Chapter 2
The next morning, I twist my honey-brown hair into a low bun.
It used to be scraped back so tight I was practically giving myself a facelift—until someone at the office joked that I was “thinning” in the back.
I checked in the mirror later and nearly had a mental breakdown. Since then, I’ve been gentler.
Twenty-three feels young, but life keeps sprinting ahead like it’s trying to leave me behind. Some days, I swear I’ll blink and wake up fifty, wondering when the hell I actually lived.
A curl slips free. I huff out a breath and tuck it behind my ear. My hair was a pale gold when I was a kid—adulthood dimmed it. I prefer it now.
My outfit follows the same formula as always: a skirt brushing just below my knees, minimal makeup, and a button-up fastened fully. Not that I’m hiding anything impressive. Even if I unbuttoned the whole damn thing, there’s not much to show. Bummer, yeah—but I’ve made peace with it.
There was a point, after my student loans were finally dead and buried, when I considered getting a boob job. But when I sat with the thought long enough, I realized why I wanted it.
Because maybe Enzo would look at me differently.
Yeah. I shut that idea down instantly. I don’t alter myself for a man—especially one who can’t even spare me a full glance.
Heels on, keys in hand, I slip into my Mercedes and speed off to the office.
When I walk in, I get the usual chorus of greetings. Most people are nice. Some… not so much. Like the men who resent that I sit closer to Mr. Morelli than they ever will. That I make more money than a couple of the fresh engineering grads.
The women? Some hate me too. They think I’m secretly sleeping with him—or that I could. As if I’d be competition. Three years beside that man, and we’ve never so much as brushed arms on purpose.
I step into the elevator and see Roy already there. Fresh hire. Large ego. He gives me a sideways smirk and mutters something about how “some people get paid for… proximity.”
My smile is sweet enough to rot teeth. “Roy, I’ve been here three years. If you survive two more months, I’ll hand you my salary myself. I don’t break promises.”
He only started four months ago—but Mary once spilled my salary, and now every insecure man in the building is obsessed with it.
The elevator dings, and Roy steps into my path, trying to block me.
“Move, Roy. We both know one complaint from me to Mr. Morelli is enough to get you fired.”
It won’t be the first time. Every time a man here has tried to push the women around—talk over them, dump the grunt work on them, question why they were hired—one report and Enzo cuts them loose. I didn’t expect it the first time I complained, but he handled it fast.
Roy pales and steps aside.
I walk out without another glance.
Inside Mr. Morelli’s office, I give the space a quick once-over. No dust. No clutter. Everything exactly how he likes it.
Everything exactly how I’ve kept it… for three years.
Someone else will do this soon—learn his rhythms, anticipate his moods, memorize the exact way he likes his files arranged and how he takes his coffee.
The thought hits me right in the chest, and I have to swallow down a mix of hurt and jealousy. Jealousy I have absolutely no right to feel.
I have five women on the roster, all handpicked by me.
The best in their field. Hopefully, they last. My contract only requires one week’s notice, but I’m giving two—courtesy, and because I know what it takes to keep his world running.
It’s not going to be easy teaching these women how not to get on his nerves so they can keep the job.
The thought makes my skin itch, and my fingernails scratch against my neck. I adjust the collar of my blouse back into place when the door opens.
Mr. Morelli steps inside.
The atmosphere shifts. Enzo Morelli carries an aura that makes you aware of his size without him doing anything at all. His shoulders are broad under charcoal wool, coat slung over one arm, huge muscles pressing against his shirt as he moves. He smells like cedar, musk, and wood. Delicious.
“Morning,” I say.
A nod. “Morning.”
I set his coffee on his desk, the porcelain clinking softly against the expensive oak. I watch the way his throat moves as he takes the first sip, the faint tension in his jaw easing by a fraction.
He’s a coffee addict—scratch that—he’s my coffee addict. He only likes coffee the way I make it. I don’t do anything special to it, but he always knows when it’s not me who made it, and he gets pissed.
“I need to discuss something with you,” I gulp.
I’m actually doing it—and I’m a little terrified. And a lot sad.
His pen halts mid-line. He lifts his eyes to mine, entirely present.
“What is it?” he asks.
My fingers loosen on the folder I’m holding. This is it.
“I’m resigning.”
Something flashes across his face—quick. Violent. His temple pulses. Other people wouldn’t even notice, but I do, because I’ve spent years learning this man’s smallest tells.
“Why?” he growls.
“I think I need time for myself. Maybe travel. Just… step back and experience life.”
He studies me with that unnerving focus of his. “Can I persuade you to stay?”
“Sir—”
“A salary increase. More PTO. And a bigger office.”
It’s hard to refuse. The thought of my salary increasing even more is insane to me. But what’s the benefit of all this money if the tradeoff is my mental health?
A stupid, pathetic part of me is hopeful about what this might mean for us. Is he offering all this because he can’t stand the office without me?
I extinguish the thought before he can see the light.
“No,” I say quietly. “My mind’s made up. But thank you so much, Sir—for the offer and for everything. Working with you has been a life-changing opportunity. I’m forever grateful to you and your company.”
A small, pulsing line appears at the base of his throat—a vein that only shows when something gets under his skin.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll push. Demand that I stay, and my stomach flutters.
But then he tamps it all down.
“Understood,” he says.
Just that.
I keep my face neutral. I don’t want him to see that the fact he let me go so easily hurts.
“When is your last day?”
“In two weeks.”
“I’ll need your transition files. And a full breakdown of current priorities.”
“Of course.” My voice stays even. My heart does not.
He nods and reaches for his pen again, as if it’s just another normal day.
Three years—and that’s all? I gave this man everything I had to offer for three years, and he acts like my resignation means less than nothing.
Outwardly, I keep it professional, not wanting to embarrass myself.
“Your schedule for today,” I say, placing the folder in front of him.
He takes it without looking at me.
I don’t know what I expected. Nothing realistic. But after spending years around the Morellis—watching his brothers fall to their knees for the women they call the one—a part of me wondered if this would be the moment.
If walking away would trigger whatever family curse turns them feral.
But nothing ignites in him. No realization. No madness. Just a man ready to replace me.
I’m embarrassed that I ever thought otherwise.