Chapter 1
The morning light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Duca Tower, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. Elena Donovan stepped into the office with her usual precision—shoes silent on the Italian marble, back straight, a tablet cradled in one arm and a leather-bound folder in the other. Eighteen months of this routine. Eighteen months of learning to read the man behind the desk before he spoke.
Matteo Duca didn’t look up from his phone. He never did when she entered. It was a power play she’d long since stopped resenting.
“The Ridgmont quarterly reports,” she said, placing the folder on the corner of his desk. “Consolidated, annotated, and flagged for your signature. You have a call with Senator Hartwell at ten, lunch with the board at twelve-thirty, and Dominic needs five minutes before the afternoon shipment meeting.”
She turned to pour his coffee—black, no sugar, a splash of cold water to bring it to drinking temperature immediately. She knew the details of his life better than she knew her own. The knowledge was a quiet burden she carried without complaint.
“The Harborside development proposal needs your eyes before the zoning meeting on Friday. I’ve highlighted the—”
“Stop.”
The word cut through the air like a blade. Elena’s hand froze mid-reach for the coffee carafe.
She turned slowly.
Matteo Duca was on his feet. She hadn’t heard him stand. He was staring at her with an expression she’d never seen before—something raw and unguarded that made her stomach drop. His phone lay forgotten on the desk. His hands were pressed flat against the wood, knuckles white. The tendons in his forearms stood out like steel cables.
“Who did that to you?”
His voice was quiet. That was somehow worse than if he had shouted. The quiet made it intimate. Made it personal.
Elena’s hand flew to her neck before she could stop it. The concealer. She’d applied it twice that morning, checked it in three different lights, convinced herself it was invisible. She had even angled her blouse collar higher than usual. But of course. Of course he had seen right through her. He saw everything.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s not—”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He moved around the desk with the fluid grace of a predator. Elena backed up instinctively, her tablet pressing against her chest like a shield. The wall stopped her retreat. No. His desk stopped her. The edge of it bit into the backs of her thighs. She was trapped between polished wood and the force of his presence.
Matteo didn’t stop until he was inches from her. He was close enough that she could smell his cologne—bergamot and cedar—and see the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to see the muscle ticking in his cheek. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, visible only when he was this near.
“Who.” Not a question. A demand.
Elena lifted her chin. “I went on a date. That’s all. I’m allowed to—”
“A date.”
He said the word like it was poison. Like it had personally offended him.
“I’m your assistant, Matteo. Not your prisoner.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, yes. But something else beneath it. Something that looked almost like fear. It was the fear that unsettled her most. She had never seen Matteo Duca afraid of anything.
His hand came up slowly. She braced herself for force, but his fingers touched her chin with impossible gentleness. He tilted her head to the side, exposing the mark on her neck. The love bite was a dark bruise against her pale skin, an ugly purple bloom that spoke of careless passion. Of someone who had pressed their mouth to her without restraint.
Matteo’s jaw tightened. His thumb traced the edge of the mark, feather-light. The tenderness of the gesture was more devastating than violence.
“You’re mine.”
The words were barely a whisper. They landed in the space between them like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples through everything she thought she knew.
Elena’s breath caught. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was certain he could feel it. Her skin where his thumb had touched her neck was burning.
“I’m not—”
His eyes met hers. Dark. Unwavering. Burning with something that had been banked too long.
“You are.”
The door opened.
“Mr. Duca, I apologize for the interruption, but Senator Hartwell’s office is on the line and they are insisting—”
Dominic Rossi stopped in the doorway. His hand tensed on the doorframe. His eyes assessed the scene in a fraction of a second—Elena pinned against the desk, his boss’s hand on her chin, the charged air between them thick enough to cut.
Dominic’s face betrayed nothing. Twelve years of service had taught him absolute neutrality.
“I’ll tell them you’ll call back,” he said.
“No.” Matteo’s hand dropped from Elena’s chin. He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision. The mask was back in place. The cold, controlled CEO. The man who had never lost control in his life. “I’ll take the call. Put it through to the study.”
Elena didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her legs would not cooperate. Her lungs would not fill.
Matteo paused at the door. He didn’t look back.
“We’ll finish this later.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Elena released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against the desk—his desk—and stared at the spot where he had been standing. The imprint of his hands was still faintly visible on the polished wood.
May you like
The coffee had gone cold.
She didn’t remember pouring it.
