Page 119 of Brutal Heir

I hesitated at the doorway, my pulse fluttering as I stepped into Sebastian’s office.

The herringbone parquet floors gleamed like polished gold, and the vaulted ceilings made the space feel almost like a cathedral, a shrine to his success.

It wasn’t just an office; it was a lair.

I could picture him sitting at that sleek, custom-made desk, plotting his next move like a supervillain, pulling invisible strings to control the world’s riches.

He moved straight to the files on his desk and answered a call.

Without any introduction or niceties, he fired off, “Explain the inconsistent carbon rates in the Chemical Vapor Deposition from the latest reports. Now.”

My nerves spiked, and I forced myself to look anywhere but at him.

The floor-to-ceiling windows drew me in, offering a stunning view of Piazza di Spagna below. People bustled through the cobblestone streets, blissfully unaware of the puppet master seated in the corner office above them.

I tried to ground myself in the scene, but my gaze strayed to the painting above his desk, Venus and Cupid. Their beauty and passion somehow unsettled me in this space.

It was a perfect reflection of him: captivating, powerful, and just a little dangerous.

An assistant entered with a silver tray holding fresh cream and biscotti. She set it near the sideboard by the espresso machine.

One by one, people filed into the office.

Each greeted Sebastian with a nod before taking a seat around the conference table near the windows, often fixing themselves an espresso first.

Some smiled and nodded in my direction; others avoided eye contact altogether.

Sebastian ended his call, accepted an espresso handed to him by the assistant, and moved to stand at the head of the conference table.

Before sitting, he set his espresso cup down and addressed the nearest person seated to his right. “That seat is to be occupied by Signora Badalamenti.”

The man frowned. “But I always sit here.”

Sebastian placed both palms on the table and leaned down. “Move,” he growled.

The man sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

I stretched out my arm. “No, really. He can sit there. I’m fine over here.”

Without taking his eyes off me, he pulled the chair out farther.

The unspoken command weighed between us.

Avoiding the curious gazes in the room, I silently took the seat beside him.

My knee bounced under the table as the heat of their stares burned through the silk of my dress.

Sebastian’s warm hand covered my knee.

I quickly turned my head forward, cricking my neck, feeling hot blood rush beneath my skin. I tried desperately to focus on the meeting instead of the touch of his hand.

He’d touched me three times since we entered the building—not that I was keeping track.

Due to the House of Diamanti’s international staff, the meeting was conducted mostly in English. Occasionally, someone would mention something in Italian before quickly repeating it.

It reminded me of my time working in Paris, where communication was often a mix of gestures and languages.

It was one of the things I loved about the fashion industry.