The brass doorknob felt ice-cold against her palm, a sharp contrast to the feverish heat spreading through her body. Layana stumbled into the hushed, carpeted hallway, Darius's final words—what is mine—echoing in the vaulted silence of her mind. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. She leaned against the cool wall for a moment, trying to steady her breathing, to make sense of the chaotic cocktail of fear, confusion, and that treacherous, unwanted thrill that coiled low in her belly.
She practically fled to the sanctuary of her desk, a modern, minimalist thing of glass and pale wood that felt entirely too exposed. Slumping into her chair, she willed her hands to stop shaking. She stared at the small potted orchid on her desk, its delicate purple blooms seeming to mock her turmoil with their perfect, serene existence.
A throat cleared, soft and deliberate.
Layana's head snapped up. Giovanni stood leaning against the doorframe of his own adjacent office, his arms crossed over his chest. A slow, easy smile played on his lips, but his eyes... his eyes were different. They weren't the friendly, ambitious twinkle she was used to. They were dark, intent. Hungry.
"Tough first meeting with the boss?" he asked, his voice a smooth, low purr. He pushed off the frame and took a few steps into her space, his crisp cologne invading hers. It was nice, expensive, but it lacked the raw, earthy dominance of Darius's scent.
Layana instinctively leaned back in her chair, putting a scant few more inches between them. "It was... informative," she managed, her voice thankfully steady.
Giovanni's smile widened. He rested his hands on the edge of her desk, leaning forward so his face was level with hers. "Don't let Darius scare you. He barks. A lot. It's just his way. He runs a multi-million-euro empire; the pressure makes him... irritable."
"I noticed," she said, forcing a small, polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. She subtly angled her body away, focusing on her computer screen as if a crucial email had just arrived.
He didn't take the hint. Instead, he leaned closer, his gaze dropping from her eyes to her lips, then lower, tracing the line of her neck down to the V of her blouse. The look was anything but professional. A faint blush heated her cheeks. She felt exposed, as if his gaze had physical weight.
"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it's good to have some friendly faces around here. Someone to watch your back. He can be... a lot to handle. Maybe we could grab a drink after work? Talk strategy. I could give you a few pointers on how to manage him."
His fingers, resting on her desk, crept an inch closer to her own. The implication was clear, the offer veiled in professional concern but dripping with personal intent. Her stomach tightened with a distinct and uncomfortable unease. This wasn't the friendly colleague she'd chatted with earlier. This was a predator, sensing vulnerability.
