5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
S ophie
The sound of my alarm shrilling pierces my sleep, and I reach blindly for my phone with a groan to turn it off. My head is throbbing like someone took a hammer to it, and my mouth is dry.
“I need to sleep a bit more,” I mumble as I reach even further.
I slap my palm on the wooden attachment to the bed frame, vaguely wondering why I haven’t stumbled on my phone yet.
My hand flattens against cool wood again, and the confusion cuts through the fog of sleep. I crack one eye open, blinking slowly at the unfamiliar ceiling above me.
This isn’t my room.
My head snaps to the side, and everything from last night rushes back with a vengeance—the heat of his mouth, the press of his body, the way I unraveled so easily under his hands.
Shit.
I sit up too quickly, wincing at the pounding in my skull and the ache that pulses deep in my muscles. My phone is finally located at the edge of the nightstand, half-hidden under my peplum shirt. It takes one glance down to realize—in horror—that I’m naked.
Double shit.
Grabbing the shirt, I press it to my chest as I swing my legs off the bed. The floor is cold beneath my toes, grounding me just enough to keep from spiraling.
What have I done?
I had sex with Domenico Moretti.
“Oh God,” I wail as I rush into the bathroom. I grip the sink and stare into the mirror as if staring at my reflection will somehow undo the abomination I committed.
Coming face-to-face with my messy hair and swollen lips doesn’t make it any better. I tilt my head when I see a slight discoloration along my neck, and when I trace it with a finger, the memory returns vividly.
Dom’s lips tracing my chin and his teeth grazing my skin—too light to break skin but deep enough that I could feel the prick of pain mingling with the intense pleasure from his hand between my thighs.
“Fuck.” My knees weaken at the memory, and my fingernails scrape the edge of the sink, holding on for dear life.
What did I do? Or better yet, why couldn’t I have been cursed with amnesia? Instead, I have to relive every last detail—from stumbling into the living room feeling lightheaded, to teasing him about being a—
“Prude,” I whisper the word like a death sentence. I called Domenico a prude while I took off my clothes. What did that make me, then?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the flood from hitting hard. The heat of his breath against my stomach. The way his voice rasped when he said my name.
The way I wanted it—wanted him—like I’d been waiting years, not hours.
No , I shake my head vigorously. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.
I open my eyes and stare at the reflection in the mirror again. Hair like I got dragged through a wind tunnel, lips kissed raw, and that godforsaken mark blooming on my neck like a brand.
What do I do now? Pretend like it never happened? I run cold water and splash my face, like it might wash the night off me. When I look up again, I’ve made my decision.
I’ll act like it never happened. “You need to pull it together. This was a one-time thing,” I point at my reflection.
When I walk into the bedroom again, I step into my clothes, almost tripping over my skirt, when I think I hear something.
“Okay,” I mutter, smoothing my hands down my clothes. “Let’s just get this over with.”
But the living room is empty. So is the kitchen. Even the guest room—nothing but silence and still air. My steps quicken as I retrace them back to the bedroom.
That’s when I see something small and white peeking out from beneath the table. It’s a folded slip of paper. I crouch to grab it, flipping it over in my hands.
A flight ticket.
Sophie Greco. First class. Departure: Thirty minutes from now.
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, pressing a knuckle to my lips to keep it from cracking into something uglier. “Oh, he didn’t,” I say, though the words are already a confirmation.
No note. Not even the extended courtesy of a conversation. Just a clean escape. I’d already concluded that what happened was a one-night stand, but this… it makes me feel cheap.
Like I was for hire, and he completed his end of the transaction.
Anger wells up inside me, and I crumble the paper in my fist before tossing it across the room. “Damn you, Domenico Moretti.”
And me too, because I’ll never forgive myself for sleeping with him.
It was a first-class ticket, so I couldn’t let it go to waste, but I did my best to rack up a tidy bill by the time I checked out of the penthouse suite.
My anger simmers to frustration as I slide into the back of a cab, but the urge to throttle Dom doesn’t fade away.
I close my eyes as I rest my head, recreating repeatedly the moment I found the ticket. Only this time, I’m not throwing the paper across the room, but him.
It’s a bit graphic, but it soothes me until the cab pulls up in front of my apartment building.
I pay the cab driver with a clipped “thanks.” My heels echo down the hallway as I head toward my apartment door. Every step only reminds me of how I’m going to murder Domenico Moretti if I ever see his smug, broody face again.
The door creaks open, and I freeze when I step inside.
Amara is standing in the middle of my living room, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it might leave orbit.
“Oh my God,” she blurts, throwing her hands in the air. “You’re alive.”
I blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’ve been calling you since last night! Multiple times.” She jabs her finger at me. “Your phone went straight to voicemail. No texts, no updates—just poof. I thought maybe your body washed up somewhere on a beach and they’d send me your teeth in a Ziploc.”
“I’m fine, obviously,” I say, dragging my suitcase in and kicking the door shut. “Just… had a last-minute trip.”
And a one-night stand with my arch nemesis. That’s why I had no idea she called—because I was busy locking lips with a man.
Amara narrows her eyes. “A last-minute trip with zero contact and a return that involves you storming in with murder in your eyes? That’s not a trip. That’s emotional damage wrapped in luxury linen.”
I sigh and flop down onto the couch. “You’re not wrong.”
“Start talking,” she says, plopping down beside me. “And don’t skip the spicy parts. I want names, positions, and betrayals. In that order.”
A sigh escapes me. “It’s not that important. It was a work trip.”
“Okay?” she presses. “You’ve been on several work trips before, and none have left you looking like you needed a full day of sleep. And I thought you could pick your hours now? That’s the perk of being a junior partner, right?”
Oh crap.
Between showing up at Dom’s office, getting interrogated, and being shipped off on an impromptu trip, I forgot to tell Amara that I quit my job at the law firm.
I shoot to my feet. “I need a drink. Do you?”
Amara doesn’t budge. “Why do I feel like you’re about to say something and you’re stalling so I don’t freak out?”
She’s not wrong. I need something in my hand if I have any hope of getting the words out. But when I open the fridge, all I find are condiments and regret. I grab two water bottles and head back, handing one to her.
She eyes it, unimpressed. “This better be cold.”
“I thought I had one last bottle of wine,” I say, sinking into the armchair. “But I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while.”
She accepts the bottle and twists off the cap as I blurt, “I quit my job.”
Her hand freezes halfway to her mouth. “You what?”
“I quit,” I repeat. “I’ve been thinking about it for months. I just didn’t tell you because I knew you’d worry, and I needed to line things up first.”
She slowly lowers the bottle. “And?”
“I found a better opportunity. I’m okay, I swear. I just needed a clean break.”
Amara doesn’t respond right away. Her mouth opens like she’s going to say something, but she closes it again, blinking a few times.
Then, with a tight smile, she nods. “I’m not mad that you didn’t tell me.
I’m… hurt. Just a little. You know I’d support you, even if it wasn’t the most practical decision in the world. ”
“I know.” I shift in my seat, guilt prickling under my skin.
She takes a slow sip of her water and studies me over the rim of the bottle. “Is that all, or is there more?”
Note to self: Absolutely do not mention that you slept with your new boss. Not yet anyway, because it’s bound to come out at some point.
“That’s all,” I say, although it feels like I’m lying to myself, not her.
Her expression turns wary, like she can tell something is going on. “Sophie? What are you hiding?”
I shake my head, blinking twice and pursing my lips. “Nothing. Why?”
She untucks her legs and walks over to me, taking the bottle from my hand. “You know I’m going to find out one way or another, so you might as well tell me now. Starting from where you’re working—because you always wanted to open your firm, and I can’t imagine you managed to do that in a week.”
My prolonged pause is all she needs. Her eyes narrow. “Sophie.”
“Don’t freak out.”
“No promises.”
I run a hand through my hair, glance at the ceiling, and mutter under my breath, “I may have slept with someone.”
Her head tilts like a curious cat, but she manages to hold it in. “Okay. A bit shocking. Not because you’re smoking hot, but I didn’t peg you for the kind to get it down on a business trip.”
“But,” she shrugs. “He’s probably hot too. Was it casual, or is he already picking out matching pajama sets?”
I hesitate again, and it doesn’t take a second for her to connect the dots. Her eyes widen, and her gasp is furious. “Oh God. Is it your new boss?”
I don’t answer.
“It’s your boss,” she breathes, then covers her face with her hands and groans. “Jesus, Sophie. You really went for the full rebrand, huh?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I argue weakly. “I—” I stop. What would I say? I teased my boss and called him a prude, so he kissed me? It sounds like something from a power-play handbook.
And Amara is the one who does the exploring, not me.
She steps back, still shocked. “How? You’ve been working for him for how long?”
I raise a hand. Then drop two fingers. She lets out a huffed sigh. “Oh, Sophie. Three days? You might’ve broken a global record. Not that many people end up in bed with their boss in less than seventy-two hours and naked at that.”
As if I haven’t done enough damage, hearing the word naked conjures up an image of a shirtless Dom with his hand reaching for his zipper, pulling down his pants slowly, with his erection straining hard against the fabric.
Oh god.
“It was a mistake,” I say firmly, turning away from her. “It’s not going to happen again.”
“Except it’s not like you, so I’m having trouble believing it’s a one-time thing,” she argues.
My mouth flattens into a thin line. “Oh, it is. I’m certain.”
Because I’d rather take a century-long celibacy vow than be in the same room with Domenico Moretti again, not to mention being anywhere close to naked.
The only thing I’d be committed to is bringing him down.
Amara walks back to the couch and collapses on it. “I see why you wanted that drink. Now I’m wishing I brought a bottle too.”
I’m about to suggest going out to get one when my phone rings from my bag. “Is that your boss?” Amara asks. “Maybe he’s calling to tell you it wasn’t casual for him,” she jokes.
I roll my eyes. “Please. Neither of us wants anything to do with the other.” He’s a selfish, narcissistic man who takes joy in being right all the time.
She’s still grinning at her joke when I reach into my bag and pull out my phone. But the moment I see the name on the screen, the mood turns somber, and my face falls into a well-rehearsed mask.
“I need to take this,” I tell her before excusing myself.
An hour later, I’m seated outside a small, whimsical cafe when a man dressed in casual clothing with a cap covering his face takes the chair in front of me.
“You were on a trip,” he says. No greeting. No prelude. Straight to the point. I’m used to it, but for some reason, it leaves an itchy feeling in my throat.
“A work trip,” I say.
He tilts his head to reveal an unimpressed look. “It doesn’t matter. You were supposed to report any changes to the schedule.”
I start to argue, but bite my tongue at the last minute. “I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “It’s fine. Did anything happen?”
I shake my head. “Not out of the ordinary.” I don’t have to report every last detail, do I? I doubt telling my uncle that I slept with the man he hates—that I’m supposed to hate—would make a difference to the plan.
“Good,” he nods. “Keep it that way.”
My jaw ticks. “Sure.”
A uniformed employee steps towards our table, but Enzo dismisses him with a short wave. I could’ve done with a cup of coffee. His expression softens as he turns to me again. “Your aunt misses you.”
“I—”
“I’ve told her you won’t be able to join us for Sunday brunch for a while because you have other things to focus on,” he adds.
His words are gentle but land like a stone in my chest.
I sit straighter. “You mean this—” I gesture between us, “—is more important than seeing my own family?”
Enzo lifts a brow. “No. I mean that you need to stay focused. Emotions make people careless.”
He says it like it’s a universal truth, not a warning. But it hits like one. I nod stiffly. “Of course.”
His gaze sharpens as he studies me for a beat longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see if something shifted. If I’m lying.
I fold my hands in my lap and try not to fidget. He seems satisfied after a while and rises. “Keep your head down, Sophie. We’re almost there.”
And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the faint scent of espresso, a tightening knot in my stomach, and the stark reminder that I can’t afford to live like everybody else.
I’ve never doubted my mission, but for the first time, I find myself wanting more.
My phone chimes as the thought slips in, unbidden, and I see an email from Dom’s office, assigning me to another project with an impossible deadline.
I was mistaken.
There’s no more. Domenico Moretti is the sole plan, and I can rest when he’s finally where he belongs—paying for the sins of his father.