Page 20

SOPHIE

I grip the edge of the bathroom sink, knuckles white against the cool porcelain, and stare down my own reflection. My eyes look haunted, rimmed in fatigue.

I’m falling behind. In everything. Deadlines. Reports on the merger. My life.

Cold water hits my face like a slap, but it doesn’t clear the fog tightening around my thoughts.

How did I let it get this far? I was supposed to be in control. Sharp. Untouchable. Instead, I’m unravelling. And the worst part? I’ve never felt more alive.

There’s been laughter. Comfort. Late-night kisses and quiet mornings that feel like dreams I don’t deserve.

Alessio.

He’s the chaos in the calm, and the calm in my chaos.

And somehow, that contradiction makes me want him more.

It terrifies me, the way he makes me feel like I could fall and still be caught.

But the whole thing haunts me.

I have too much to lose. Too many people waiting for me to screw it all up.

I grab a towel and pat my face dry, stepping back into the bedroom to pull on a blazer and heels.

My laptop bag waits by the door, and the scent of fresh coffee drifts from the kitchen.

Alessio’s probably humming to himself while he pours a cup, blissfully unaware that the real world is closing back in.

The moment I step into the office, my father is already pacing near the window, tie loose, jaw tight. Denver sits at the conference table, flipping through investor updates like he hasn’t already memorized them twice. The air crackles with expectation.

“You’re late,” Dad says without looking up.

“New York traffic can be a bitch.” I cross the room and toss my laptop bag onto a chair.

He rounds on me. “Listen, Sophie. You’re not just a participant in this merger, you’re leading it. And leadership doesn’t clock in whenever it wants.”

There it is, his simmering condescension. Always masked as concern but always meant to remind me who’s really in charge.

“Funny. I didn’t realize leadership meant babysitting egos and putting out everyone else's fires.”

Denver raises a brow, giving me a look. It's that "don't poke the bear" look.

Dad doesn’t flinch. “We have three major investor calls this week. They know about the headlines. They’re watching you and Alessio. This is your moment. Don’t blow it.”

A flush rises in my chest. “So, you think I’m blowing it now? That I can’t balance my career and my personal life?”

“I think distractions are dangerous when you’re playing at this level. Especially ones with potential ties to the Bratva.”

I stiffen. “Don’t pretend you care. You’ve never respected my choices.”

Silence thickens the room.

Denver shifts uncomfortably.

My father sighs, turning away. “Just don’t forget what’s at stake.”

His words hit like a whip crack, but I’m too angry to let them sink in.

Denver waits until the door clicks shut behind our father, then levels a look at me from across the table.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low.

“Peachy.”

He leans against the edge of the table, arms folded. “Look… I don’t know what’s going on with you and Alessio, but you need to be careful. That guy lives in a different world, Soph.”

I glance up, irritation flaring. “You sound just like Dad.”

“Maybe because, for once, he’s not wrong.”

I laugh under my breath, sharp and humorless. “I’ve always taken care of myself.”

Denver’s quiet for a beat, then he says, “You sure about that?”

I blink.

That one question cuts deeper than any lecture ever could.

Because he’s not yelling. Not scolding. Just looking at me the way no one else does anymore.

And it stings more than I expect.

I’m used to silence. To Dad watching me sink without throwing a line, as if struggle were a rite of passage. Like independence was only worth something if I earned it alone.

But Denver… he’s never looked at me like I’m fragile.

Until now.

Denver’s expression softens. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to look out for you.”

“I don’t need saving.” But it sounds less convincing than I want it to.

He doesn’t argue. Just pushes off the table. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re falling and don’t even see it.”

“Maybe I’m not falling. Maybe I’m just finally letting someone in.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, as I pass him at the door, he says quietly, “Just be sure it’s someone who won’t let you break.”

And somehow, that scares me more than anything else he could’ve said.

By the time I make it home, the weight of the day is pressing behind my eyes.

I toss off my heels, drop my bag by the door, and barely have time to unbutton my blazer before Alessio speaks from the kitchen.

“I’ve been thinking.” His tone is suspiciously casual.

“That sounds dangerous.” I head for the kitchen.

“I’m serious, Soph.” He shifts, suddenly alert. “I want to get a job.”

I pause mid-step. “A job?”

He grins. “Yeah. You know, that thing where you show up, do stuff, and get paid?”

I cross my arms and lean against the counter. “I’m aware of the concept. What kind of job are we talking about, here? Social media influencer? TikTok chef? Professional heartbreaker?”

He’s serious, leaning casually against the counter, arms folded. But there’s something in his posture, a quiet determination I haven’t seen before.

He shrugs, a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Bartending.”

I blink again. “You want to be a bartender…”

“At Nikolai’s club.”

And just like that, the air changes.

“You're kidding. You think the best place for you right now is behind a bar at a Bratva-owned club?”

He sits forward. “It’s legit. Clean. He’s got guys watching the place, and with that deal that's been made with your father, I’m protected. It’s not shady, Soph. I just… I want to do something that’s mine.”

I stare at him, trying to gauge how serious this is.

He runs a hand through his hair and stands, moving closer. “I’m not trying to screw things up. I’m trying to build something for once. I don’t want to be the guy you have to manage in your off-hours. I want to pull my own weight.”

I exhale slowly, torn. “Alessio, it’s not about pulling weight. It’s about optics. Risk. You working at a Bratva-owned club isn’t exactly squeaky-clean PR.”

“I know. I know. But instead of going to war with them, I'm making peace. Isn't that great for optics?"

He touches my arm gently. “I need this. Not for the cameras. For me.”

There’s sincerity in his eyes. No smirk. No arrogance. Just this raw kind of hope that makes my chest ache.

I roll my eyes, mostly to cover the fact that I’m dangerously close to saying yes without a fight. “You screw this up, and I swear I will go full PR-executive-on-a-rampage on your ass.”

His grin returns, slow and wicked. “So… that’s a yes?”

“More like a provisional approval.” I arch a brow.

He leans in, eyes bright. “I’ll take it.”

And damn it, a part of me, maybe the foolish, hopeful part, wants him to succeed.

Wants this to work.

Wants him to be real.

The next morning, I slip into my robe, hair still damp from a quick shower, and settle in with my laptop while Alessio makes coffee.

He’s shirtless, again, moving around the kitchen with the kind of unbothered ease that makes my throat tighten.

I open my inbox, expecting follow-ups from Denver or maybe some investor feedback.

What I don’t expect is an email flagged CONFIDENTIAL.

No sender. No subject. Just one line in plain text.

You can’t fix someone like him.

The words feel like a punch to the gut.

I sit there frozen, rereading the sentence as if it’ll morph into something else if I stare long enough.

But it doesn’t. It just sits there. Sharp. Icy. True?

My fingers hover over the trackpad, heart thudding in my chest.

Across the room, Alessio glances up from the stove and flashes me a sleepy smile, like nothing’s changed.

Like the nights I spend in his arms don’t shift something deep in my chest, settling some ache I didn’t know I’d been carrying, while stirring a new kind of fear.

Because calm has never come without a catch.

And the fact that I could feel this safe with someone like him? That might be the most dangerous thing of all.

He sets a mug in front of me, kisses the top of my head.

I force a smile, wrap my hands around the cup, and try to breathe.

But my pulse won’t settle.

And that message won’t leave me alone.

Because maybe the worst part is… a small, terrified part of me agrees.