4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
D om
I slip into the passenger’s side of the car as the driver closes the back door for Sophie. Her soft, flowery fragrance fills the confined space, stripping it of everything else.
Everything but the painful awareness of just how close she is.
I keep my gaze fixed forward, refusing to glance at the rearview mirror. I don’t need to see her eyes. I already feel them on the back of my neck.
Because I underestimated her. Badly.
She was right. The Rideover construction project was a test. A trap, if I’m being honest. I’d designed it to break her down, to chip away at that unshakable composure until she folded. I didn’t need much—just one crack. One slip.
Something I could use.
The project was fast-paced, under-resourced, and doomed from the start. I chose it on purpose. It was meant to eat her alive.
But she didn’t just survive it. She owned it.
I watched her take the lead without hesitation, her smile fixed in place, and her voice smooth and decisive. Her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose now and then, her auburn hair catching the light as it bounced against her shoulders.
She made it look effortless, which was what got under my skin.
If I didn’t want so badly to see her come undone—to rip through that polished surface and expose what’s beneath—I might’ve been impressed. I might’ve even said it.
Instead, all I felt was a quiet, gnawing admiration laced with something darker. Something like anger, simmering beneath my skin, tight and constant.
Then she said it.
“ I could say the same about you. I doubt you even trust yourself.”
The words landed harder than I expected. Not because she was wrong. But because for one brief second, I didn’t have anything to say back.
The plan to get her drunk hadn’t been strategic either. It was impulsive, with frustration bleeding into instinct. I thought maybe—just maybe—a little liquor would loosen her edges, give me a glimpse of the cracks. I thought she might let something slip if I pushed the right buttons.
But she didn’t.
Two glasses in, she smiled, thanked the server, and called it a night. Not even a wobble in her voice.
Meanwhile, I sat there wondering when the tables had turned because, at some point, it stopped being about getting the truth.
It was the flush that crept up her cheeks, the way she ran her fingers through her hair, and the tight feeling in my chest each time her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip, staining the tip pink.
It was the blood rushing from my head below my belt that drove me close to the edge.
I found myself losing control to someone who should’ve broken the moment I touched her.
A small sigh escapes her behind me, too soft to mean anything—except it does. It reaches under my skin and leaves a mark, like her presence is capable of touching nerve endings she shouldn’t even know exist.
A muscle in my jaw tightens. “We’ll be staying at the hotel’s penthouse tonight. We’re heading back at first light,” I say, my voice clipped.
“Fine by me,” she replies, calm and even.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. The car pulls up outside the building, and I exit, striding towards the revolving doors without waiting to see if she’ll follow.
“Do you need me to help you, ma’am?”
“No, I’m fine. I can handle it.” My steps slow before coming to a halt when I hear her slurred words. Looking over my shoulder, I see Sophie pushing the driver off, even as she takes one wobbly step forward.
She’s drunk? I shake my head in surprise.
He rushes to her side again, offering to help, but she dismisses him as she waves her hands around. “I promise, I’m fine.” Her eyes lock on me, and she points. “Just ask him. He tried to get me drunk because he thought I’d say something to implicate myself.”
I frown as she clicks her tongue loudly in disapproval. “Isn’t it funny? The great Domenico Moretti, wary of a lowly attorney like me?”
Lowly? My eyebrows shoot up as I turn properly.
She wags her finger. “You’re no genius. You’re not brilliant either. You’re just a manipulative, stuck-up man who thinks he’s better than everybody else.”
“And you’re a lightweight,” I murmur as I cross the hotel entrance. My steps are paced and calculated, giving her space to catch up and gather what’s left of her pride.
The driver avoids my gaze, head bowed under the weight of the scene he’s just witnessed.
“You can park the car and leave,” I say without looking at him.
He nods quickly and retreats.
I reach for Sophie’s wrist, intending only to guide her out of the way, but I misjudge how far gone she really is. She slips.
Not dramatically—just enough to lose her balance, just enough to stumble forward… and against me. Her warm, unsteady breathing fills my personal space with a rush, and I feel my pulse skip.
“You’re a brute,” she breathes, her curled fist landing against my chest. It barely registers—a soft thud, more frustration than force. But it’s not the hit that knocks the air out of me.
It’s her.
This close, her body pressed against mine, I can feel the shape of her through the soft fabric of her flared top and the snug skirt that refuses to offer me mercy. Her sweet, maddening scent settles in my lungs like smoke I can’t cough out.
“Terrible, terrible man,” she mutters, lifting her hand again.
My fingers close around her wrist before she makes contact, an automatic, instinctive move I regret a second too late.
Her eyes flash with anger as she jerks against my grip. “Let me go!”
She pushes, not with her hands but with every ounce of strength she can summon. It’s clumsy, drunken, and absolutely useless.
All it does is curve her body tighter against mine.
And now she’s right there—flush, breathing hard, caught between fury and something else she probably doesn’t want to name.
I hold still, jaw locked, telling myself not to move.
Not to look down or acknowledge what’s happening between us, because I can feel the blood rushing from every corner of my body to one place.
If she were lucid, she’d feel the way my pants twitch and the bulge that stirs beneath them.
She’d feel that I’m narrowly holding on to self-control.
“Let me go.”
My grip doesn’t loosen, and I don’t move. Not yet. Because, as much as I should hate it, or push her away, a greedy part of me wants to indulge in the warmth that seeps through her body into mine.
Then Sophie tilts her head, her green eyes like seafoam. The color of waves washing up on a yellow sandy beach under a clear blue sky, urging you to follow the current back out.
Her lips part, the pink on them almost wiped off, but no words come out.
I feel a sharp stirring below my belt, digging into the seam of my pants. My hand around her wrist tightens as I hear myself struggle to breathe.
“I’ve parked the car, sir. What time should I—?”
The presence of the driver breaks the spell, and I look away, clearing my throat quietly. “Six a.m.,” I tell him, stepping away from Sophie. “We’ll be down by six a.m.”
He nods and starts to leave. “Wait,” I call him back. “Could you find someone from the reception to handle her?” I point to Sophie.
When he turns to me, I can hear the question he doesn’t voice out. Not me. If I touch her again, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop myself.
***
I stay behind in the lobby after Sophie heads upstairs, letting the silence settle over me like dust. Gathering my thoughts. And whatever’s left of my sanity.
“What the hell was that?” I mutter, pacing the carpeted floor of the seating area, dragging a hand down my face. I’d just acted like a high-schooler with a crush—or worse, a college kid one month into a dry spell and losing his mind.
Sophie Greco? Or rather, Sophie Bellini.
I scoff out loud.
It has to be some kind of cosmic prank. A cruel glitch in the simulation. Because if you asked me to name every woman I could possibly be attracted to, Sophie wouldn’t even make the honorable mentions.
For heaven’s sake, she’s the daughter of the man who killed my parents. And she’s here under pretense—working for me with a fake last name and an agenda I haven’t yet unraveled.
I should be focused on that. Not wrestling with a surge of emotions every time I get within ten feet of her.
Frustrated, disgusted with myself, and determined to shut this thing down before it grows fangs, I head to the penthouse.
I step inside to find Sophie sprawled on the couch, feet hanging off the edge, heels slipping halfway off. At least she’s out cold.
Her face is buried into the leather, but her hair is everywhere—wild, chaotic, like the aftermath of something indulgent. Something intimate.
No . I bite the inside of my cheek. “For fuck’s sake.”
Shrugging off my jacket, I turn away from the living room, needing space from her… from myself. But as I walk down the hall, I hear her murmur behind me.
“Hot.” Her voice reaches my ears as I hear her move. “It’s too hot.” My resolve lasts all of a minute before I turn around, in time to see her take her shirt off.
“What are you doing?” I stride back without thinking, grabbing her shirt just as she tosses it. “What the fuck are you doing, Sophie?”
Her eyes meet mine, and a smile curves her mouth. “I’m taking off my clothes. It’s really hot in here, don’t you think?”
“No,” I grab her wrist as she reaches for her skirt. “You’re drunk, that’s all. You should take a shower instead.”
“I want to take it off here.”
“No.” If I knew this would happen, I would’ve stopped her after one glass. “You can take it off in the bathroom.”
She makes a show of shaking her head from side to side. “ Why ? Are you shy? You sound like you’ve never seen a woman naked before. Have you, Mr. Moretti?” Her finger pokes my chest. “Have you seen a woman before, or does your frustration and annoying attitude come from your lack of expertise?”
I hate that I understand her. I want to feign ignorance and walk away, not taking the bait to her teasing.