8

Josephine

I slam my laptop shut so hard the sound ricochets off the kitchen walls like a gunshot.

“How the fuck am I supposed to salvage this disaster?”

The words escape before my brain can filter them, raw and acidic. My fingers drum against the marble countertop with the frantic energy of someone whose entire career is currently circling the drain.

My head feels like it’s hosting a death metal concert while my thoughts try to organize the clusterfuck I’ve inherited. Three hours of staring at crisis management protocols, media damage control strategies, and legal precedents involving organized crime families, and I’m still drowning.

That’s when he makes his entrance.

Naturally.

Alexander strolls into my kitchen like he’s modeling for some perverted home improvement catalog. Shirtless. Smug. Muscles that look like they were carved by a Renaissance artist with serious anger management issues.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel that’s hanging so low on his hips it’s practically a suggestion rather than actual coverage.

The man is walking sin wrapped in Egyptian cotton.

His chest is this perfect expanse of golden skin stretched over muscle that probably has its own ZIP code. Every movement makes his abs shift and contract like he’s performing some kind of anatomical symphony. Water droplets from his shower are still trailing down his torso, following the ridges and valleys like they’re mapping territory.

And that towel? Christ, that towel is doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s apparently blessed by the gods of inappropriate timing and superior genetics.

Alexander Fucking Madrigal.

The human equivalent of pouring gasoline on a forest fire. And I’m the moron holding the matches.

“Don’t mind me, dolcezza. Just grabbing some water after my workout.”

I blink. “What did you just call me?”

He pauses mid-stride, that towel shifting dangerously. “Dolcezza. Italian for sweetness. Thought it fit your current mood perfectly.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sweet right now? Because I’m about two seconds away from committing justifiable homicide.”

His laugh is pure arrogance. “Sure, sweetheart. You’re practically radiating sunshine and rainbows.”

“I’m radiating the desire to murder you with kitchen utensils.”

“You wound me, dolcezza.” He presses one hand to his ridiculously perfect chest like I’ve actually hurt his feelings.

I force my eyes back to my laptop screen. “Your ego is big enough to survive without my validation.”

He starts walking toward his room, then stops. Turns back with that grin that should come with a health warning.

“Speaking of big things… want to see what else I’ve got that might impress you?”

My mouth falls open. No sound comes out. Just pure, shocked silence.

He doesn’t wait for my response—just flashes that devil’s smile and disappears down the hallway, leaving me staring at empty space and questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

Bastard.

I yank my laptop open again and dive back into the chaos.

Crisis management isn’t about spin. It’s about survival. And right now, I’m not just managing Alexander’s reputation—I’m trying to prevent a billion-dollar merger from exploding into corporate shrapnel.

My screen fills with tabs. Media contacts who owe me favors. Case studies of families who’ve survived organized crime associations. Charity initiatives that could rehabilitate a reputation faster than you can say “tax write-off.”

I’m constructing a narrative from scratch: Alexander Madrigal, misunderstood heir turned responsible philanthropist. A redemption story wrapped in designer suits and strategic photo opportunities.

The plan unfolds across my legal pad: charity galas, carefully orchestrated media appearances, statements crafted with surgical precision to suggest growth without admitting guilt.

I even sketch potential olive branch strategies with the Bratva—subtle gestures that signal respect without acknowledging any actual wrongdoing.

Perception is reality in this business.

My phone buzzes with incoming texts. I can see Dad’s name, followed by Valesquez’s. Both probably demanding updates I don’t have yet.

I ignore them. I need five goddamn minutes to think without someone breathing down my neck.

My strategy notes blur together as Alexander’s face invades my concentration. Cocky. Careless. Shirtless. With that insufferably perfect chest and those arms that look like they were designed specifically to make women forget their own names.

Focus, Josephine.

Because if I don’t control this story, someone else will. And their version won’t end with bad publicity—it’ll end with body bags.

That’s when he emerges from his room.

Still shirtless. Because apparently God has a sick sense of humor.

Water droplets cling to his shoulders and slide down his chest like they’re taking the scenic route. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang so low they’re basically advertising what’s underneath.

Every muscle seems designed for maximum temptation, and I’m suddenly very aware that my brain has completely abandoned ship.

No shirt. No shame. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at his forehead in that perfectly disheveled way that probably takes him an hour to achieve.

I snap my laptop shut again—third time today—and march into the living room like I’m leading a military campaign.

“That’s it. We’re establishing new house rules.”

Alexander drops onto the couch with the casual arrogance of someone who’s never faced actual consequences. He spreads his arms along the back like he’s claiming territory.

“Should I be taking notes on this legislation?”

“Rule one: no women. Period. End of discussion.”

“Already jealous? We’ve been roommates for twelve hours.”

I ignore his smirk. “Rule two: no unauthorized exits. Rule three: no mysterious phone calls. Rule four: no suspicious meetings. This apartment is now Fort Knox.”

He stretches his legs out, all lazy confidence and dangerous muscle. “That’s actually three separate rules, but who’s counting?”

“Rule five: keep your hands off my belongings.”

His grin sharpens. “Even your—”

“Especially my personal items.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, and suddenly the air between us feels like it’s been set on fire. “Just clarifying the boundaries, dolcezza.”

“Rule six: put on a damn shirt when you’re wandering around common areas.”

“Hard pass on that one.”

I cross my arms, trying to look intimidating instead of distracted by his everything. “Rule seven: no sex in this apartment.”

He whistles low, genuinely impressed. “With anyone specific, or is this a general celibacy mandate?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. My ego is significantly stroked.” He stands and moves closer, until I can smell his shower gel and feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“But here’s the thing, Josephine,” he murmurs, voice like smoke and bad decisions. “Some rules exist specifically to be broken.”

I refuse to step back. I’ve handled corporate sharks and media vultures. I can handle one overprivileged Italian with abandonment issues.

Right?

The heat pooling between my thighs suggests otherwise.