Chapter 8
I have seen Enzo unravel before—once.
And even then, it wasn’t like this.
That day, he lost a five-hundred-million-dollar deal. I genuinely thought he would burn the entire building down with us inside.
But seeing him now?
That Enzo was civilized compared to this version.
His office looks like a warzone. Everything is shattered, flipped, torn apart. His hands are bleeding from slamming into the walls so many times the drywall bears dents shaped like fists. His hair, always perfectly slicked back, sticks up in wild, frantic directions.
I don’t know what happened or what triggered this.
But I know this: I’ve memorized this man down to his molecules, and even I don’t know how to calm the demon pacing this room.
“Sir? You asked for me?”
He turns.
And God help me… there’s nothing human in his eyes.
“You’re fucking late.”
He stalks toward me like he’s hunting, like the carpet is a forest and I’m prey. He never curses at work—not in these pristine walls he built brick by brick. This isn’t Enzo. It’s the fucking devil staring out through his eyes.
“I gave Veronica some space,” I say, my knees almost buckling. “She needs to adjust without me breathing down her neck. That’s all.”
His shoes brush the tips of my heels. He’s that close. His breath hits my lips—mint and bitterness and something burning underneath, something primal.
“So that’s why you’re late,” he hisses. “To give her space.”
“Yes, sir.”
His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the blue whole. He looks deranged. Unhinged. Frozen and on fire at the same time.
“So it wasn’t because you were too hungover from drinking with that son of the oil tycoon last night?”
For a second, my brain flatlines.
How the fuck does he know? Why does he care? Why is his voice shaking like he wants to strangle someone?
“No,” I manage. “My personal life had nothing to do with my decision.”
Personal. I emphasize it. Because something about the way he’s looking at me—like I owe him an explanation—makes me furious, humiliated, and confused all at once.
He presses me back until my spine hits the wall.
“Personal?” he echoes, mocking.
“Personal,” I snap back. “Yes.”
“Before you resigned to ‘see the world,’” he seethes, “the job was your life. The office was your life. I was your life. Now you want to talk to me about personal?”
He’s right. He was my life. He filled every corner of my mind, every second of my day. I built entire universes around a man who never looked at me as more than convenient.
“That’s not the case anymore,” I say quietly. “Veronica will take over. I’m done.”
“How quickly you forget,” he whispers, his gaze tearing through me. “How quickly you move on.”
Move on? From what? From what exactly does he think I need to move on? He never showed me anything but professionalism.
“I suggest you do the same, Mr. Morelli,” I bite out.
His reaction is instant. He grabs my arms and slams me back against the wall, pinning me there with nothing but rage.
“Did you quit because of your little boyfriend, Mila?” he growls. “Did he promise to take care of you? Tell you to stop working? Is that it? Are you that type of woman?”
His words are poison.
His hands are poison.
This entire moment is toxic enough to kill something inside me.
“Sir,” I choke out, “this is inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate?” he spits. “You stayed with me until dawn. You memorized my life. You never told me no once. And now suddenly you care about boundaries?”
I would have given this man the world if he asked—and he knows it. He’s always known it. That’s what makes it humiliating. Despite knowing how much I would give up for him, he still saw me as nothing more than an assistant.
“I didn’t do anything I wouldn’t do for any other man I work for in the future,” I lie, tasting blood from biting down on my shame. “Veronica will handle it now.”
Absolute darkness flashes through him.
“And who is that man you’ll work for in the future, Mila?” he demands. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
“I told you, no one—”
But I don’t get to finish, because his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a punishment. A claim. A war.
There’s nothing gentle or hesitant. He devours me, consumes me, crushes every rational thought in my skull until there’s only heat and hunger and the way his lips feel like something I’ve waited my whole damn life for.
I kiss him back for one second. One treacherous, stupid, oxygen-stealing second.
Then I shove him away.
Because he’ll regret this. He already does—I can see it on his face.
Disgust. Rage. Something that almost looks like fear. But Enzo Morelli is never afraid. I must have read him wrong.
“This was a mistake,” he says. “A mistake we shouldn’t have made. Forget it.”
He breaks whatever hope I had left inside me.