Page 23
Rush hour in Midtown Manhattan was legalized murder. I clutched my brand-new employee badge—the IS·MA Group logo gleaming on it—and fought my way through the revolving door like my life depended on it.
That insane, chaotic, life-altering graduation night? I'd crammed it into a mental filing cabinet, locked it up, and thrown away the key.
And I'd done it. I'd actually done it. I was starting my new life as an apprentice designer in the secondary brand division of one of the world's top luxury conglomerates.
I inhaled deeply, breathing in the lobby air thick with a hundred expensive perfumes and premium AC.
For my first day, I'd spent the entire weekend reconstructing a vintage charcoal suit dress. Originally a men's blazer I'd scored at a Brooklyn flea market, I'd transformed it into an asymmetrical, nipped-waist silhouette. The rough wool fabric contrasted beautifully with the smooth silk collar I'd added—it cinched my waist perfectly while carving out my figure, radiating a sharp, design-forward professional edge.
As an FIT graduate with straight A's, I might have a pathetic bank balance, but I'd be damned if I looked like some cheap joke next to colleagues wearing haute couture.
I squeezed into a closing elevator with the sardine-packed crowd.
The second I steadied myself, my phone buzzed in my oversized coat pocket.
Isabella: "Congrats on your first day in the capitalist meat grinder, my fellow corporate drone. Need me to send over a few double espressos to keep you alive?"
I smirked, thumbs flying across the screen.
—Save it. The air here smells like money—I'm too wired to need caffeine. Tonight when I get off—
Before I could finish, the noisy lobby outside suddenly went silent.
What?
I looked up from my phone.
The crowd crammed at the elevator entrance parted like the Red Sea, clearing a wide path.
And then he walked through.
That man.
The man who'd taken me home two nights ago. Who'd taken my virginity.
Marcelo Moretti.
Time froze.
He wore a charcoal three-piece suit, handmade, the white shirt buttoned to perfection, silver cufflinks flashing at his wrists. That carefully styled silver-gray hair caught the light with a cold gleam, his chiseled features still as perfect as a Renaissance sculpture.
My heart stopped.
Blood rushed to my head with a roar. My limbs went ice-cold.
No no no no—this wasn't possible—what was he doing here—
The instant he stepped into the metal car, that familiar, lethally invasive scent—fig and cedar cologne—wrapped around my throat like an invisible noose.
"Good morning, Mr. Moretti."
"Morning, sir."
Several professionally dressed people in the elevator straightened their spines immediately, voices dripping with undisguised respect and ass-kissing.
"Morning."
His voice. That voice that had whispered in my ear, made my whole body tremble—now it sounded cool, detached, radiating unquestionable authority.
