(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."

(Sloane POV)

The next three hours were controlled chaos. The Castellano team was understandably livid:incorrect financial information in a press release could impact stock prices, investor confidence, and SEC compliance. I issued an immediate correction, crafted an apology that took responsibility without admitting negligence, and personally called their communications director to do damage control.

"This kind of error is unacceptable," Richard Castellano said, his voice tight. "We trusted Moretti Holdings with sensitive information, and you've compromised that trust."

"I understand completely, and I take full responsibility," I said, even though I hadn't been anywhere near the final file. "I'm implementing new protocols to ensure this never happens again. Multiple approval checkpoints, locked files after final review, automated version control."

"That should have already been standard practice."

He was right. It should have been. But we were a lean department, and I'd trusted the existing systems.

Fatal mistake.

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Castellano. I should have had these safeguards in place from day one. This is on me, and I will personally ensure every future release goes through enhanced review."

A long pause. Then: "I appreciate you taking ownership rather than making excuses. But Sloane? One more incident like this, and we'll be requesting a new communications liaison."

"Understood. It won't happen again."

I disconnected and dropped my head to my desk, exhaustion and stress creating a headache that pulsed behind my eyes.

"Rough morning?"

I jerked upright. Dante stood in my doorway, looking infuriatingly perfect in a navy suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His expression was carefully neutral, but something gleamed in his dark eyes that might have been concern or might have been satisfaction.

"What do you want?" I didn't bother with professional courtesy.

"I heard about the Castellano situation." He entered without invitation, closing the door behind him. "Are you okay?"

"Am I-" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "You accessed that file this morning, Dante. The one with the wrong numbers. So either you changed them, or you saw they were wrong and said nothing. Which is it?"

His jaw tightened. "I accessed the file to review it for our meeting tomorrow.

Communications is handling a major merger-I wanted to understand the scope before our strategic discussion."

"At 6:52 in the morning? Before anyone else was in the office?"

"I'm an early riser. Always have been." He moved closer to my desk, and I caught cedar and something darker. "And I didn't change anything, Sloane. When I reviewed that document, the numbers were already wrong. I assumed they were correct because why would I question your department's work on a routine press release?"

"So you saw incorrect financial information and didn't think to flag it?"

"I saw numbers. I'm not familiar enough with Castellano's revenue projections to know if they were accurate." His voice sharpened. "Are you seriously accusing me of sabotaging your work on my second day back?"

"I'm saying it's quite a coincidence that the first major error in my tenure happens twelve hours after you show up."

"Coincidences happen."

"Not to me they don't." I stood, putting us on more equal footing. "Everything in my career has been calculated, earned, fought for. I don't have the luxury of accidents or coincidences. So when something goes wrong right after you appear, I have to ask myself what you're gaining from it."

Dante stared at me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. "You think I'm trying to destroy your career."

"I think you're playing a game I don't understand yet." I crossed my arms. "The coffee, the accelerated meeting, the file access-it's all too coordinated. So tell me, Dante: what's your endgame?"

He was quiet, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Then he did something unexpected: he pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, and turned the screen toward me.

It was an email, sent at 7:03 AM to Marcus Chen and Giovanni Moretti:

Reviewed Communications press release for Castellano merger. Recommend secondary financial review before distribution-some projections seem inconsistent with acquisition terms. May be formatting issue but worth verification. -DM

I stared at the timestamp. Seven minutes after he'd accessed the file. Eleven minutes after he'd left coffee on my desk.

"I flagged it," he said quietly. "I wasn't certain there was an error, but something felt off. I sent that email before the release went out."

"Then why didn't anyone stop it?"

"Look at the distribution time."

I grabbed my phone, pulling up the disastrous press release. Sent at 7:01 AM.

Two minutes before Dante's warning email.

"Maya sent it early," I whispered. "She was supposed to wait until 8 AM for final executive review, but she sent it at 7:01."

"Which means the error isn't yours or hers-it's whoever changed the file between final approval and distribution." Dante pocketed his phone. "Your assistant is competent. She wouldn't accidentally send something early or with wrong numbers. Which means someone wanted this to go out incorrectly, and they timed it perfectly to slip past safeguards."

The implications settled over me like ice water. This wasn't an accident. This was deliberate sabotage.

"Who would do that?" I asked, though I was already mentally reviewing enemies. Marcus Chen, who'd resented my rapid promotion? Sarah from Legal, who'd wanted the Communications position? Someone else who saw me as a threat?

"I don't know," Dante said. "But I'm going to find out."

"Why?" The question came out sharper than intended. "Why do you care if someone's sabotaging my career?"

He stepped closer, and suddenly my office felt too small, the air too thick. "Because you're mine to protect now."

"I'm not yours anything."

"You work for my division. That makes you my responsibility." But his eyes said something else entirely-something possessive and dangerous that had nothing to do with corporate hierarchy.

"I can protect myself."

"I know you can." His voice softened. "But you shouldn't have to. Not from this kind of targeted attack. Not when I can help."

It was the gentleness that undid me. I could handle Dante's intensity, his demands, even his barely concealed hunger. But this-this careful concern that felt genuine-this I didn't have defenses against.

"I need to prepare for tomorrow's meeting," I said, retreat disguised as professionalism. "Unless you'd like to move that up to this afternoon too?"

"Tomorrow is fine." He moved toward the door, and I felt myself relax incrementally. Then he paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Sloane? The coffee-I'll stop if you want me to. But I need you to know why I do it."

"Why?"

"Because for seven years, I've wondered if you still drink it that way. If you still wrap your hands around the cup like you're trying to absorb warmth. If you still take that first sip and close your eyes for just a second, like it's the best thing you've tasted all morning." His voice dropped.

"And this morning, when I walked past your office after leaving it, I saw you through the window. You did all three things. And for just a moment, you looked like that girl on the front steps again-the one I was too fucked up to deserve back then."

My breath caught. He'd watched me? He'd stayed to observe my reaction?

"That's creepy, Dante."

"I know." He met my eyes, unflinching. "But it's honest. And I promised myself if I ever got a second chance, I'd be honest with you. Even when honesty makes me look like a stalker."

"Especially then," I whispered.

"Especially then," he agreed. Then: "I didn't sabotage your work, Sloane. I tried to protect it. Whether you believe that or not is up to you, but it's the truth."

He left before I could respond, closing the door softly behind him.

I sank into my chair, staring at the half-empty coffee cup, at the evidence he'd been right about my habits.

My phone buzzed. Maya: Security footage shows DM in the building from 6:30-7:15 AM. He accessed the file from his temporary office, sent the warning email, then delivered something to your office. Timeline checks out,he couldn't have changed the numbers during that window. Want me to keep digging?

So Dante was telling the truth. He'd tried to flag the error, had actually attempted to protect me rather than sabotage me.

Which meant someone else was targeting my work. Someone with executive access and enough technical knowledge to change files without leaving obvious traces.

I typed back: Yes. Pull access logs for the past month. I want to know everyone who's touched my files, especially after hours.

The response came quickly: On it. Also-you have a lunch delivery. Want me to send it back?

I hadn't ordered lunch. From where?

That French place you love. Gruyère and prosciutto sandwich, side salad, the chocolate tart you always get for special occasions. Card says "Fuel for tomorrow's presentation. You're going to be brilliant. -DM"

Jesus Christ. He remembered my lunch order too? From what, watching me eat in the company cafeteria years ago when we were neighbors and I'd occasionally see him around the neighborhood?

No. That didn't make sense. We'd never had lunch together.

Which meant he'd been asking around. Finding out my preferences, my habits, building a profile.

It should have terrified me. Instead, some twisted part of me felt...seen. After years of being invisible, of working quietly and efficiently without recognition, Dante was paying attention to details no one else noticed.

Send it to my office, I texted Maya. And thanks for handling everything this morning. You did good work.

Just trying not to get us both fired, she replied. You really think someone's targeting you specifically?

I don't know. But I'm going to find out.

I spent the rest of the morning preparing for tomorrow's presentation while simultaneously investigating the file tampering. The access logs Maya pulled were revealing: someone had accessed my files repeatedly over the past six weeks, always after hours, always for brief periods. The user ID was masked, which required IT administrator privileges.

Either someone in IT was targeting me, or someone with enough power had convinced IT to grant them anonymous access.

Neither option was comforting.

By the time lunch arrived(perfectly prepared, exactly what I would have ordered)I'd compiled a list of suspects:

Marcus Chen: Senior VP, threatened by my rapid rise, had the authority to request IT access.

Sarah Chen: Legal department, bitter about losing the Communications position to me, connected to Marcus through surname coincidence that might be actual relation.

David Kozlov: Finance VP, had raised concerns about Communications budget allocation, could want me replaced with someone more... cooperative.

Unknown IT administrator: Self-explanatory.

Elena Ricci: Giovanni's assistant, long-time company fixture, fiercely protective of Moretti family interests. Might view me as unsuitable association for Dante.

That last one was pure speculation, but something about the way Elena had watched me during yesterday's meeting had felt assessing, calculating.

My office phone rang, interrupting the paranoia spiral.

"Ms. Rivera, this is the front desk." The security guard sounded uncomfortable. "Your access card has been flagged for review. I'm going to need you to come down and verify your identity."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Your card shows... there's been suspicious activity associated with it. Multiple building accesses outside normal business hours, areas you shouldn't have clearance for. IT security wants to verify you're in possession of your card and haven't had it stolen."

My blood went cold. "I have my card right here. I've been in my office all morning."

"Can you bring it down? They want to check the chip, make sure it hasn't been cloned."

This was getting worse by the hour. First the file tampering, now my security access was compromised?

"I'll be right there."

I grabbed my card and headed for the elevator, mind racing. If someone had cloned my access card, they could enter and exit the building as me. Could access my office after hours, my computer, my files.

The elevator doors opened on the twenty-seventh floor, and Dante stepped in.

Of course.

"Going down?" he asked mildly, as if we hadn't had an intense conversation an hour ago.

"Security issue with my access card," I said tightly. "Apparently I've been accessing areas I don't have clearance for."

His expression sharpened. "When?"

"I don't know. They just called."

"I'm coming with you."

"That's not necessary-"

"It's absolutely necessary." The elevator descended, and Dante pulled out his phone. "Catherine, get IT security on the line. We have a potential breach involving Communications Director access credentials."

"Dante, I can handle-"

"This isn't about your capability, Sloane.

This is corporate security protocol." But the protective edge in his voice suggested otherwise. "If your card has been compromised, it affects the entire company. This needs executive oversight."

We reached the lobby, where two security guards and an IT specialist waited. The IT guy-young, nervous, clutching a tablet like a shield-stepped forward.

"Ms. Rivera, I'm Brandon from IT Security. Can I see your access card?"

I handed it over, watching as he scanned it with a handheld device. His frown deepened.

"This card shows access to the executive floor last night at 11:47 PM. Were you in the building then?"

"No. I left at 6:30 PM yesterday."

"And the thirtieth floor at 2:14 AM this morning?"

My stomach dropped. The thirtieth floor was executive suites. Giovanni's office.

The secure file room where acquisition documents were stored.

"Absolutely not. I was home asleep."

Brandon tapped his tablet, pulling up security footage. "We have video of someone using your card to access restricted areas, but the footage is corrupted. Just static where the person's face should be."

"That's convenient," Dante said coldly. "Someone sophisticated enough to clone her card and corrupt security footage. This is a serious breach."

"We're investigating, Mr. Moretti." Brandon shifted uncomfortably under Dante's stare. "But we need to deactivate Ms. Rivera's current access and issue her a new card. For security."

"Do it," I said. "But I want a copy of all access logs associated with my old card. Every entry, every exit, every door opened."

"That's confidential security data-"

"Ms. Rivera's credentials were used to access confidential areas," Dante interrupted. "She has every right to that information. Send the logs to both of us by end of day."

Brandon looked like he wanted to argue but knew better than to challenge a VP. "Yes, sir."

The new card took twenty minutes to process:twenty minutes of standing in the lobby while employees walked past, whispering, wondering why the Communications Director was being handled by security. Professional humiliation at its finest.

Dante stayed the entire time, a silent presence that felt both protective and possessive.

When we finally headed back upstairs, he followed me into the elevator.

"You don't have to babysit me," I said once the doors closed.

"Someone is systematically targeting you," he said flatly. "Wrong numbers in your press releases, your security access compromised, your files accessed after hours. This isn't random, Sloane. This is coordinated."

"I know that."

"Do you know who?"

"I have theories."

"Share them."

I looked at him,at the genuine concern in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands had formed fists like he was restraining himself from... what? Comforting me? Hunting down whoever was responsible?

"Why do you care?" I asked again, because I needed to understand. "You've been back for thirty-six hours. You don't owe me protection or concern or-"

"I owe you everything," he cut me off, his voice rough. "Seven years of apologies I'll never be able to adequately give. So yes, Sloane, I'm going to help you whether you want me to or not. Because maybe I can't fix what I did to you back then, but I can damn well make sure no one else gets the chance to hurt you now."

The elevator reached my floor, doors sliding open.

I should have walked out. Should have maintained distance, kept this professional, protected myself from whatever complicated game he was playing.

Instead, I heard myself say: "Marcus Chen. Sarah Chen. Possibly Elena Ricci. Those are my primary suspects."

Dante's expression went cold, calculating. "I'll look into it."

"Carefully," I warned. "If you start investigating C-suite executives on your second day, it'll raise questions."

"Let them raise questions." He stepped out of the elevator, holding it open so I could exit. "I didn't spend seven years learning corporate warfare to be subtle when someone's attacking what's mine."

"I'm not-"

"My division," he corrected smoothly. "My responsibility. My problem to solve."

But his eyes said mine in a way that had nothing to do with corporate hierarchy and everything to do with possession.

I walked back to my office feeling unsettled, protected, and more confused than ever about whether Dante Moretti was my salvation or a different kind of destruction entirely.

The lunch he'd sent waited on my desk, still warm in its elegant packaging.

I ate every bite, hating myself for how good it tasted.