Page 24

No. God, absolutely not.

My brain went blank. Instinct drove me to duck my head, pull my oversized coat tighter, and shrink behind two tall male colleagues.

I didn't even dare breathe normally. Just stared at my shoes, praying this damn elevator would launch like a rocket.

The doors slid shut. In the cramped space, his woody scent intensified, like some potent hallucinogen attacking the nerves I was desperately trying to suppress.

I watched his reflection in the polished metal walls from the corner of my eye.

His posture was elegant, relaxed, one hand in his pocket, gaze apparently fixed straight ahead. I prayed frantically in my head. Don't turn around, don't look down, don't notice the corner.

The metal reflection was warped. For one second, I swear I saw him glance casually toward my corner.

My heart skipped a beat.

The elevator stopped mid-building.

The doors opened. Surrounded by senior executives who'd been waiting outside, he strode out without sparing anyone in that elevator a second glance.

Not until the doors closed and we started moving again did I exhale in ragged relief.

I'd escaped. Thank God, he hadn't recognized me.

After stumbling out of the elevator, I collapsed into my cramped corner cubicle, practically limp. Cold sweat had soaked through my back.

Voices drifted from nearby.

"Did you see Mr. Moretti this morning? He looked pissed. Heard he fired a VP yesterday during the quarterly finance meeting for a report error." The blonde at the next desk stirred her coffee nervously.

"He's Marcelo Moretti—God of this building." Another veteran chimed in. "Sure, he usually acts like the perfect Italian gentleman, always polite to women, but when it comes to business? He's a ruthless tyrant. Cross his line once, you're packing your desk."

I closed my eyes in despair and dropped my forehead onto the hard desk.

He was the CEO.

Marcelo Moretti was the founder and Chief Executive Officer of IS·MA Group.

I'd slept with my ultimate boss.

I'd given my virginity to my CEO.

And—Jesus—that photo album was still at his place.

This wasn't just social suicide anymore.

I was on standby to be dragged out by security, or blacklisted industry-wide for "attempting to sexually harass a superior through inappropriate means."

But I forced myself back to reality with logic.

Calm down, Ruby. There were at least fifteen people crammed in that elevator. How could he possibly have noticed you?

Besides, for a man at the top of the food chain, cheap entertainment like me—someone who'd drunkenly thrown herself at him on impulse—probably didn't take up half a byte of his memory storage.

He'd probably written off that ridiculous night as a routine hookup and forgotten what I even looked like.

After all, if he cared, why would he vanish without a word after sleeping with me?

My chest felt tight. I exhaled heavily and forced myself to focus on the flood of work ahead.