Page 14

SOPHIE

The laptop glows in front of me, a screen full of unreleased headlines I can’t bring myself to read. Congratulatory texts keep lighting up my phone.

I should feel proud. Triumphant.

But all I feel is exposed.

Though, it’s not the media frenzy or the merger I can’t stop thinking about. It’s him .

The way Alessio looked at me today. Like I was salvation wrapped in skin. Like I was the only person who could see through the noise and into something real.

“Because someone believed I could be more than a headline.”

His voice still echoes in my chest, low and reverent, like a vow. And it guts me. Because I believed it, too. Because some part of me, stupid, reckless, breakable, wants it to be true.

Wants him to be true.

And that terrifies me.

The bathroom door swings open with a soft creak.

Alessio steps out, steam swirling behind him. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and a faint sheen of water glistens on his neck.

But what stops me cold is the shirt. He’s wearing one.

That detail alone short-circuits my brain.

After days of sweatpants and sinful glimpses of skin, the simple crewneck is... startling. Like he’s trying to follow at least one of my rules. And yet, somehow, it makes him even more irresistible.

The way the soft fabric hugs the lean lines of his torso, how it clings to the definition in his arms, the slight peak of his biceps beneath the sleeves…it’s a whole new kind of torment. Clean-cut, controlled, and devastatingly hot.

My pulse skitters, trying to outrun the truth.

And damn if the way the fabric clings to his torso, outlining every muscle, every lean line of his chest doesn’t make things worse. The sleeves stretch slightly around his biceps, defined and peaking in a way that makes my mouth go dry.

Dammit . He shouldn’t look this good covered up.

Our eyes lock.

Something in my chest lurches.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks in like he’s unsure of the space, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment. He sets his phone on the counter. Then his gaze finds mine again.

He pauses, assessing the mood, as if trying not to push too hard.

But the weight of his gaze is still a touch. Hot, direct, lingering.

“I meant what I said.” His voice is low and hoarse from the heat. “You didn’t just save my image today. You reminded me who the hell I could be.”

I should deflect. I should pull my legs tighter and act unaffected.

But the truth is, I’m not unaffected.

Not even close.

“I was just doing my job.”

We both know that’s a lie.

His lips twitch with a ghost of a smile. “No. You were brilliant. Calculated. Unshakeable. Even when I gave you every reason to walk away.”

He closes the space between us, each step careful. Intentional. He’s not looking at me like a man who's grateful.

He’s looking at me like a man who sees the woman who stood by him when no one else would and doesn’t know how to say thank you without setting her on fire.

“I owe you more than I can say.” His gaze drops to my mouth for the barest second before flicking back up.

And just like that, the air is thick again.

I shift to make room as Alessio lowers himself onto the other end of the couch.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t crowd me. But his presence is a gravity I can’t ignore.

“You didn’t just clean up my mess. You made people see me.”

I glance down at my lap, picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. “Well… it’s easier to fix a mess when you know what caused it.”

He pauses. “What caused yours?”

The question lands like a sucker punch.

“I don’t have a mess,” I say quickly, too quickly. “At least, not one worth talking about.”

He tilts his head, not buying it. “That why you never talk about why you left Chicago?”

I go still.

“I just needed a change. New scenery. New start.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who runs from things.”

I swallow, hard. “Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”

His voice is patient, coaxing. “Maybe not. But I want to.”

The silence stretches long between us.

Part of me wants to keep it that way. The other part, the fractured, exhausted, raw part, is aching to be seen.

His eyes go steel hard. “That fucking country singer?”

I nod. “I was working as lead of his PR team. He made a pass. I turned him down. My guess is he didn't like that. Bruised his ego. Then a week later, the contract I’d negotiated vanished. My team was disbanded.”

His jaw flexes. His hands curl into fists on his knees. “He blacklisted you because you didn't want to fuck him?”

“No one said it out loud. That’s how men like him work.

They don’t need to. The silence speaks loud enough.

But the whispers followed me everywhere.

Some said I was too ambitious. Others claimed I was reckless.

And of course, there were those who insisted I must have done something to deserve it.

” I shake my head. “All they saw was scandal. And just like that, I became radioactive.”

I don’t realize I’m trembling until the couch shifts, and Alessio’s hand finds mine. Not tight, not possessive. Just there.

“The press never got the full story. Hell, I’m not even sure I did. But whatever it was, it was enough to make me an untouchable punchline in industry circles. No firm would touch me. No client would take me seriously. The respect I’d spent a decade building evaporated overnight.”

I blink rapidly, the burn behind my eyes rising. “My father, Denver…they don't know anything about it. If my father knew, I probably wouldn’t have been hired to take lead on the Marchetti and Salvatore merger."

Anger builds inside me when I think of my father and what he said back then.

"What did you do to mess this up."

I never told him. He’d probably blame it on me anyway.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Alessio growls.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. I signed an NDA before I left. And even if I hadn’t, no one would’ve listened. Not when it’s Cash Carson versus me. Afterwards, Cash told me I should’ve just been a good girl and played the game.”

Alessio mutters something sharp under his breath in Italian, then adds, “That rhinestone-wrapped hillbilly jackass is lucky I don’t shove his own microphone down his throat.”

A broken laugh escapes me. “Yeah. Well. That’s been well-established.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand.

And I don’t pull away.

The tension between us is palpable, the air thick with unspoken words and pent-up emotions.

Alessio's hand on mine is a grounding force, a lifeline in the storm of my memories. The heat of his touch, the rough calluses on his fingers, the strength in his grip are a stark contrast to the softness of his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand, sending shivers up my arm.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. My heart pounds in my chest, my blood rushes in my ears.

I want him. I want him with a desperation that scares me. I want his hands on me, his mouth on mine. I want to lose myself in him.

The pulse in my throat won’t settle. An ache builds low in my belly, electric and coiled. Every brush of his skin against mine is gasoline to a fire I’ve tried too hard to smother.

I lean in, just a fraction, and his breath hitches again.

His hand tightens on mine, his thumb stilling. The tension in his muscular body, the coiled energy just beneath the surface are palpable. The heat radiating off him, the scent of him, spicy and masculine and intoxicating…

He watches me as if he knows exactly what I’m feeling. As if he feels it too.

I reach up, my hand cupping his cheek.

His stubble is rough against my palm, but his skin is soft, warm.

He leans into my touch, his eyes never leaving mine.

There’s a struggle there, a battle between his anger and his desire. But there’s also surrender, the moment he gives in to the need.

I should stop this. I should pull away, remind myself that this is temporary. Messy. Dangerous.

But I don’t move.

He leans in, close enough for me to savor his breath, warm with a faint aroma of spearmint and sin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

I don’t. Because I can’t.

Not when his thumb grazes my jaw.

Not when his gaze drops to my lips and stays there.

Not when he closes the distance between us, his mouth crashing down on mine.

It's slow. Deep. Devastating.

I kiss him back, just as fiercely, just as desperately. I can taste the desire, the hunger, the want.

His lips are warm and soft and just the right kind of demanding. The pressure is firm, but unhurried, like he’s savoring me, like he’s wanted this for a long time.

I melt into him, parting my lips, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, I shiver from the inside out.

My skin is on fire. Every inch of me lights up, nerve endings singing, blood rushing to the surface.

The kiss rocks me everywhere. In my knees, in my spine, in the clench of my thighs.

His fingers thread through my hair, his touch both grounding and electric. And when he deepens the kiss, tilting my chin, I let him take whatever he wants.

Because I want it, too.

It’s not frantic. It’s controlled. It’s a claiming.

Somewhere between our first fight and this impossible truce, something real slipped in.

And this kiss?

It doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It feels inevitable.

His hands slide down my sides, slow and sure, igniting a trail of heat that makes my breath hitch.

Every inch he touches is set ablaze, a flush of awareness racing across my skin.

My body arches instinctively toward his, craving more, desperate to close the sliver of air between us that’s suddenly unbearable through the thin fabric of my sweatshirt.

He tugs it up gently, giving me the chance to stop him.

I don’t.

When the sweatshirt clears my head, his gaze darkens.

His fingers trace my neck, then dip lower, brushing my bare skin.

Every nerve is a live wire.

His touch is reverent, but there’s tension in him, as if he’s barely keeping himself in check.

His voice is rough against my ear. “I’ve thought about this. Dreamed. Fantasized about what it would be like to touch you without limits.”