Chapter 12

The office air was heavy with the usual post-lunch hum when the security guard stepped forward, his tone low, uncertain, as if unsure whether the message he carried was even real.

“Miss Hart?” he asked again, and something in his eyes made my stomach turn, the kind of look that says whatever you’re about to hear, you won’t like it.

I nodded slowly, heart thudding as I instinctively glanced toward Matteo’s glass-walled office, only to find it empty, his presence gone but his weight still lingering in the air like smoke.

“There’s a woman outside asking for you,” the guard continued, glancing toward the elevator. “She says she’s your neighbor and that it’s… urgent.”

My heart dropped.

I followed him wordlessly, the hallway narrowing with every step, my thoughts already spiraling through worst-case scenarios, none of them prepared for what I was about to hear.

Outside the building, standing nervously in front of the revolving doors, was Mrs. Carter my retired neighbor from the apartment floor above mine, always carrying gossip, usually harmless, but now looking pale and frantic.

“Oh thank God, Sarah,” she said quickly, wringing her hands. “I didn’t know what to do you need to come, right now, it’s your apartment.”

“What happened?” I asked, panic settling like lead in my chest, fingers already reaching for my phone without realizing it.

“The landlord,” she rushed on. “He said you broke the lease, claimed you hadn’t paid in weeks. He let someone else move in and threw your stuff onto the sidewalk like garbage.”

I blinked.

Hard.

“Wait what? That’s impossible I paid last week!”

She shook her head quickly. “I tried to stop them, I swear. But they had the papers, movers, everything your stuff is just lying there, out in the sun.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

The ground tilted beneath my heels as if someone had ripped the world out from under me, leaving nothing but humiliation and disbelief in its place.

“I have to go,” I whispered, not even waiting for a reply as I turned and rushed back inside, mind already spinning with logistics transport, storage, help anything that could salvage my life from literal pavement.

I didn’t even clock Matteo re-entering the lobby as I passed him.

Didn’t see the flicker of confusion in his eyes or the way he turned to follow before stopping himself.

All I could focus on was the call with Mia. She would help. She always helped.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

“Sarah?” Mia’s voice was immediate, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

I launched into it, everything tumbling out Mrs. Carter, the landlord, my belongings dumped on the curb like yesterday’s trash, my voice cracking halfway through.

Mia gasped. “What? That’s insane! Do you need me to come get you?”

Relief poured through me. “Please just somewhere to land. A night. Maybe two?”

There was silence.

Too long.

Then, hesitantly: “Sarah… I would, but… Jacob’s here.”

I closed my eyes, heart sinking. “Oh.”

“He’s staying for a few days,” she added softly. “And you know how he is about space. It’s just… not a good time.”

I tried to speak.

Failed.

Tried again. “No, I get it. I get it.”

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked, voice full of guilt.

I stared at the street, the cab approaching as if summoned by my desperation, and felt something deep inside me begin to crack.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’ll figure something out.”

The cab dropped me on the corner of my block, where the sun beat down on cardboard boxes, open suitcases, and my life lay bare in front of the building I’d called home.

Books spilled across the pavement, my toaster half-wrapped in a blanket, my framed photo of Mom tilted sideways like it couldn’t even look me in the eye anymore.

I stared, stunned, the air punched from my lungs as I knelt beside the wreckage, hands trembling as I reached for what little I could carry without falling apart completely.

Calls to realtors went unanswered, friends were busy, storage units were full, and I had no address to give a moving van even if I could afford one on my assistant’s salary.

It was New York, after all, finding an apartment here last minute wasn’t just hard, it was cruel, expensive, and designed to break you before giving you keys.

I sat on my suitcase, head in my hands, blinking against tears that refused to fall because I couldn’t afford to cry, crying meant stopping, and I couldn’t stop or I’d completely collapse.

“Rough day?” a deep voice said behind me, smooth, familiar, and unmistakably dangerous even when quiet.

I turned slowly.

Matteo Russo stood a few feet away, tailored coat tossed over his shoulder, gaze unreadable as he scanned the disaster that was now my sidewalk life.

“How did you…?” I started, but stopped of course he knew. He always knew.

“I asked the guard what your neighbor wanted,” he said simply, stepping closer. “Then you followed after I saw your face.”

I opened my mouth to snap something sharp, to throw his pity back in his face, but the words died in my throat.

I had nothing.

Not even pride.

“I’ll send a car to move everything,” he said after a beat. “You’ll stay at my place until you figure things out.”

I stood. “Matteo, I’m not your problem.”

“No,” he said evenly. “You’re my assistant. That makes it my problem whether you like it or not.”

I stared at him, wanting to scream, to argue, to refuse because I knew once I stepped into his world like that, I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.

But the wind picked up and scattered my papers across the sidewalk, and something inside me finally broke.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Just for a few days.”

He nodded once. “I’ll have the car here in fifteen minutes.”

I didn’t thank him.

Couldn’t.

But when I climbed into the sleek black car and watched my broken life disappear in the rearview mirror, I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Because now?

I had to survive under his roof.

And something told me that was a whole new kind of danger.

***

The apartment was too quiet.

Too clean. Too… cold.

High ceilings. Dark marble floors. Everything curated like a luxury hotel lobby where no one actually lived. Not a blanket out of place, not a single smudge on the silver-framed art that lined the walls.

I stood awkwardly in the foyer, my small suitcase by my side, my sneakers soaking in the quiet echo of a space far too expensive for someone like me.

“This way,” Matteo said, already walking down a hallway with smooth, fluid confidence.

I followed, resisting the urge to shrink into myself.

The guest room was bigger than my entire old apartment. Pale gray sheets. Polished wardrobe. A full-length mirror that made me feel small and wildly out of place.

“Bathroom’s through there,” he added, nodding once. “If you need anything… ask.”

Then he turned and left.

Just like that.

No explanation.

No small talk.

Just silence and tension and the sound of my own heart refusing to calm down.

—-

Later, after I’d changed into the only nightwear I’d packed a soft black camisole and matching shorts I stepped out of the guest room barefoot, hair in a loose bun, skin still warm from the shower.

I’d meant to wear a robe, but I couldn’t find one.

And the shirt clung just a little more than I remembered.

Matteo was already seated at the dining table when I entered the living space, swirling a glass of red wine like he was the cover of some billionaire magazine.

The table had been set clearly by someone else. Probably a housekeeper. Two plates of beautifully arranged steak, truffle mashed potatoes, and grilled vegetables sat under dim lighting, like we were starring in an awkward five-star first date.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said quietly, easing into the seat across from him.

He didn’t respond right away.

His eyes moved.

Slowly.

From my face, down to my collarbone… lower.

Then backup.

Heat surged into my neck.

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair, tugging at the hem of my camisole even though it wasn’t revealing anything inappropriate it just felt different under his gaze.

His stare was unreadable, but dark. Deep.

Dangerous.

“I was hungry,” he said simply, sipping his wine. “You should eat.”

And so we did.

In silence, for the first few minutes.

Until the tension became too loud.

“Your place is… beautiful,” I said, mostly to say something.

He looked at me over his glass. “So are you.”

I froze.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t smirk.

Just said it like a fact.

I looked away, heart thudding.

“It’s… a little much,” I said, pretending to focus on the potatoes. “I keep thinking I’ll break something.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Everything here can be replaced.”

“Even guests?” I muttered.

He heard that.

I knew he did.

But instead of answering, he cut another piece of steak, slowly, like he was giving me time to feel the weight of everything unsaid between us.

And I did.

Every bite. Every glance. Every breath.

I was in his space now.

And I couldn’t tell what was more dangerous.

His silence…

Or the way it made me want to fill it.

We ate in silence, knives clinking softly against porcelain, the city lights casting thin reflections across the table like we were dining inside a snow globe.

Matteo barely looked at his food.

But he kept looking at me.

Every so often, I’d catch his gaze low, steady, calculating.

I tried to ignore it. Focused on the food. On chewing properly. On pretending I wasn’t hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin he could see across the table.

When I finally looked up again, his fork was still in his hand, untouched.

Instead, he was swirling the wine.

Watching me.

Again.

“Is the food not good?” I asked, offering a thin smile.

“It’s fine,” he said flatly.

But he wasn’t thinking about the food.

I could tell by the way he leaned back slightly, fingers tapping once against the glass.

“You seemed… very comfortable with Ryan today.”

The words landed without warning, casual but sharp.

I set my fork down.

Of course, this was about Ryan.

“I had lunch with him,” I replied evenly. “It wasn’t a date.”

“You laughed,” Matteo said, tone even. “Loud enough that I heard it through the glass.”

I stared at him.

He wasn’t angry.

He was something else.

Something quieter.

Darker.

“Are you keeping tabs on my laugh now?” I said, trying to mask the unease crawling up my throat.

He didn’t blink. “You don’t laugh like that with me.”

“Maybe because you never give me a reason to.”

Silence stretched again thick, slow, intimate.

He stood suddenly, walking toward the kitchen counter to refill his wine.

I watched him move too effortlessly.

Like he wasn’t the one who’d shattered me in the office two days ago.

“Ryan,” he said finally, voice softer now, “isn’t who you think he is.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

He turned, leaning against the marble island.

His eyes flicked over me again neck, collarbone, down to the edge of my shorts.

This time, I didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

“Ryan’s safe,” I added. “You’re not. That’s the difference.”

He laughed once short, humorless.

“Safe gets you average. Safe gets you stuck.”

“And dangerous gets me what?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Dinner and eviction insurance?”

He stepped closer.

Slowly.

Measured.

“The problem is,” he said quietly, “you think I’m here to break you. But I’m the only one who knows what it means to protect you from everything else.”

His words wrapped around me like velvet and heat.

I hated how they made me feel.

Exposed.

Wanted.

Seen.

I stood, pushing my chair back gently, refusing to let him see the way my pulse was stuttering against my ribs.

“I’ll clean up,” I said, needing space. “Thanks for dinner.”

He didn’t stop me.

But he didn’t look away either.

Not when I walked past him.

Not when my shoulder brushed his chest.

Not even when I reached for a plate hand was trembling slightly beneath my steady breath.

He just stood there.

Watching.

Like I was the only meal that mattered.