Chapter 8
The next morning, Elena walked into Duca Tower at seven-thirty, exactly as she had done every workday for the past eighteen months. The same elevator. The same hallway. The same polished marble floors.
But everything was different.
She walked into his office. He was at his desk, reading a report. He looked up when she entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Duca.”
“Good morning, Miss Donovan.”
Professional. Formal. But the corner of his mouth twitched.
She placed the folder on his desk. “The quarterly reports. Consolidated and annotated. Your ten o’clock with Senator Hartwell has been moved to eleven. Lunch with the board is still at twelve-thirty.”
“Thank you.”
She turned to pour his coffee. Black. No sugar. A splash of cold water.
“Elena.”
She turned.
He was standing now. He walked around the desk. He stopped in front of her.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
He almost smiled. “I’ve been thinking about what I said in the restaurant. That you’re mine.”
Her heart skipped. “I remember.”
“I meant it. But I didn’t say it the right way.”
He took her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm.
“You’re not mine. Not in the way I said it. You’re not a possession. You’re not a thing I own.”
“Then what am I?”
He looked at her. His eyes were soft. Open. Vulnerable.
“You’re my choice. My first choice. My only choice. Every morning, I choose you. Every night, I choose you. And I will keep choosing you for as long as you’ll let me.”
Elena’s eyes burned. She blinked rapidly.
“That’s better.”
“I thought it might be.”
He released her hand. He stepped back.
“Now. About that lunch with the board.”
“Same board. Same agenda. Same boring financial reports.”
“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”
She laughed. It was the first time she had laughed in his presence. The sound filled the office.
He watched her with an expression of wonder.
“I love your laugh,” he said.
“Don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious person.”
“Of course you are.”
She turned back to his coffee. She poured it. She handed it to him.
Their fingers brushed.
The moment stretched.
“Dominic did a good thing,” she said. “Calling me.”
“Dominic knows better than to interfere in my personal life.”
“He interfered.”
“He did.”
“I’m glad he did.”
Matteo set down his coffee. “I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how to navigate this. I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither have I.”
“But I want to try. I want to try with you.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
He reached out. His hand cupped her cheek. He kissed her, soft and slow.
When they broke apart, she was smiling.
“You have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“I’m aware.”
“Your tie is crooked.”
“Fix it.”
She reached up. She straightened his tie. Her hands smoothed the silk.
“There. Perfect.”
He caught her hand. He pressed it against his chest.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me.”
She squeezed his hand. “I didn’t give up on you. I just needed you to give me a reason to stay.”
“You have it.”
“I know.”
He released her hand. She picked up her tablet. She walked to the door.
“Elena.”
She turned.
He was standing by the window. The morning light framed him. He looked like a man who had found something he didn’t know he was looking for.
“Tonight. Dinner. My place. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
She walked out.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She stood in the hallway for a moment, her hand on the doorframe, her heart full.
Then she smiled.
And she walked down the hallway, toward the rest of her life.
—
Three months later, Elena walked into his office with the morning reports. The same routine. The same coffee. The same man behind the desk.
But this time, when she set down the folder, she leaned over and kissed him.
“Good morning, Mr. Duca.”
“Good morning, Miss Donovan.”
He reached up. His fingers brushed the collar of her blouse. Beneath it, a tiny mark—a love bite, carefully placed, deliberately given.
His mark.
Elena smiled.
“I think you missed a spot with the concealer today,” he said.
“I didn’t miss it.”
He pulled her down for another kiss. “Good.”
May you like
The morning light streamed through the windows. The city hummed below them. And in the office of Matteo Duca, a man who had spent his life building walls was learning, slowly, how to let someone in.
THE END
