Chapter 3 #2
Something to hold onto in a room that felt far too controlled by someone else.
Rafael lingered.
Close enough that my awareness of him refused to settle.
“I’ve received repeated reports of your visits.”
His voice came from slightly to my right now—closer than before, but not directly in front of me. He had moved, but not far.
“Yes,” I replied, keeping my tone even. “You asked me to report the morning after... the incident. I came as instructed.”
“Well, I had to return to Italy,” he said lightly, with the careless ease of a man discussing nothing of consequence.
Yet the mere mention of my home country made my stomach tighten. “There were certain matters requiring my attention... and, naturally, I wished to confirm what I already suspected about you.”
The words landed with brutal precision.
A cold wave crashed through me, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs for half a second.
My fingers tightened around my cane, the wood pressing sharply into my palms, grounding me in the present.
In this room.
With him.
“Surely,” he said at last, his voice smooth with old-world restraint, “you are aware of the centuries-old hostility between my family—the Spanish line—and yours, the Italians.”
My sightless eyes widened before I could conceal the reaction.
A faint pause followed, measured and deliberate.
“Considering you have managed to secure a position within my company,” he continued calmly, “even if only as an intern, it was necessary that I keep you under careful observation.” His tone never sharpened, yet every word carried quiet authority.
“Had your father still been alive, I might have assumed you were sent by him. Failing that... perhaps your brother.”
My throat tightened.
“I am well aware of how eager the Italian families are to see me buried.” A soft exhale left him, almost amused. “And a blind woman, I imagine, would attract very little suspicion.”
The accusation was so absurd I nearly laughed.
“Mr. Rafael, I—”
“You will be leaving your current department,” he interrupted smoothly.
“Effective immediately,” he said, with the casual indifference of a man rearranging a dinner reservation rather than a human life, “you will serve as my personal assistant.”
For a moment—
I forgot how to breathe.
The words didn’t make sense.
Personal assistant?
To him?
“With all due respect, the only department in which I can perform my duties efficiently is Accessibility Services. It is the one environment specifically adapted to the way I work.
I tightened my hold on my cane slightly—not from fear, but to anchor myself against the weight of the conversation.
“And no,” I said more firmly, “I do not appreciate being spoken to as though I am some planted informant.” My chin lifted a fraction. “I serve no family interests, no syndicate, no mafia. You are free to doubt my word if you wish, but it remains the truth.”
The office had gone unnaturally still.
“If my presence within your company truly unsettles you, then dismiss me.” My voice softened, but only in volume, never in resolve. “But do not insult me by reducing me to a spy simply because I was born into a family whose name you dislike.”
A silence stretched between us.
Then I forced myself to continue, quieter now, more honest.
“Outside my department, my blindness becomes an obstacle most positions are not designed to accommodate.” My fingers curled more firmly around the polished handle of my cane.
“I cannot read printed files. I cannot interpret visual reports or surveillance footage. I cannot navigate the pace your assistants are expected to maintain without proper accessibility systems already in place.”
I drew a careful breath.
“For those reasons...” I said steadily, “I cannot serve as your personal assistant.”
I sensed him move toward me with such suddenness that I flinched in my seat.
Too close.
His presence swallowed the space around me before I could prepare for it.
I could feel the heat of him now, the crisp scent of expensive cologne wrapping around my senses and dragging an unwanted warmth low in my stomach.
It unsettled me more because he was not unpleasant.
Not at all.
If anything, Rafael Pérez was dangerously attractive.
Even to a woman who could not see him.
“You are perfectly capable of serving as my personal assistant, and you will.”
The words were absolute.
My breath caught.
With him standing this close, I could not force a single coherent thought past my throat.
It felt deliberate, as though he knew exactly what his nearness did to people. Intimidation refined into elegance.
Then he stepped away.
A second later, I heard the quiet scratch of pen against paper.
As though he were casually signing documents while dismantling my resistance piece by piece.
“I reviewed every report tied to your name,” he said evenly. “Every project you’ve touched since the day your internship began.”
“Your efficiency exceeds that of employees who have worked here for years.”
Another stroke of ink. “You adapt faster than anyone in your department.”
“And you identify weaknesses before they become liabilities.”
Every word landed with calculated precision.
Like a man arranging pieces across a chessboard only he controlled.
“You are exactly who I want beside me.”
“No.”
The refusal escaped sharper than intended.
“I do not wish to work that closely with you.” My grip tightened around my cane. “And I reject the offer.”
Silence.
The pen stopped moving.
The sudden absence of sound felt catastrophic.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
“It appears,” he said slowly, “that you are under the impression I am a man one refuses.”
A chill crawled down my spine.
“I do not hear the word ‘no’ often, Miss Loretta. Individuals far more powerful than you have learned not to test me with it.”
He rose from his chair then, the sound controlled and unhurried.
“I take what belongs to me,” he continued, each syllable carrying quiet aristocratic authority. “Positions. Territories. Loyalty.”
A faint pause. “People.”
My pulse stumbled.
“And once I decide on something...” His voice lowered slightly behind me now, close enough to make my stomach tighten again. “I do not relinquish it simply because it became frightened.”
How exactly did he expect this arrangement to function?
A blind woman... serving as personal assistant to a man like Rafael Pérez.
A man who did not merely oversee a corporation, but commanded entire networks of power.
Men like him did not walk into rooms—they owned them. Bent them to their will without ever raising their voices.
And somehow, he expected me to stand at the center of that world beside him.
“What exactly do you expect from me?” I asked, my voice quieter now, trying to contain the storm building inside my chest. “You’re asking a blind woman to step into a role built almost entirely on sight.”
I let out a slow breath, steadying myself before continuing.
“I’ve heard what your schedule looks like. Meetings stacked back to back. Documents that need immediate review. Constant travel. Real-time decisions.”
My fingers tightened slightly over my cane.
“I can’t read printed contracts. I can’t scan visual reports. I can’t anticipate what’s placed in front of you unless it’s described to me first.”
A small pause.
Then, more directly—
“Why me?”
The question came out sharper this time.
“Of all the capable staff in this building...” I tilted my head slightly in the direction of his voice, grounding myself in his position across the room. “Why choose the blind intern?”
Silence followed.
But not the kind that meant hesitation.
The kind that meant decision.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
“I’m holding out a pen,” he added. “Take it.”
A pen?
For what purpose—when the conversation was clearly not about signing anything, not yet.
I leaned forward slightly, moving with care, my free hand extending slowly into the space between us.
My fingers brushed air first before finally meeting the cool, solid surface of metal.
The pen.
I wrapped my fingers around it, grounding myself in the familiar shape, the slight weight of it settling into my palm.
“Sign it,” he said, as if the matter had already been concluded. “Ramiro will walk you through every detail afterward.”
Ramiro.
Even without sight, I knew Ramiro by presence—Rafael’s closest assistant, the one who stood nearest to him without ever needing to be seen.
He had been with the Pérez family long before Rafael had taken full control. Some said he had served Rafael’s parents directly. Others claimed he had practically raised Rafael himself in the years after... the incident that forced him out of his family estate in Italy at thirteen.
Ramiro was not simply an assistant.
He was history.
Quietly woven into everything Rafael had become.
I lowered my attention back to the document in front of me. I had heard the rustle of paper earlier—carefully placed, deliberately positioned within reach.
My fingertips hovered, then settled against the surface.
The texture told me enough.
Heavy-grade paper. Embossed edges. Structured formatting.
A contract.
His assistant agreement.
My stomach tightened.
Once signed, it would bind me to him—formally, legally. At least until the end of my internship in a few months. Until then, there would be no undoing it.
“We do not have all day, Miss Loretta,” he said.
My jaw tightened.
“And if I refuse to sign?” I lifted my face slightly, orienting toward where I believed his voice came from, though I could not see him. “What then?”
A pause.
Then his voice dropped, quieter—but heavier.
“Then test it,” he said. “Step out of this office without agreeing and find out exactly why no one says no to me.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
For a moment, my thoughts drifted—Zara.
If I walked away from this, if I truly defied him... he would not simply let it end here. Men like him did not treat consequences as threats. They delivered them.