Chapter 4 Complicated

Viviane

Her new desk stood in a corner office alcove, its glass walls sweeping up to the ceiling, overlooking the river of traffic below. The surface was spotless, as if waiting to be filled with purpose and power.

Viviane slid her laptop out of her bag and set it beside a single succulent in a geometric planter, her tiny rebellion against the sterility of Kane Global's aesthetic.

She clicked the power button. The screen flared to life. In that moment, the world reduced to a login prompt, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she entered her credentials.

Her keyboard was silent beneath her touch, each keystroke precise. She pulled up her first task list: synchronize calendars, confirm travel arrangements for next week's London conference, review the draft press release for Friday's merger announcement. Routine, mundane, essential.

Her chest echoed with every item she checked off. And yet, as the spreadsheet populated and her email notifications pinged, a different echo resonated, one she fought to silence.

Xavier Kane.

His name glowed on the HR packet beside her monitor. CEO. Forty-one. Self-made in an industry that chewed up half the men who tried it. Cold as Manhattan snow. Exacting as a scalpel. And the same man who whispered her name when he wasn't supposed to know it.

He was here.

Not a stranger.

Not a mistake.

Her boss.

And he was pretending not to know her.

She was back in Rome, on that rooftop, in that bed, beneath his hands and beneath his silence.

The only difference was the lighting. The setting. The power in the room. And the fact that this time, he wasn't a mystery.

Not a flicker of recognition?

Not even the trace of a memory.

He looked at her like she was a stranger.

And that stung more than she was willing to admit.

He or more precisely, the absence of him filled the office like a phantom breeze. She told herself that he was just a boss. A stranger in a tailored suit. Someone with a face and a title but no memory of their shared night. A man who wouldn't dare mix passion with professionalism.

Yet inside, Viviane felt all her edges blur. She ran her thumb over the welcome packet's embossed logo, as if hoping it would anchor her back to reality.

By 10:30, she had cleared the inbox, flagged three contracts for signature, drafted two briefing memos, and answered every departmental query with the practiced courtesy of someone with more experience. Her headset buzzed intermittently with calls from travel, security, and Marcus, the COO, who had already sent her six bullet-pointed directives.

Yet she never relaxed. Always listening. Always waiting.

Because she knew she wasn't just any new hire. She was the woman who had slipped through his carefully constructed walls in Rome. The woman whose name he claimed to never ask, yet pronounced with uncanny certainty.

In the glass-walled conference room across the hall, a group assembled to finalize the London strategy. Viviane slipped in at the back, tablet in hand, and quietly recorded the decisions: venue bookings, client hospitality, regulatory briefs.

Every "uh-huh," every "let's circle back," she noted, prepared to translate talk into tasks.

She felt his silhouette pass behind the frosted glass-taller, broader, in motion even when standing still. She resisted the urge to peek.

By lunch, she was on autopilot. She approved his salad order-arugula, goat cheese, walnuts, a lemon vinaigrette. She prepped his afternoon slate, printing files in the color-coded binders he preferred. The office manager nodded in her direction, already accustomed to her quiet competence.

And still-no sign of him.

Her phone buzzed with a simple text from her cousin Isabella: How's day one?

Viviane typed back: Surviving.

She deleted the message before it sent. Too personal. Too vulnerable.

The afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the glass. The office heaters clicked softly. Viviane's eyes sifted through a landscape of emails when the intercom crackled:

Intercom (Kane's Office): "Miss Clarke. My office. Now."

Her heart lurched. The voice was neutral tbut the imperatives cut through her focus like a knife. She exhaled once, stiffened her shoulders, and rose. The folder she grabbed from her desk was crisp and composed, concealing her racing pulse.

She strode down the corridor, heel-first, floor-second, in a steady rhythm that defied how unsteady she felt. The door to his office stood ajar, presided over by the same polished assistant who had greeted her Monday morning.

Viviane slipped through without knocking.

The room was awash in golden light. Xavier stood by the window, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind him. His silhouette more commanding here than any boardroom filled her vision.

He didn't turn.

"Sit."

His voice, soft but absolute, filled the space. Viviane uncoiled herself from the corner of the doorway, crossed to the guest chair, and sat, heels together, back straight, hands folded in her lap. Every movement controlled.

He remained by the window, looking out at the city he controlled. Then, finally, he pivoted.

"You didn't tell me your name."

Viviane's breath hitched, but she blinked once, holding her composure.

"I did," she said evenly. "When I signed in."

"In Rome," he added, stepping closer.

Her throat tightened. His proximity made the air too warm. She swallowed.

"I didn't ask for your name. You didn't offer it. But I knew it."

He sat behind the desk now, closing the distance, folding his hands atop the leather blotter.

Her lungs seized. She leaned forward.

"How?"

His lips quirked in something almost like irony.

"I don't forget things that matter."

Silence.

Her mind ran through a hundred retorts. A

hundred defenses. But all came back hollow in the face of that statement.

He stood again, slow, precise, as if every step was calculated.

"But this is not Rome."

His tone was cooler now, steely.

"And we are not strangers anymore."

She closed her eyes briefly, blinking back the fire in them.

"What are we?" she whispered.

He leaned forward, the weight of his presence pressing against her.

"Complicated."

He turned, soft click of his heel against the floor.

And left her with the single word echoing in the room.

Viviane sat there, heart racing, thoughts colliding until the murmurs from outside reminded her she wasn't alone. She rose, smoothed her skirt, and walked out into the corridor almost on instinct, replaying his question like a riddle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.

She returned to her desk in a daze, dropped her folder like a lifeline, and stared at the empty chair across the hallway.