Chapter Eight
Serena
I ended the day immediately after the meeting with... him. Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn. Seeing who my client was, unexpected doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Why on earth would they assign me to assist him? I have no real experience, no deep understanding of how to handle someone like that. It feels like a cruel joke.
I try to push him out of my mind, but it’s harder than I’d like to admit. What I need right now is a drink, something strong enough to drown out the memory of his piercing blue eyes and the infuriating smirk that still lingers in my head.
My phone buzzes and I see Sienna’s name flash across the screen. FaceTime. Without a second thought, I hit answer. God, I already miss her. She told me the moment she landed in Japan, but between her schedule and my disaster of a day, we hadn’t had time to really talk.
“How was your first day? Tell me everything!” Sienna practically squeals, her face filling the screen, her enthusiasm so bright it cuts through the haze that’s been hanging over me since this morning.
Sienna is my ride-or-die. Always has been since last year, when our mothers, two women who thrive on status and appearances, dragged us into their New Year’s spectacle of a party.
That’s when we clicked. She’s vibrant, unfiltered, the kind of person who makes you forget the weight of the world pressing on your chest.
And of course, she’s stunning. Unfairly stunning.
She’s taller than me, about 5’5”, with caramel waves cascading down her back like a damn shampoo commercial.
Long legs, tiny waist, curves that make heads turn without effort.
Her green eyes glitter like gemstones, and she laughs like she knows every secret in the world.
Standing next to her, my B-cup breasts and simple frame feel…
ordinary. But it’s impossible not to admire her.
She’s magnetic, and men orbit around her like she’s the sun.
“Uhm… interesting,” I mumble, distracted, the memory of him creeping back in like smoke seeping under a locked door.
Her brows lift immediately. “Interesting?” She leans in closer, her mischievous grin already forming. “Don’t you dare hold back. Who was your client?”
The name slips out before I can think. “Moretti.”
Her mouth drops open. “Moretti? As in… the Italian dessert?”
I nod, heat already creeping up my neck. “Yes. Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti.”
Sienna freezes. “Oh. My. God.” Her green eyes sparkle as she zeroes in on me, and when she sees my blush, she bursts out laughing. “Why are you blushing?”
My face burns hotter. There’s no hiding it.
“Is he that hot?” she presses, practically bouncing with excitement. “What did he do? What did he say? Spill!”
I bite back a nervous laugh, my chest tight with both embarrassment and something darker. “He asked me… if I wear underwear.”
Sienna’s jaw drops, and then she erupts into hysterical laughter. “No way. No way! What did you say?”
“I told him he wasn’t my type,” I say with a straight face, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.
Her laughter only gets louder. “Serena, please. That man is everyone’s type. You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I don’t have a type.” At least, I don’t think I do. “If I did, it would be a man who’s… respectful. Affectionate. Someone who acts like a man but isn’t… you know…” I pause and grin wryly. “In jail.”
She snorts as I pull a bottle of Sangria from the fridge, pouring myself a glass. My favorite. Sweet, rich, dangerous in how easily it slides down. One glass turns into two. Then three.
By the time Sienna finishes telling me about her photoshoot in Tokyo, about how much she loves Japan and how much she still hates Knox, I’m drunk. Definitely drunk.
And it doesn’t help.
The alcohol doesn’t blur my thoughts, it amplifies them. Instead of drowning him out, Lorenzo Moretti consumes me. His face. His mouth. His voice. The way his eyes saw straight through me, stripping me bare without laying a finger on me.
I imagine his hands on my skin, claiming me, branding me, like I already belong to him. I imagine the weight of his body, the danger in his kiss, the destruction he promises with a single touch.
How the hell is this happening? How can a man I barely know crawl under my skin like this? Infect my veins, my thoughts, my body?
Am I sick?
No. I’m drunk. That’s all. Just drunk.
But the realization slams into me like ice water, I’m alone. Alone in this bed. Alone in this house. Alone in a life that feels hollow no matter how I try to fill it.
And worse, I don’t want to be alone.
I want him.
The thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me. My body aches with it, my chest tight with longing. My lips part on a shaky breath as the room spins, but it doesn’t matter. The images don’t leave. The fantasy grows sharper. Stronger.
I close my eyes and let myself fall. Let myself feel the heat, the hunger, the shame. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I open my eyes, and regret hits me like a tidal wave.
Regret for the drinking. Regret for... the other thing.
My head pounds, the kind of headache no amount of ibuprofen can touch. As I drag myself to the mirror, I barely recognize the girl staring back at me. The shadows under my eyes are darker than ever, evidence of nights spent chasing something I can’t seem to find.
When was the last time I had a good night’s sleep?
I try to steady my breathing, leaning against the sink as my thoughts race.
I’ve been pushing myself too hard, reading, studying, and consuming every psychology book and article I can find, all in the name of meeting my father’s impossible expectations.
And in doing so, I’ve forgotten what I love most.
Writing.
Being a romantasy writer has always been my dream. I started a novel last year, pouring my heart into it, but now it sits unfinished. The spark is gone, replaced by exhaustion and self-doubt.
What would I even write about? My life isn’t exactly a source of inspiration. I have no love life. My days are predictable. I’d fail miserably at creating something imaginative or exciting.
When people look at me, they probably think I have the perfect life. Young, beautiful, and successful, or so they assume. They see my job and my family’s wealth and think I have it all.
But they’re wrong.
I’m not rich, my parents are. My success feels like theirs, not mine.
A tear slides down my cheek, warm and uninvited. I don’t even bother to wipe it away. Another follows, and before I know it, I’m sobbing.
Why am I such a mess?
Shame clings to me like a second skin, the memory of last night replaying in my mind. How could I let myself get so aroused by a stranger’s flirtation? Yes, he was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t excuse it.
It’s not normal.
I’m 24 years old, almost 25, and what do I have to show for it? No plan, no direction, no real control over my own life.
I’m just a puppet.
My parents’ puppet.
I wipe away the tears and step into the shower, letting the warm water wash over me. It doesn’t erase the heaviness I feel, but it helps me reset, even if just a little.
I have to be at work by 9 AM, and I’m already cutting it close.
After a quick shower, I pull myself together, doing my signature makeup with practiced efficiency and twisting my hair into a sleek bun.
Today, I opt for a beige Polo dress that fits perfectly, paired with my YSL high heels.
Polished, professional, and just distracting enough to make me feel like I have some control over how the day goes.
But my head is still buzzing, a dull throb that refuses to fade. Last night was a mistake, drinking when I knew I had to work the next morning was reckless. I can’t even stomach coffee right now, and the lack of caffeine isn’t helping my already fragile mood.
As I step into the office, I notice a familiar figure standing with Ian.
My father.
He’s deep in conversation with Ian, their postures tense, their voices low. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but whatever it is, they look... angry.
My curiosity flares instantly.
Without hesitation, I make my way toward Ian’s office, my heart pounding with anticipation. I tell myself it’s just to say hello, but deep down, I’m already bracing myself for whatever I might overhear.
I step into Ian’s office, feigning nonchalance, but the charged atmosphere in the room makes it clear that this isn’t just a casual chat.
The tension is almost palpable, and I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s happening here, it’s something I’m not supposed to know about.
“Good morning!” I say cheerfully, trying to cut through the tension hanging in the air.
The looks I get in return are less than welcoming, both men appear as if they’d rather throw me out than engage in pleasantries.
Ian, however, softens after a moment, his expression relaxing as he acknowledges me.
“Morning, Serena,” he says, his tone friendlier now. “I didn’t know you were working today. Have they assigned you two clients already?”
There’s curiosity in his voice, though I can tell he assumed Lorenzo was my sole focus.
“Yes,” I reply with a nod. “They gave me Stephan Blackwell as well. How are you doing, Dad? It’s nice seeing you around. Are you here to check on me?”
I lean in and give my father a cheek kiss, noting the slight stiffness in his posture.
My father may be an “old man” by my standards, but at 51, he hardly looks it. With his sharp features and perfectly tailored suit, he easily passes for someone in his mid-40s. Sometimes I joke to myself that he must be sacrificing babies to maintain his youthful glow.
“Honey, I actually wanted to speak to you,” he says, his tone serious, and I can’t help but notice the lines of fatigue on his face.
It’s clear neither of us got enough sleep last night.
He gestures for us to move to my office.
Once inside, I catch him glancing around, his gaze lingering on the small personal touches I’ve added to the space.
The all-glass walls might scream corporate sterility, but I’ve worked hard to make it my own.
The shelves are lined with books I love, a framed picture of me with Mom and Dad sits prominently on my desk, and sticky notes are scattered everywhere like confetti, my system for keeping track of thoughts and tasks.
My work journal sits open, ready for the day.
I see him sigh, his expression betraying a flicker of disapproval. I know it’s not his style, he probably finds it cluttered or unprofessional, but this is my space, and I don’t plan on changing it to suit anyone else.
“How was your first day at work?” he asks casually, his eyes fixed on his phone.
Of course. I’ll never get his full attention, work always comes first. I could probably set something on fire, and he’d still be scrolling through emails.
I almost laugh at my own thoughts. Rich girl with daddy issues complaining about life, what a cliché.
“It was... interesting,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “I think I handled myself quite well in discussions with Mr. Moretti. He’s not very talkative, but we’ll work through that. I’m confident I’ll get good results.”
Of course, I lied. What else could I say to him?
Oh, it went fine, Dad. He called me a prostitute, then asked if I was wearing underwear. But no worries, we’re totally bonding.
No, that would go over well.
My father finally puts his phone down, his expression serious as he looks at me.
“Serena, I want you to pay attention right now,” he says, his voice firm. “I want you to report to me before writing your report on him. If he says, does, or even breathes anything suspicious, I want you to bring it to me first. Understood?”
His eyes are sharp, pinning me in place, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard.
“Why?” I ask, the word slipping out before I can stop myself.
I know it’ll irritate him, he’s the kind of man who expects his orders to be followed without question. But I can’t help it. His request feels... strange.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Just do as I say,” he finally replies, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m very proud of you.”
He gives me a curt nod before stepping out, leaving me alone in the silence of my office.
Proud of me?
The words linger in the air, but they feel hollow, like something he’s supposed to say, not something he truly means.
I stare at the closed door, my mind buzzing with questions. Why is he so concerned about Moretti? And why is he involving me in whatever this is?
For now, though, I have no answers. Only orders.