Page 25 of Please, Forgive Me

And in that moment, I realized he was right.

No matter how hard we tried to keep things simple, the truth was nothing between us ever would be. There was an intensity, a chemistry, that couldn’t be ignored—no matter how much we pretended otherwise.

We sipped more wine, letting the conversation drift back to lighter topics, like the trip, or what the next day would bring. But underneath it all, the air was charged. Every glance, every word carried a weight I couldn’t shake. And I knew Diego felt it too.

And even though I knew this tension between us would only make things harder, part of me didn’t want it to end.

Because for all the confusion, for all the danger of it—being with Diego made me feel more alive than I ever had in my life.

I felt a little dizzy, and when I drank too much… I talked too much.

I’d always known that about myself, but it was hard to hold back when I was laughing, having fun, forgetting—even if only for a moment—the constant tension between me and Diego.

The smooth wine had left me lighter, and the truth was, when I drank, I became a looser version of myself—laughier, and, according to my friends, even funnier than usual.

As we left the restaurant, Diego walked beside me, steady and protective. For all his CEO seriousness and need for control, I could tell that in moments like this, he slipped into something else—something careful, almost tender. He watched me closely, like he wanted to make sure I made it to my room in one piece. And no matter how much he tried to hide it behind his narcissistic mask, that side of him always surfaced eventually.

“You really didn’t have to drink that much,” he said, his tone half-scolding but softened by the smile on his lips, his hand lightly guiding my elbow as we moved down the hallway toward the elevator.

“Hey! I didn’t drink that much,” I shot back with a laugh. “Just… enough to feel… amazing!”

I couldn’t stop laughing—that’s what wine did to me. All my worries, all the rigid lines I tried to draw, dissolved into thin air.

And, of course, my boss stood right there, watching me with that amused look I was starting to know too well.

“Of course you didn’t,” he replied dryly. “And the fact that you can barely walk in a straight line has nothing to do with it, right?”

I made a face at him, but it quickly broke into another smile.

Diego was infuriating in a way that was… charming. The kind of man who knew exactly how to provoke me and somehow still make me feel safe.

It was dangerous, but in that moment, I didn’t care.

“You’re so bossy, you know that?” I teased as he pressed the elevator button. We stood in silence for a few seconds.

He gave me a small smile, and when the doors slid open, he guided me inside with a gentleness I hadn’t expected from him. Normally, he was all orders and authority. But here, in thequiet of the elevator, he was just… himself. Maybe less the CEO and more the man behind it all.

“So they say,” he murmured, smirking as the doors closed.

I leaned back against the wall, still smiling, letting the wine wrap around me in a haze—but not so far gone I didn’t notice the way his eyes locked with mine. The air grew thick, familiar with that tension I knew too well. Only this time, I felt lighter. More open to whatever might happen.

“You know, you’re not as bossy outside the office,” I said, my voice playful, though the honesty slipped through. “You can even be… gentle sometimes.”

His brow lifted, amused.

“Don’t go telling anyone,” he said with a discreet smile. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

I laughed again, and before we realized it, the elevator opened onto our floor.

Diego walked me down the hall to my room, his hand resting lightly on my back, steadying me. When we reached the door, I turned to him, still laughing softly.

“See? Made it all the way here without falling,” I said, my voice bursting with exaggerated pride.

“Congratulations,” he said, leaning slightly closer, his eyes holding mine. “But just to be safe, I think you should go straight to bed.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling.

“Look at that—the great Diego Bittencourt, worried about me,” I teased, though I knew there was something real behind it. He did care, even if he didn’t like to admit it.