneath that silk, there's steel. A warning. A command.
I flinch.
Not just because the illusion shatters, because the hope that this is all a dream vanishes in an instant.
But because of his tone.
Disapproving. Detached.
Like I'm nothing more than an inconvenience. A stain on his perfectly curated world.
"Either come inside and close the door, or get out." His voice is ice, sharper than glass. "And leave your access card at HR while you're at it."
A lump rises in my throat, thick and suffocating.
I force my trembling fingers to push the door shut behind me.
This job is important. Not just for me, but for the triplets.
So what if I feel like I'm coming undone, like I'm unraveling at the seams?
What if I want to turn back, run, and never see those blue eyes again?
It doesn't matter.
Their survival does.
If I have to work for Alex to put food on the table, then so be it.
And maybe—just maybe—he doesn't recognize me.
Maybe he forgot.
The thought stings in a way I don't understand. I should be relieved. I should be grateful.
Instead, something in my chest twists.
I take a steadying breath. "Good morning. I'm the new assistant. My name is Natalie Brooks."
My voice is even. Steady. A perfect contrast to the storm raging inside me.
He doesn't even blink. "I don't care about your name."
The words cut deeper than they should.
"I'll forget it once you fail the trial period." He glances at his expensive Swiss watch before looking back at me, the iciness in his gaze more pronounced. "And it's half past eight. That means you're late. There's nothing good about this morning."
My stomach knots.
Not just because of his harsh words, but because of his voice. Because of the way he delivers each syllable with calculated indifference.
I straighten my shoulders. "I apologize, but I had to finish some paperwork with HR and—"
"All I hear are meaningless excuses." He cuts me off without hesitation, his voice razor-sharp. "Don't repeat such behavior, or your trial period will end before it even starts. Are we clear?"
I clench my teeth so tightly my jaw aches.
"Yes," I force out, even as a hundred unspoken words burn the back of my throat.
I want to scream.
Not because of this moment—because of everything. Because of the past. Because of the years lost.
But I won't.
I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Good."
He stands, and my breath catches.
Sitting, he was imposing.
Standing?
He's unbearable.
He's taller than I remember, broader. His presence consumes the room, suffocates the air between us.
His suit fits him perfectly, emphasizing the power in his frame, the confidence in his stance. I catch myself staring, wondering if his body still carries the remnants of his college football days—
No. Stop.
I shove the thought away, locking it down tight.
He rounds his desk, stopping in front of me, his hands casually slipping into his pockets.
I fight the urge to step back.
He's waiting.
For what, I don't know.
So I ask, "Do you need anything?"
His lips curve into something that might have once been a smirk. But there's no humor in it.
"Your brain, Ms. Brooks, or did you leave that at home this morning?"
My nails bite into my palm as I exhale slowly, willing myself to stay calm. "If you tell me what you need, I'll get right to it."
His gaze flickers over me, assessing, before he speaks in rapid-fire.
"I need my coffee from Masseria at eight a.m. sharp. Black. Exactly one gram of sugar. Then, you'll confirm my schedule and recheck with clients about their availability. You'll remind me of my domestic court dates and book international calls. If there's a flight, you'll book it and send me constant reminders. Lunch from Catharina's at twelve-thirty. My dry cleaning should be in my flat by three. You'll also manage my golf appointments with the mayor and other influential figures."
I barely keep up, my fingers flying over the tablet.
Then he adds, "Always keep your phone on. I may need something urgently—even at night."
I pause.
My stomach clenches.
"Nighttime?" I echo cautiously.
He lifts a brow. "We work on international clients' schedules. If you brought
your brain, you'd realize they're in different time zones." He tilts his head. "If that's a problem, you know where the door is."
My throat is dry.
My heart is racing.
This is going to be hell.
And Alex?
He's going to enjoy every second of it.