THE BULLY WHO WANTS MY HEART AND MY RUIN

(Sloane POV)

The emergency executive meeting was called for 9 AM on a Wednesday, which meant someone important was either getting fired or promoted. In my experience at Moretti Holdings, those outcomes weren't mutually exclusive.

I slipped into the glass-walled conference room on the twenty-seventh floor with my tablet and coffee, aiming for my usual position-middle of the table, left side, where I could observe without being observed. Six months at this company had taught me that survival meant understanding power dynamics before they crushed you.

"Sloane, you're up here today." Marcus Chen gestured to a seat closer to the head of the table, his smile sharp as a letter opener. "Communications is moving up in the world."

Everything about Marcus was precisely calibrated:his steel-gray suit, his efficient gestures, the way he said your name like he was already writing your performance review. As Senior Vice President of Operations, he occupied the razor's edge between executive leadership and the CEO's inner circle. People feared him the way they feared black ice: you didn't see him coming until you were already falling.

I took the assigned seat, ignoring the way my stomach tightened. Being visible in meetings like this was rarely a blessing.

The conference room filled quickly. Sarah Chen from Legal, no relation to Marcus despite the shared surname. David Kozlov from Finance, perpetually exhausted and brilliant. A handful of other department heads I knew by sight and reputation. We were upwardly mobile:young enough to work eighty-hour weeks, hungry enough to think it would pay off.

At exactly 9 AM, Giovanni Moretti entered.

The CEO of Moretti Holdings moved like old money and controlled violence had a baby radiating the kind of power that didn't need to announce itself. At sixty-seven, he was still commanding: silver hair swept back from a face that had probably broken hearts across three continents, dark eyes that assessed you like a balance sheet, finding you either profitable or disposable.

"Sit," he commanded, though we were already sitting. Giovanni's accent carried the faintest Italian inflection, softened by decades in New York but sharpened when he wanted to remind you who held the knife.

Behind him entered a man I didn't recognize, and the air pressure in the room changed.

He was tall with the build of someone who had personal trainers and used them. Dark hair slightly too long for corporate convention, styled in a way that suggested he'd run his hands through it repeatedly and it had fallen perfectly anyway. Sharp jawline, olive complexion, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or wedding invitations from families who summered in Lake Como.

Then he turned his head, and his gaze swept across the assembled executives.

My coffee mug slipped from my fingers.

It didn't shatter,I caught it halfway to the table, liquid sloshing over my hand, scalding hot but I barely felt it. Because I was looking into eyes I hadn't seen in seven years. Eyes that had once looked at me with contempt and something darker, more complicated, something that had haunted my nightmares through high school and into college.

Dante Moretti.

The room tilted. Or maybe I did. My vision tunneled, sounds becoming muffled and distant. This wasn't possible. Dante was in Europe. Milan, London, somewhere far away where the past stayed buried and I didn't have to remember being sixteen and stupid and so desperately, pathetically in love with the boy next door who had made destroying me his personal hobby.

"This is my son." Giovanni's hand landed on Dante's shoulder with obvious pride. "Many of you know he's been overseeing our European acquisitions for the past seven years. Dante's been instrumental in expanding our holdings in London, Frankfurt, and Milan. He's returned to take on a larger role here."

No. No, no, no.

"As of today, Dante will serve as Vice President of Operations, working directly with Marcus to streamline our domestic initiatives." Giovanni smiled, and I recognized that expression:the pleased look of a king placing his heir exactly where he wanted him. "He'll be interfacing with all departments. I expect your full cooperation and expertise as he transitions into this position."

Dante's eyes found mine across the table.

For a moment something flickered in his expression. Recognition, yes. But also something that looked almost like satisfaction, like a chess player spotting the piece he'd been searching for.

Then his mouth curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I look forward to working with all of you."

His voice had deepened. It rolled through the conference room like smoke, cultured and controlled with just enough rasp to suggest he'd done interesting things to earn it. This wasn't the reckless nineteen-year-old who'd blasted music at 2 AM and brought home different girls every weekend. This was a man who'd been forged into something harder, more dangerous, wrapped in expensive fabric and corporate authority.

"Let's go around the table," Giovanni said. "Introductions, your department, and one priority you're currently focused on. Marcus, start us off."

I barely heard Marcus's polished introduction. My mind was racing through calculations, scenarios, exit strategies. Could I request a transfer? Could I quit without a reference? How long before Dante recognized me-really recognized me, not just as another face at the table but as Sloane Rivera from 47th Street, the girl who used to watch him from her bedroom window, who'd made the fatal mistake of letting him see what she watched?

The introductions moved around the table. Sarah. David. Others whose names I couldn't process.

Then it was my turn.

I forced myself to meet Dante's gaze. Seven years of therapy, self-defense classes, and climbing corporate ladders had given me armor. I was twenty-three now, not sixteen. I wore Everlane and confidence, had mastered the art of the strategic smile and the professional deflection. He couldn't hurt me anymore.

"Sloane Rivera, Communications Director." My voice came out steady. Point for me.

"I'm currently focused on the Castellano merger messaging and managing our executive social media presence."

"Rivera." Giovanni's attention sharpened on me. "You're the one who handled the Forbes profile. Excellent work. Made me sound almost likable."

Polite laughter rippled around the table. I inclined my head in acknowledgment, willing the attention to move past me.

It didn't.

"Sloane Rivera," Dante repeated, as if testing the syllables. His head tilted slightly, studying me with unnerving intensity. "Have we met before?"

Every cell in my body screamed. He knows. He's playing with you already.

But when I looked into his eyes, I saw genuine curiosity rather than malice.

Maybe I'd changed enough. I'd lost the awkward baby fat, traded glasses for contacts, learned to style my hair into something beyond a ponytail. I dressed like I belonged in these rooms now, moved like I had every right to breathe their rarified air.

"I don't believe so," I said coolly. "I would have remembered."

The lie tasted like ash and survival.

His eyes narrowed fractionally, and I saw the exact moment he started to remember.

His gaze dropped to my hands(I still twisted my ring finger when nervous, even though I no longer wore the cheap silver band I'd had at sixteen. Then to my mouth)I'd bitten my lip, an old tell I'd tried for years to break.

"Perhaps." But his tone suggested otherwise. He made a note on the tablet in front of him, and I imagined my name being flagged, filed away for further investigation.

The meeting continued. Giovanni outlined quarterly goals, Marcus presented operational updates, and I stopped processing words into meaning. I was too busy calculating whether I could slip out during the break, whether I could reach HR before Dante connected all the dots, whether any of this mattered because I was about to lose my job anyway.

Companies like Moretti Holdings didn't let executives carry baggage. If Dante wanted me gone, I'd be gone.

"That's all." Giovanni stood, signaling dismissal. "Dante will be scheduling individual department meetings over the next week. Be prepared to discuss your initiatives in detail."

People began gathering their materials, the buzz of conversation rising. I moved to leave, keeping my head down, aiming for the door like it was the last helicopter out of a war zone.

"Ms. Rivera."

Dante's voice stopped me three steps from freedom.

I turned slowly, arranging my expression into professional neutrality. Up close, he was even more devastating. The boy I'd known had been beautiful in a careless, unfinished way. The man he'd become was weaponized attractiveness,everything sharpened and deliberate, from the precise shave line along his jaw to the way his suit jacket emphasized his shoulders.

He smelled like cedar and something darker, richer. Expensive cologne that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"Yes, Mr. Moretti?" I kept my voice level, my body language open but not inviting.

His eyes traveled over my face, cataloging details, and I saw memories clicking into place behind them. The slight widening of his pupils. The tension that entered his jaw.

He knew.

"I'd like to schedule time with Communications first," he said, his tone perfectly professional even as his eyes said something else entirely. "This afternoon, if possible. Two o'clock?"

"I'll need to check my calendar-"

"Check it now."

It wasn't a request.

I pulled out my phone, pulled up my calendar app, knowing damn well I had nothing scheduled at two. "I have a meeting with-"

"Cancel it." He stepped closer, and I smelled cedar again, threatening to drag me back to summer nights when I'd watched him smoke on his roof deck, when I'd been stupid enough to think the boy next door might ever look at someone like me with anything but contempt. "This is priority one, Ms. Rivera. Surely the Communications Director understands the importance of prioritization."

The subtle emphasis on my title made it clear he remembered everything. The girl who'd tutored other kids in her living room. The scholarship student who'd worn the same three outfits on rotation. The pathetic teenager who'd slipped a Valentine into his family's mailbox and suffered two months of creative torture for her audacity.

"Of course, Mr. Moretti." I met his stare, refusing to be the first to look away. "Two o'clock in your office?"

"Actually, I haven't been assigned an office yet." His smile had teeth in it. "Let's make it yours. I'd like to see how Communications operates."

He wanted to invade my space, mark his territory, make me feel unsafe in the one place I'd carved out as mine. Classic Dante.

"Perfect," I lied. "Twenty-seventh floor, northeast corner. I'll have coffee ready."

"I remember how you take yours," he said quietly, so only I could hear. "Three sugars, excessive cream. You used to drink it on your front steps in the morning before school. You'd wrap your hands around the mug like you were trying to absorb the warmth."

My blood went cold. He'd been watching me even when I hadn't known he was watching. The thought made my skin crawl and something else, something I refused to examine.

"People change their coffee preferences, Mr. Moretti." I stepped back, establishing distance. "I take it black now."

"Do you." It wasn't a question. His gaze dropped to my mouth again, lingering. "I wonder what else has changed."

Everything, I wanted to scream. I changed everything about myself to erase the girl you tormented. I rebuilt myself from ruins you created.

"I'm sure you'll be disappointed to find me much less interesting than you remember," I said instead. "I'm quite boring these days. Just another corporate drone focused on quarterly projections and media placements."

"Somehow I doubt that." He reached past me to open the door, his arm briefly creating a cage around my body without touching me. "Two o'clock, Ms. Rivera. Don't be late."

Then he was gone, striding down the hallway toward where Giovanni and Marcus waited, falling into conversation with the ease of someone who'd been groomed for this his entire life.

I made it to the bathroom before my hands started shaking.

The executive washroom on twenty-seven was all marble and soft lighting, designed to make you look flawless even when you were falling apart. I gripped the edge of the counter, staring at my reflection:professional, pulled-together, nothing like the girl who'd cried in a bathroom stall when Dante had told the entire junior class that she'd offered to sleep with him if he'd take her to prom.

It had been a lie. I'd never said anything like that. But the rumor had stuck, mutating into worse variations as rumors did, until I'd been labeled desperate, pathetic, delusional.

My phone buzzed. A calendar invitation from Dante Moretti: "Communications Review Meeting - 2:00 PM - Your Office."

I stared at the notification until my vision blurred.

Then I straightened my spine, reapplied my lipstick, and walked out of that bathroom like I was heading into battle.

Because I was.

The hours between the morning meeting and two o'clock passed in a haze of anxiety and attempted productivity. I canceled my actual two o'clock(a routine check-in with our social media coordinator that could easily be rescheduled). I reviewed the Castellano merger materials until the words stopped making sense. I considered faking a sudden illness, a family emergency, a burst appendix.

But I'd spent seven years refusing to run from my past. I wasn't starting now.

At 1:55, I straightened my office. It wasn't much but I'd made it mine. Framed examples of successful campaigns on the walls. A small succulent collection on the windowsill because something green and living made the fluorescent monotony bearable. My degrees from NYU mounted in simple frames: Bachelor's in Communications, Master's in Corporate Strategy, both earned on scholarships and student loans I'd be paying off until I was forty.

Evidence that I'd become someone. That the girl he'd tormented had won.

At exactly 2:00, Dante knocked.

"Come in." I stood behind my desk, using it as a barrier and power statement simultaneously.

He entered, and my office immediately felt smaller. He'd removed his suit jacket, and his white shirt fit him like a personal tailor had measurements of his body in a database somewhere. He probably did. He carried a leather portfolio that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"Nice space." His gaze swept the room, cataloging details the way predators memorize terrain. "Cozy."

"It serves its purpose." I gestured to the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee-"

"Nothing, thank you." But he didn't sit in the chair I'd indicated. Instead, he prowled to my window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. "You can see Central Park from here. Corner office, impressive for someone who's only been here six months."

How did he know my tenure? Had he looked me up already?

"I've been fortunate," I said carefully. "The previous Communications Director left suddenly, and I was already managing several key accounts. The promotion made sense."

"Fortunate," he repeated, still not looking at me. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What else would you call it?"

He turned then, and the expression on his face made my breath catch. It wasn't the cruel amusement I remembered. It was something more complex-hunger and regret and something almost like pain, all fighting for dominance.

"Sloane Rivera from Brooklyn Heights," he said quietly. "47th Street, the brownstone with the blue door and the window boxes your mother planted every spring. You had a bedroom on the third floor that faced our house. You kept your light on late every night, studying. Sometimes I could see you at your desk, your hair up in a ponytail, completely absorbed in whatever book you were reading."

My stomach dropped. "I don't know what-"

"Don't." His voice cut through my denial. "Don't insult both of us by pretending. I knew who you were the moment you said your name. I just needed a moment to understand why you were here. Why you'd joined this company."

"I joined because I earned a position here," I said, finding my spine. "Because I'm qualified and talented and I've worked my ass off to be in this room. Not everything is about you, Dante."

His name on my lips made him flinch. Good. Let him be uncomfortable.

"You're right," he said, surprising me. "I'm sure your career choices had nothing to do with me. Just like my father's company having an opening in Communications exactly when you were looking had nothing to do with you."

I stared at him. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything." He moved closer to my desk, and I forced myself not to retreat. "I'm stating facts. You've been working here for six months. I've been planning my return for eight months. During that time, three positions opened in departments you were qualified for. You applied to all three. You were offered all three. You chose Communications because it's the most visible role, the one that would give you the most access to executive leadership."

"That's standard career strategy," I said, but my voice wavered. How did he know all of this? Who had he been talking to?

"It is," he agreed. "It's also convenient. Tell me, Sloane did you know I was coming back? Did someone tip you off that Giovanni's son would be returning from Europe, taking a position of significant power? Did you think this was your chance?"

"My chance for what?" I demanded, anger finally overtaking fear. "To what, seduce you? Blackmail you? Get revenge for high school bullshit that happened seven years ago? I hate to shatter your ego, Dante, but you're not that important to me. You stopped being important the day you got on a plane to Milan and I finally got to breathe without wondering what fresh hell you'd devise next."

Silence filled the room like water rising.

Then Dante smiled, and it was nothing like the cruel smirks from our past. This was real, almost admiring. "There she is. I was wondering when the girl with claws would come out."

"I'm not a girl anymore." I stepped around my desk, eliminating his height advantage by moving into his space rather than cowering from it. "I'm a woman who's very good at her job, who's earned everything she has, and who doesn't appreciate being interrogated in her own office by someone who made my teenage years a living hell."

"I know." His voice dropped lower. "Believe me, Sloane, I know exactly what I did to you."

Something in his tone made me pause. There was no amusement there, no satisfaction. Just something that sounded suspiciously like regret.

"Then why are you here?" I asked, suddenly exhausted. "What do you want from me?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. Then: "I don't know yet."

The honesty of it shocked me more than any manipulation could have.

"I should hate you," I whispered. "I should march into your father's office and tell him everything. The rumors you spread, the way you made me a joke, how you had your friends corner me after the Valentine incident and-"

"And what?" His jaw tightened. "What did they do, Sloane?"

I looked away. I'd never told anyone about that day, about being surrounded in an empty hallway, about hands grabbing and voices laughing and the certainty that something terrible was about to happen before a teacher had rounded the corner and it had all dissolved into nervous jokes.

"Nothing happened," I said, the same lie I'd told myself for years. "They just scared me. Made sure I knew how pathetic I was for thinking someone like you could ever want someone like me."

"Jesus Christ." Dante's hand came up like he meant to touch me, then stopped. "Sloane, I never-I didn't tell them to-"

"You didn't have to tell them anything," I cut him off. "You created the environment. You spread the story. You made me a target and then acted surprised when other predators circled. That's on you, Dante. All of it."

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling. For the first time since entering my office, he looked genuinely rattled. "You're right. You're absolutely right. There's no excuse for what I did, for what I allowed to happen."

"Then why did you?" The question I'd carried for seven years finally found voice. "Why did you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you besides exist in your proximity and make the mistake of thinking you were something you weren't?"

"I didn't hate you." The words came out raw. "That was never what it was."

"Then what was it?"

He looked at me like he was deciding whether to jump or step back from a ledge. "Obsession," he said finally. "Sick, twisted, adolescent obsession that I had no idea how to handle. You were sixteen and brilliant and so impossibly good, and I was nineteen and fucked up and terrified by how much I wanted you. Terrified of what my father would do if he noticed. Terrified of what I might do if I let myself get close to you."

I laughed, bitter and sharp. "So you destroyed me instead. Very healthy coping mechanism."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Believe me, I know. I spent seven years in Europe trying to become someone who deserved to come back here and make this right. Someone who could look at you without wanting to-"

He stopped himself.

"Without wanting to know what?" I challenged.

His eyes met mine, and what I saw there made my breath catch. Heat and hunger and something darker, more possessive. "Without wanting to keep you," he finished quietly. "Lock you away somewhere only I can find you. Make sure no one else ever gets close enough to see what I saw in you back then-all that fire and brilliance you tried so hard to hide."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't the conversation I'd expected. I'd prepared for mockery, for dismissal, for corporate power plays. Not for raw confession that sounded too sincere to be manipulated but too convenient to be fully trusted.

"You don't get to do this," I said, my voice shaking. "You don't get to walk back into my life after seven years and rewrite history. You weren't obsessed with me-you were cruel. You made me hate myself. Do you understand that? You made me look in the mirror and see something worthless."

Pain flashed across his face. "I know. And I will spend however long it takes making that right."

"You can't make it right," I snapped. "Some things don't get fixed, Dante. They just survived."

"Then let me help you survive." He moved closer, and I should have stepped back but I was frozen, caught in the gravity of whatever this moment was becoming. "Let me prove that I'm not that fucked-up kid anymore. That I can be-"

"My boss?" I interrupted, forcing reality back into the room. "Because that's what you are now. My boss. Which makes this entire conversation inappropriate and potentially illegal, depending on what exactly you're proposing."

That stopped him. Professional consideration flickered through his expression, warring with whatever else he was feeling. "You're right. I'm sorry. That wasn't-I shouldn't have made this personal."

"It was always personal," I said tiredly. "That's the problem."

(Sloane POV)

He studied me for a long moment, and I saw him physically pull himself together:straightening his shoulders, adjusting his expression into something more neutral. When he spoke again, his tone was carefully professional. "Let's start over. As colleagues. I'd like to review your current projects and discuss how Communications can support my transition into this role."

It was a lifeline back to safer territory. I should have grabbed it, should have been grateful for the exit from this emotional minefield.

Instead, I heard myself ask: "Is that really why you wanted this meeting? To discuss projects?"

His carefully constructed professionalism cracked. "No."

"Then what did you want?"

"To see if you were real," he said simply. "For months, I've been preparing to come back here, knowing I might see you. Hoping I might see you. But I didn't know if you'd stayed in New York, if you'd moved on, if you'd gotten married or-" He cut himself off. "And then there you were, sitting in that conference room looking like every fantasy I've tried to bury for seven years, and I needed to know if I was remembering you wrong. If I'd built you up into something impossible."

"And?" I barely breathed the question.

"You're more," he said, his voice rough. "You're so much more than I remembered, and I don't know what the fuck to do with that."

The vulnerability in his admission did something dangerous to my carefully maintained anger. Because underneath the successful professional I'd become, there was still a girl who'd wanted desperately to be seen by him-really seen, not as a target but as someone worthy of genuine attention.

That girl was a liability.

"You don't do anything with it," I said firmly. "You leave it alone. We're colleagues, nothing more. We have no personal history,that's the fiction we're both going to maintain. You're going to treat me exactly like you treat every other department head: professionally, appropriately, with clear boundaries. And I'm going to do my job exceptionally well, which I was already doing before you showed up. Agreed?"

Something rebellious flickered in his eyes. "And if I don't agree?"

"Then I'll file a formal complaint with HR, detail our prior relationship and your current inappropriate behavior, and watch your triumphant return to daddy's company explode spectacularly." I crossed my arms. "I'm not sixteen anymore, Dante. I don't cry in bathroom stalls. I fight back."

He smiled then, sharp and genuine. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

"I'm not performing for your entertainment."

"No," he agreed, "you're surviving. Just like you said. And you've done it beautifully." His gaze traveled over me with something like pride, which was infuriating and confusing in equal measure. "But Sloane? This fiction you want to maintain,that we're strangers who just met? It's not going to hold."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not capable of looking at you like you're just another employee." He said it like a confession, like a threat, like a promise. "I'm going to try. For both our sakes, I'll try. But I need you to know that's what I'll be doing every time we're in the same room,trying not to act on seven years of wanting you."

Heat flooded through me, unwanted and undeniable. "That's sexual harassment."

"It's the truth." He moved toward the door, and I felt the loss of his proximity like a physical thing. "But you're right. This needs to be professional. So let's make this official: I'd like a full briefing on all active Communications projects by end of day Friday. Include timelines, budgets, and stakeholder lists. We'll schedule a follow-up meeting next week to discuss strategy alignment."

Just like that, we were back in safe territory. Boss and subordinate, nothing more complicated than corporate hierarchy.

"Of course," I said. "I'll have my assistant send you the files."

"Good." His hand was on the doorknob when he paused. "Sloane? One more thing."

"Yes?"

He turned back, and the look in his eyes made my stomach drop. "Don't ever accuse me of hating you again. Whatever I felt, whatever I did,it was never hate. Hate would have been simpler. Hate wouldn't have followed me across an ocean and haunted me every goddamn day for seven years."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in my office with the scent of cedar and the wreckage of every assumption I'd made about how this day would go.

I sank into my desk chair, my legs suddenly unreliable.

Dante Moretti was back. And whatever game he was playing, I had a terrible feeling I was already losing.

I lasted until 6 PM before calling the only person who knew the full story.

"Tell me you're free for an emergency wine situation," I said when Jessa picked up.

"That bad?" My best friend's voice carried concern and curiosity in equal measure. "I'm wrapping up a deposition but I can meet you at Vesper in thirty. The usual corner?"

"Perfect. I'll be the one drinking heavily."

"Sloane, what happened?"

I looked out my office window at Manhattan turning gold in the setting sun, at the life I'd built from ruins and determination. "A ghost showed up. And he's not leaving."

Vesper was the kind of bar where corporate warriors went to bleed in private and the blessed assurance that whatever you said wouldn't leave the velvet-upholstered confines of your booth. Jessa was already there when I arrived, her lawyer armor still intact: charcoal suit, severe bun, the expression that made opposing counsel reconsider their life choices.

But when she saw my face, the armor cracked. "Jesus, Sloane. What happened?"

I slid into the booth across from her. "Dante Moretti is the new VP of Operations."

To her credit, Jessa didn't ask who. She'd been my roommate at NYU, had held me through enough nightmares and therapy sessions to know exactly who Dante was and what he'd done.

"Fuck," she said succinctly. Then: "Can you transfer?"

"To where? His authority extends across all domestic operations. There's no department in the company he won't have access to."

"Then quit."

"And go where?" I laughed bitterly. "This position is the best opportunity I've had. The pay, the projects, the visibility-everything I've worked for is tied up in Moretti Holdings. If I leave now, it looks like I can't handle pressure. Like I'm running."

"You'd be protecting yourself."

"I'd be letting him win again." I accepted the wine glass Jessa pushed toward me, drinking deeply. "He doesn't get to run me out of my own life twice."

Jessa studied me with the intensity that made her excellent at cross-examination. "What did he say to you?"

"That he was obsessed with me. That tormenting me was some twisted teenage response to feelings he didn't know how to handle. That he's spent seven years becoming someone worthy of making things right."

"And you believe him?"

Did I? I wanted to dismiss it as manipulation, but the rawness in Dante's voice had sounded genuine. The pain when I'd described what his actions had done to me,that had seemed real too.

"I don't know what I believe," I admitted. "Part of me thinks it's an elaborate setup for something worse. Part of me wonders if he's telling the truth. And the really fucked up part?" I met Jessa's eyes. "Part of me doesn't care either way because just being in the same room with him made me feel more alive than I have in months."

"That's trauma bonding, not attraction."

"Is there a difference when you're sixteen and wired wrong?"

Jessa reached across the table, gripping my hand. "You're not wired wrong. You were a kid with a crush who got brutalized by someone who should have known better. And now he's back, in a position of power over you, making it impossible to have a clean professional relationship. This is textbook predatory behavior, Sloane. Even if his feelings were real back then, his actions now are calculated."

She was right. I knew she was right. But knowing didn't stop the treacherous part of my brain that had replayed our conversation a dozen times, analyzing every word, every look, every moment when his control had slipped and I'd glimpsed something vulnerable underneath.

"What do I do?" I asked.

"Document everything," Jessa said immediately, her lawyer brain engaging. "Every interaction, every meeting, anything that could be construed as inappropriate. Keep a paper trail. And seriously consider talking to HR about the history, getting it on record so if he does try something, you're protected."

"And if he doesn't? If he actually maintains professional boundaries?"

"Then you do your job brilliantly and pretend he doesn't exist beyond what's absolutely necessary." Jessa squeezed my hand. "But Sloane? Don't believe his redemption story until he's proven it with actions, not words. People don't change that dramatically. Not really."

I wanted to believe her. The logical, self-protective part of me knew she was absolutely right.

But I couldn't stop remembering the look in Dante's eyes when he'd said hate would have been simpler.

We finished our wine, ordered another round, and Jessa regaled me with stories from her current case:a contentious divorce involving a hedge fund manager and his soon-to-be-ex-wife's extensive art collection. Normally I'd have been fascinated by the legal maneuvering, but my mind kept drifting back to my office, to cedar and sharp suits and a voice that had gotten deeper, richer, and more dangerous.

"You're not listening to me," Jessa observed.

"I'm sorry. I'm in terrible company tonight."

"You're traumatized, which is different." She signaled for the check. "Go home. Take a bath. Watch something mindless. And tomorrow, go into that office and be the badass professional who earned that position. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you rattled."

"Too late," I muttered. "I literally dropped my coffee mug when I saw him."

"Then tomorrow you're steady as a surgeon. Show him you're not that girl anymore."

Except I wasn't sure that was true. Because when Dante had looked at me with hunger and regret and raw honesty, I'd felt sixteen again,wanting desperately to believe he saw something in me worth wanting, even as every survival instinct screamed that believing him would destroy me.

I made it home by 8:30. My apartment was a one-bedroom in a converted warehouse in Chelsea:exposed brick, high ceilings, the kind of industrial-chic that cost a fortune but felt worth it when you'd grown up in cramped quarters where privacy was a luxury. I'd decorated it carefully: mid-century modern furniture, plants I managed not to kill, art from street fairs and emerging artists I could actually afford.

Evidence that I'd made something of myself.

I was halfway through changing into pajamas when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number, but the message made my blood freeze:

You left your portfolio in my office. I'll have it sent up in the morning. -DM

I looked around my bedroom, confused. I hadn't brought a portfolio to his-

Oh. Oh fuck.

I'd never actually met with him in his office. We'd met in mine. Which meant he'd somehow gotten my personal number. Which meant he'd looked me up in company systems, found information he had no business accessing for a routine professional interaction.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should ignore it. Should absolutely not respond to after-hours texts from my boss who also happened to be my childhood tormentor who'd confessed to obsession.

But anger won out over caution:

We met in MY office. I didn't leave anything. And how did you get this number?

The reply came within seconds:

Company directory. And you're right-my mistake. I was distracted during our meeting. It won't happen again.

Something about the phrasing made my stomach flutter. Distracted by what? By me? By the tension crackling between us? By the weight of seven years and unfinished business?

I typed and deleted three responses before settling on:

See that it doesn't. Professional boundaries, remember?

I remember. Sleep well, Sloane.

I stared at my name on the screen, at the casual intimacy of it. Not Ms. Rivera. Not Rivera. Just Sloane, like he had the right to my first name outside of work hours, like we were something other than boss and subordinate with a history that should have stayed buried.

I should have told him not to text me again. Should have established firm boundaries immediately.

Instead, I turned off my phone and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, remembering what it felt like to be sixteen and watching Dante's window, wondering what it would be like to be noticed by him. Really noticed, not as a target but as someone worthy of genuine attention.

Careful what you wish for, the old saying went.

I'd wanted Dante Moretti to see me.

Now he had, and I had no idea if I was ready for what that meant.

(Sloane POV)

The coffee appeared on my desk at 7:15 AM, which meant someone had been in my office before I arrived.

I stared at the cup from the artisanal café three blocks away(the one that charged eight dollars for coffee and made you feel simultaneously sophisticated and financially irresponsible). A small card rested against it, expensive cardstock in cream:

Three sugars, excessive cream. Some things shouldn't change. -DM

My hands clenched into fists. I'd arrived early specifically to avoid unexpected encounters, to reclaim my space and establish control over my environment. Instead, Dante had already been here, invading my office, leaving evidence of his presence like a territorial marker.

The coffee was still hot.

Which meant he'd timed it perfectly:dropped it off recently enough that it wouldn't cool before I arrived, but early enough that he'd be gone before I walked in. He'd calculated my schedule, my habits, probably asked around about when the Communications Director typically showed up.

It was thoughtful and invasive in equal measure.

I should throw it away. Should march to wherever his temporary office was and make it clear that personal gifts were inappropriate and unwelcome.

Instead, I lifted the cup and took a sip.

Perfect. Exactly how I used to take it, sweet enough to make my teeth ache, creamy enough to barely taste the coffee.

I'd switched to black three years ago as part of reinventing myself:bitter coffee for a harder person, someone who didn't need sweetness to face the day.

But this tasted like Saturday mornings on my front steps, like being sixteen and hopeful, like a version of myself I'd thought I'd successfully buried.

I hated that it was delicious.

I hated more that some traitorous part of me was touched that he remembered.

My computer chimed with a new email. Company-wide distribution from Dante Moretti, sent at 6:47 AM:

Subject: Open Door Policy & Transition Meetings

Dear Colleagues,

As I settle into my role as VP of Operations, I want to establish clear communication channels across all departments. My door is always open for questions, concerns, or collaborative opportunities.

Over the next two weeks, I'll be conducting individual meetings with each department to understand current initiatives and identify areas for strategic alignment. My assistant will be reaching out to schedule these sessions.

Additionally, I'm implementing a new cross-functional task force focused on operational efficiency and client experience enhancement. Department heads interested in participating should contact me directly.

I look forward to working with all of you as we drive Moretti Holdings toward continued success.

Best regards,

Dante Moretti

Vice President of Operations

It was perfectly professional, appropriately collegial, exactly what you'd expect from a new executive establishing himself. Nothing in it warranted the unease settling in my stomach.

Except I knew Dante. Knew how he operated. And this email, combined with the coffee, sent a clear message: he was creating official channels to interact with me while simultaneously undermining my professional boundaries with personal gestures.

I was halfway through drafting a firm but polite email requesting he stop the coffee deliveries when my office phone rang.

"Sloane Rivera."

"Ms. Rivera, this is Catherine from Mr. Moretti's office." The voice was crisp, efficient, probably belonged to someone who'd been with the company for decades and could smell weakness through phone lines. "Mr. Moretti would like to schedule his Communications department review for tomorrow at 9 AM. Does that work with your calendar?"

Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours to prepare the comprehensive briefing he'd requested, when normally I'd have until Friday.

"I was under the impression I had until end of week to compile the materials," I said carefully.

"Mr. Moretti has decided to accelerate the timeline. He's prioritizing Communications given its strategic importance to his transition." A pause that felt loaded. "Is there a problem with tomorrow?"

There absolutely was, but saying so would make me look unprepared or difficult. Classic power move:change the parameters, watch your target scramble.

"Tomorrow at nine works fine," I said. "Please send a meeting invitation with the specific topics he'd like covered."

"Of course. And Ms. Rivera? Mr. Moretti mentioned he'd like the meeting in the executive conference room rather than your office. He'll be inviting several other stakeholders to observe Communications' strategic overview."

My stomach dropped. This wasn't a one-on-one review anymore. This was a performance, a test, a chance for me to fail publicly while Dante watched.

"Understood," I managed. "I'll prepare accordingly."

"Excellent. The invitation will be in your inbox within the hour."

She disconnected, leaving me staring at expensive coffee and contemplating murder.

Strategic. That's what he was being. Create official reasons to interact with me, escalate timelines to keep me off-balance, turn what should have been a private meeting into a public showcase where any misstep would be visible to company leadership.

I couldn't tell if he was trying to push me out or pull me closer.

Maybe both.

My desk phone rang again before I could spiral further.

"Please tell me you have good news," I answered, assuming it was my assistant Maya.

"I have terrible news, actually." Maya's voice carried the particular tension that meant someone had fucked up and it was about to become my problem. "The Castellano merger press release went out this morning with the wrong financial figures. Their legal team is furious."

Ice flooded my veins. "What do you mean wrong figures?"

"The revenue projections were off by forty million. Someone changed the numbers in the final draft after I approved it, but before it went to distribution." Papers rustled. "I'm looking at my approved version right now,the numbers were correct. But the version that went out is different."

"Who had access to the file between your approval and distribution?"

"Just IT for final formatting, and..." She hesitated. "And anyone with senior executive access to the shared drive. Which is basically all the VPs and C-suite."

The coffee on my desk suddenly felt like evidence rather than a gift.

"Pull the file history," I said, already standing, already moving toward my computer. "I need to know exactly who accessed that document and when. And get me a call with Castellano's communications lead immediately-we need to issue a correction before this becomes a story."

"On it. Sloane? This could be really bad."

"I know." I pulled up the shared drive, navigating to the press release folder. Sure enough, the file showed multiple access points over the past twelve hours. Most recent: 6:52 AM, user DMoretti.

Dante had accessed the file minutes after arriving this morning. Before company-wide business hours, before anyone else was in the office.

Right around the time he'd been delivering coffee to my desk.

Coincidence? Or something more calculated?

"Maya, add Dante Moretti to the list of people we need to interview about file access. And pull security footage from the twenty-seventh floor between 6 and 8 AM today."

"You think he had something to do with this?"

I thought Dante Moretti had made his career in hostile acquisitions across Europe, which meant he understood corporate warfare intimately. I thought he'd shown up in my life at the exact moment things started going wrong. And I thought the boy who'd orchestrated my teenage humiliation was absolutely capable of sophisticated professional sabotage.

But I couldn't say any of that without sounding paranoid or biased.

"I think we need to eliminate all possibilities," I said instead. "Just get me the information."