Chapter 17 Alina
ALINA
Istep into Marco's office. The air is warm, and it undeniably smells like him. My stomach twists at the recognition, a faint wave of emotion catching me off guard.
He's sitting at his desk, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to hint at the long hours he's been putting in.
Even slightly disheveled, he emanates power—the kind that makes reasonable people either want to run away or get closer.
Right now, I'm fighting the urge to do both.
His head lifts as I enter, and for a moment, his eyes meet mine—steady and intense.
"Alina," he says, his voice smooth, as if he's always known how to draw me in. "Thanks for coming."
I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "I heard you needed help with the speech?"
He gestures to the paper on his desk, leaning back slightly in his chair. "It's almost there, but something's missing. It needs your special touch."
The words are straightforward, professional even. Still, they land heavier than they should. My breath catches for a fraction of a second before I step forward, determined to ignore the strange heat curling low in my stomach.
I pick up the paper. "Let me take a look."
He doesn't reply, but I feel his eyes on me as I scan the speech. I have to reread some lines a few times as I'm acutely aware of the silence between us. It feels different.
I shift on my feet, forcing myself to focus on the words in front of me. The speech is good. It's the kind of rhetoric that fires up donors and leaves journalists scrambling for a pull quote. But he's right. It's missing something.
"This part." I point to the third paragraph. "It's strong, but you could rephrase it to make it more direct."
He stands, and I catch the faintest hint of his cologne again.
He moves beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, close enough that my breath tightens in my throat.
He towers over me, his broad frame making me feel simultaneously protected and trapped.
His shoulder brushes mine as he leans in to look at the page.
"Here?" he asks, his voice lower than usual, his lips close enough that I feel the whisper of his breath against my skin.
I nod, the words caught in my chest. "Yes."
Our hands brush as I hand the paper back to him, and I almost pull away too quickly, afraid he'll notice the way my pulse is racing. But I don't—and neither does he. His gaze narrows in on me, sharp, unreadable.
"You're good at this," he says finally, his tone soft. "You always know exactly what I need."
The words are perfectly harmless, but the way he says them, the way his voice dips, the way his eyes hold mine, sends fire through me and wrecks my head. I force a smile, one I hope looks more confident than I feel.
"Well, it's my job," I reply, stepping back to create some much-needed space. "You'll be ready for tomorrow."
His eyes follow me as I move, his expression unreadable. "I'm always ready with you by my side, Firefly."
The nickname catches me off guard. He hasn't called me that in some time, and I realize in that moment that I actually kind of missed it.
My stomach flutters, just for a second, but it's enough for him to notice. His lips curve into a knowing smile, and I hate the way it makes me feel.
All business, Alina. Pretend. Remember?
I clear my throat. "The rest of it looks good. Just tighten that one section, and it'll be perfect."
He doesn't answer right away, just watches me with that same infuriating calm, like he knows exactly how to unnerve me.
"Anything else?" I ask, my tone sounding professional. A shield.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "I could always use more of you, Alina. Your insight is, well—you are the best, aren't you? But I suppose you've given me everything I need for now."
The words hang in the air between us, and I find myself starting to get mad. I mean, should I even be getting worked up? Everything we're doing is to win an election, that was clear from the start—and he's doing exactly what I asked.
Why the hell is this bothering me?
"I should go," I say, my voice steady despite the tension I'm feeling between us.
I turn toward the door, but he moves before I can reach it.
He's there, standing in front of me, his frame blocking my path.
The move is subtle but deliberate. My pulse quickens as I realize how easily he can control a situation, how naturally power comes to him.
Maybe Dad wasn't entirely wrong about the Bonventis, but right now, that thought excites me more than it should.
For a second, I think he might say something—something real, something I'm not ready to hear.
"I just wanted to say thank you," he says finally, his voice low, intimate. "For everything."
The way he says it feels almost too sincere, like it's meant to unnerve me. He looks intoxicating, dangerous, and I know better than to let that win. I'm the one struggling to keep this fake engagement from bleeding into reality, and that's a problem I never thought I'd have.
"You're welcome, Marco," I say, forcing the words out before I lose my nerve. He steps aside and opens the door for me, his hand resting on the frame.
I walk out into the hallway, and I notice there's a pause before his door finally clicks shut.
I shake my head and repeat to myself, "Business. Just business."
But as I make my way back to my office, I can't ignore the nagging voice in the back of my mind. The one that reminds me of the way his hand brushed mine, the way his eyes lingered, the way my heart betrayed me in those quiet moments.
It's nothing. It has to be nothing.