Chapter 4 Four

I wouldn't care today, wouldn't flinch, wouldn't let Matteo Russo and his smug mouth ruin a second of my precious sanity or self-worth not after last night's tequila therapy.

With my skirt freshly pressed, heels sharp enough to stab egos, and confidence just barely stitched together, I walked into Thorne Enterprises ready to prove that no arrogant billionaire would shake me again.

The receptionist gave me a cautious look, probably remembering how I nearly tripped on my way out yesterday, cheeks burning and pride trailing behind like the hem of my too-short dignity.

I kept my chin high, clutching my tote bag like it was my emotional support animal, determined to glide through the building like a woman on a mission untouchable, unbothered, unbreakable.

But the elevator doors opened, and fate had other plans for me, because the moment I stepped onto the top floor, I saw her and I saw him, and the air in my lungs turned toxic.

She was tall, blonde, and gorgeous in that effortless, polished way only women who'd never tasted public transportation could be, her red lips locked passionately on Matteo's like a damn movie scene.

His hands were on her waist, gripping tight like she belonged to him, and his mouth moved against hers like he knew exactly what to do to drive a woman wild with nothing but lips.

My heart didn't just drop it crashed like a glass vase onto marble, sharp pieces scattering through my ribs, and for one stupid second, I stood there frozen like I wasn't already late.

They didn't see me at first, thank God or maybe unfortunately not because the way he kissed her, unapologetically possessive, made something sour coil low in my stomach like I'd swallowed betrayal on purpose.

I turned, quickly, quietly, heels barely tapping against the floor as I tried to disappear down the hallway without them ever noticing I was there without letting the anger boil over my skin.

But then I heard him.

"Miss Hart."

That voice. That smug, infuriating voice that curled around my name like a leash, pulling me back into a war zone I hadn't prepared for today or ever.

I stopped, back still turned, fingers tightening around my bag until my knuckles ached from the pressure, because if I looked at him now, I might say something I couldn't take back.

"Yes, Mr. Russo?" I said calmly too calmly, considering my pulse was doing backflips and my pride had just been sucker-punched by a blonde with perfect lipstick.

"Running off without saying good morning?" he asked, amusement lacing every syllable, like he hadn't just had his tongue down another woman's throat five seconds ago.

I turned slowly, a bitter smile playing on my lips, the kind of smile that hurt to wear but made you look composed, untouchable, even when your insides were burning.

"Didn't want to interrupt anything... intimate," I said, voice laced with sugar and venom, a cocktail of barely restrained rage and sarcasm strong enough to slap someone unconscious.

The woman beside him adjusted her dress, smirking at me like I was a bug she didn't remember stepping on, her eyes sharp and judging in that way only rich women mastered.

"Oh, sorry," she said lightly, wrapping her arms around Matteo's bicep like she owned it. "Are you his assistant?"

Her voice was laced with mockery, but her smile was razor-edged, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear me say it out loud like a punchline.

I gave her a tight smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Yes. I take out the trash and occasionally handle his emails."

Matteo's jaw ticked, just slightly just enough for me to know he caught the insult, but not enough to show weakness in front of his little showpiece.

"Miss Hart, I believe I asked for the quarterly reports first thing this morning," he said coolly, as if we hadn't shared electricity just days ago, as if my knees hadn't once turned to jelly under his touch.

"They're on your desk," I replied, walking past him with a confidence I didn't feel, deliberately not looking at his face, not letting him see the crack forming beneath my sarcasm.

"Oh," the woman said, her voice sing-song sweet. "I didn't realize the help around here had such an attitude. How quaint."

I paused at the door to the conference room, inhaling deeply, clutching the handle like it was the last thread of my self-control, and smiled over my shoulder with teeth bared.

"Don't worry," I said, "it's just part of the welcome package. Would you like me to fetch you one too? Maybe with a leash and a monogrammed collar?"

She gasped softly, eyes narrowing, and Matteo's brows lifted just a hair amused, maybe even impressed, but trying not to show it in front of his guest.

"Enough," he said sharply, stepping toward me, his voice low and cold, sending a thrill of tension across the hallway that made my spine straighten like steel.

I turned my back on both of them, walking into the conference room like I hadn't just thrown verbal grenades in the hallway, slamming the door with a satisfying click behind me.

My breath came out shaky as I leaned against the wall, heart hammering in my chest like it wanted to break out and slap me for caring in the first place.

Why the hell did I care?

Why did it bother me that he kissed someone else?

He wasn't mine. We weren't anything. Just one mistake and a power imbalance, and an office full of tension so thick it should've been illegal under workplace safety laws.

But still, I cared.

And that pissed me off more than anything else.

Ten minutes later, the door creaked open again.

Matteo stepped inside, quiet and composed, the door clicking shut behind him as he watched me with that unreadable expression that made me want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

"Are we going to pretend nothing happened?" I asked, crossing my arms, voice steady but sharp enough to draw blood if necessary.

"What exactly are you referring to, Miss Hart?" he replied smoothly, stepping closer like he hadn't just ruined my morning and then walked in like nothing was wrong.

"You know exactly what," I snapped. "The hallway. The kissing. The smug Barbie clone clinging to your arm like a designer purse."

He smiled slowly, dangerously, and infuriatingly. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."

I took a step forward. "Jealous? You think I'm jealous?"

His gaze dipped, lingering on my lips before meeting my eyes again, a flicker of something darker passing through those stormy irises like a warning or a dare.

"You keep watching me like you want to be," he said softly.

My breath hitched.

The silence between us turned electric, charged with things neither of us wanted to admit, the space between our bodies shrinking even though logic screamed at me to stay away.

"I don't want you," I said. You are just my boss, nothing more.

He took another step. "You keep telling yourself that, Miss Hart."

"I mean it," I whispered, but my voice cracked, traitorous and weak, because the memory of his lips was burned into mine and my body was a damn liar.

His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek, and my entire body went rigid at the contact every nerve on fire, every cell screaming run or melt.

"You're mine," he murmured, like it was a fact, not a statement.

I slapped his hand away.

"I work for you," I said, voice shaking. "That's all."

"For now," he replied, stepping back, the smugness returning like armor.

I stared at him, chest heaving, heart thundering.

"This isn't over," he said.

And I hated how much I hoped it wasn't.