Mentality of The Heart

CHAPTER 10

Alice's POV

Working for Alexander Bianchi over these past few months has been anything but simple.

Despite my efforts to piece together the puzzle of his fractured past, the information I've managed to gather feels like scattered fragments, never quite enough to help me figure out a way to truly help him. What he's endured runs so deep, and I know this is going to take time.

Still, I need to take a leap and have a real, one-on-one session with him. It's the only way to make progress.

I had already sent word to Alexander—no, Mr. Bianchi—that we needed to talk. But the way he's been avoiding me...it feels almost deliberate, and I can't help but wonder why.

Sitting in his office, where I was told to wait, curiosity got the better of me. My eyes wandered across the room. The dark wood shelves were lined with thick binders and pristine files, each labeled meticulously. No doubt these were work-related. But what exactly is his work? Now that I think about it, I've never asked.

His office had a certain intensity, just like him—rich leather, heavy furniture, and that faint scent of cedar and something darker. Everything about it screamed control, precision, power. It suited him.

The soft click of the door snapped me out of my thoughts, and my heart jolted.

Alexander walked in, casually dressed for once. A fitted navy sweater clung to his lean, muscular frame, paired with dark jeans that looked just as tailored as his suits. His presence seemed to shrink the room, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

Snap out of it, Alice.

"Good afternoon, Alice," he greeted, his voice low and smooth, that deep Italian baritone rolling over me like a warm tide.

Good Lord, this man.

"Uhm...Good afternoon, M-Mr. Bianchi," I managed to stammer, cursing myself for the hitch in my voice. Why can't I get over this?

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "I told you to stop calling me that. That's my father's name."

He paused briefly, his expression shifting—an unspoken thought flickering in his eyes, too quick for me to grasp. But just as quickly, he shuttered it, his features smoothing back into that calm, unreadable mask.

"Call me Alexander," he finished.

"Okay, Mr. B—I mean Alexander," I corrected myself, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I straightened in my seat, forcing a professional tone. "Let's get started."

He nodded, gesturing for me to continue.

"I've looked through your files and done a little research. Is that okay with you?"

His gaze was steady, giving nothing away as he nodded again.

"Well, I've managed to gather some information, but honestly, it's not enough. I feel like I need to know more to really help you." I hesitated, my fingers fidgeting with the edge of my notebook. "I'd like to ask you a few questions—if that's all right. You don't have to answer anything you're not comfortable with. Take your time. I'll wait until you're ready. Is that okay?"

For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, almost inaudibly, he murmured, "Yes."

Relief washed over me, but I kept my tone measured. "Okay, good. My first question is...could you tell me when you first started to...split? Or when you think it began? You don't have to answer if it feels too triggering," I added quickly, careful not to push him.

"When I was seventeen," he said, his voice clipped and immediate.

My heart clenched. "What happened when you were seventeen?"