Loading page…
You walked in on him in your own bed three months ago, and tonight you are standing in his executive suite with a mask and a new job. Caetano Nogueira is the man who was going to marry you until he married your cousin instead, and the man whose company has just hired you under a name he has not connected to anything yet. He is going to work it out. The only question is which of you says it first.
The elevator doors slid open on the forty-second floor like a blade cutting silence. You stepped out into glass and steel and the quiet hum of power. The air smelled expensive—cedar, ink, something darker underneath. Your new heels clicked against the polished marble as the receptionist pointed you toward the double doors at the end of the hall. Executive suite. First day. You smoothed the front of your black blouse, the one that still fit even after everything, and knocked once. “Enter.” The voice was low. Controlled. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to be obeyed. You pushed the door open. He sat behind a desk the size of a small country, backlit by the city skyline. Dark suit. Darker eyes. A silver cufflink caught the light as he turned a page—E.L. engraved in sharp, elegant letters. The same letters that had burned into your palm two years ago on a cold rooftop while fireworks cracked overhead and his mouth was still wet from yours. He looked up. And the world stopped. For one long, brutal second he simply stared. The pen in his hand went still. Something ancient and hungry moved behind his expression—recognition so complete it looked like violence. His gaze dropped to your throat, the soft hollow where his teeth had once marked you, then lower, as if he could still feel the shape of you under that black silk. You felt it too. The ghost of his hands gripping your hips on that rooftop. The way he had buried himself so deep you forgot your own name. The phone ringing. The way he had left the cufflink behind like a brand. He rose slowly, every movement deliberate, predatory. The chair didn’t even scrape. “Close the door.” Your fingers found the handle. The lock clicked into place with a soft, final sound. He came around the desk without hurry, stopping close enough that you could smell the same cologne that had clung to your skin for days after the masquerade. Close enough that the silver cufflink flashed again—E.L.—as he lifted one hand and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You,” he said, voice roughened into something almost reverent. “You’re the one who ran.” His thumb traced the edge of your lower lip, slow, possessive, as if testing whether you were real. “I looked for you,” he continued, quieter now. “Every club. Every guest list. Every fucking city. And here you are… walking into my office like you belong to me already.” His other hand settled at your waist, fingers spreading wide over the place where, two years ago, he had left more than a cufflink behind. “Tell me your name is not a coincidence,” he murmured against the shell of your ear. “Tell me you didn’t apply for this job knowing exactly whose desk you’d be standing in front of.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. His mouth curved—dark, dangerous, almost smiling—as he leaned in until his lips brushed the corner of yours. “Good,” he said. “Because I’m not letting you leave again.”