Chapter 23

Matteo’s voice cracked through the intercom like thunder wrapped in silk, cold and calculated, every syllable punching through the quiet office like it belonged to a man built from walls.

“Miss Hart. To my office. Now.”

The word “now” wasn’t shouted, but it pressed on my chest like a warning, one that made my pulse kick up and my thoughts scatter in a hundred silent directions.

I looked across the room at Ryan, who was staring at me, brows slightly furrowed, the kind of worry that could speak without saying anything at all.

I tried to smile but didn’t manage it, just nodded once before standing, collecting myself, and walking that long hall like I was approaching a fire with no water.

His door loomed like a secret I wasn’t ready to learn, polished wood and silver letters that suddenly felt like a closing chapter etched across my ribs.

I knocked once, soft but sharp.

“Enter,” he said, and I obeyed.

The room was quiet, frozen, the blinds half drawn and his posture coiled like he had a thousand words but none that would make this easier.

He didn’t look at me right away, just tapped his pen once, twice, before tossing it down and stepping around the desk like a man preparing to deliver execution, not conversation.

“I assume you’ve seen this,” he said, holding up his phone like a mirror I didn’t want to face, the image of me and Ryan glowing between his fingers like a flame.

The kiss.

The photo.

The mistake I didn’t regret until now.

He didn’t even let me answer right away, just kept his eyes on the image like it was a file for review, not a moment ripped from my private memory.

“You created this,” he said slowly, voice colder than I’d ever heard it, each syllable dragging like chains wrapped around my throat, designed to make me feel small.

My hands curled at my sides, my heart pounding like it wanted to scream, but I kept my voice level, even though everything inside me wanted to break something beautiful.

“I didn’t send that to anyone,” I said, eyes locked on his, refusing to look away, even if I felt like I was staring down a wolf with nowhere to run.

He stepped closer, his frame towering, expensive cologne biting at the air between us, but I didn’t flinch I’d already survived the worst part of him weeks ago.

“You didn’t have to send it,” he said, voice tight with control, “because you made sure it would be seen.”

“That wasn’t the point,” I snapped, losing some of my restraint, “it was a party, Matteo one you hosted, one where people laughed, kissed, and maybe forgot their pain.”

He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched me like I was a problem too complicated for a man used to fixing things with contracts and cruelty instead of truth.

“You embarrassed me,” he said at last, voice dropping so low it vibrated in my bones, a confession wrapped in control he couldn’t quite keep from slipping.

I blinked, stunned by the honesty I didn’t expect. “I didn’t know my life revolved around managing your public image like some trophy you’d rather keep dusty and hidden.”

His jaw clenched, fists curling once, then releasing, like he didn’t trust himself with the words he wanted to hurl at me not yet, anyway.

“I should fire you,” he said again, but softer now, almost like he hated the idea even as it passed through his lips like a dare.

“Then do it,” I said, my voice stronger than I felt, daring him to push the button, end whatever this was, stop pretending he wasn’t affected by me at all.

Silence.

We stood there, breath shallow, tension stretching so tight between us that I swear it echoed in my ribs like a cracked bell about to shatter.

But instead of more words, more blame, more brutal slicing he stepped aside.

Opened the door.

Dismissed me.

Like I was nothing but smoke in a room that stung his eyes.

I walked out without looking back, but every step felt like I was leaving behind something I couldn’t name, a hope I never had the right to carry.

I didn’t cry until I hit the stairwell, where no one could hear the way my heart fractured into pieces that felt too sharp to pick up again.

And when I did, the person who found me wasn’t the man who broke me but the one who’d kissed me like I was worth every second of soft, patient time.

His footsteps echoed long before I saw him, a steady rhythm against the concrete steps like a metronome for the unraveling thoughts I couldn’t silence, no matter how hard I tried.

“Sarah?” Ryan’s voice was soft, not cautious but careful, like he already knew I was close to breaking and didn’t want to be the push that made me shatter completely.

I wiped my cheeks before I looked up, but I knew the damage was already visible, my eyes red and raw, breath shallow, heart crumpled into something sharp and heavy.

He didn’t speak right away, didn’t ask what happened he just sat beside me on the stairwell, knees brushing mine, offering warmth without demand, safety without expectation.

“I messed everything up,” I said eventually, voice cracking, the words a bitter taste I couldn’t rinse out no matter how many times I swallowed.

He turned toward me, eyes steady, brows drawn with compassion so deep I wanted to dive into it and forget what Matteo’s cold silence had done to my bones.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” he said, “you were honest braver than most people in that building could ever dream of being, especially the ones pretending they’re not falling apart inside their suits.”

I smiled weakly.

Then exhaled, long and slow, letting some of the tension melt between us, feeling like maybe I wasn’t entirely alone in a world built on appearances and power plays.

“I think he hates me,” I whispered, not for sympathy, but because it hurt more to believe he didn’t care at all than to believe he resented me.

Ryan shook his head. “He doesn’t hate you… But he’s too proud to admit he lost you before he even had a chance to love you properly.”

Those words stuck.

And for a moment, they hurt even more than Matteo’s did.

Because they felt true.

I looked at Ryan.

Looked.

The way he always showed up.

At the steadiness in his hands.

At the warmth he never withheld.

And something inside me wanted to reach out and hold onto it for dear life.

But before I could say anything more, my phone buzzed again.

This time, it wasn’t another threat.

It was a calendar alert.

A reminder about the gala.

And just like that, the dread returned.

Because Isabelle wasn’t finished.

And neither was the war.

**

Ryan helped me up without asking if I was ready, his hand strong in mine, his touch soft enough to steady the shake that Matteo’s voice had left in my spine.

We didn’t talk as we walked through the halls again, side by side like we had some invisible thread between us, one that tightened every time he glanced down and checked I was okay.

When we reached the office floor, I gave him a small nod, the kind that meant “thank you” “I’m not fine” and “please don’t go far,” all at the same time.

He understood.

He always did.

At my desk, things were quiet, like the buzz from earlier had vanished, replaced by the heavy hum of keyboards and tension and conversations that dipped too low to be innocent.

I sat down, pulled my chair in, and opened my laptop with shaking fingers I tried to keep still, like maybe if I focused on something small, the big things wouldn’t crush me.

There was something on my keyboard.

A black envelope.

No name.

Just sleek matte paper sealed with a silver insignia that looked too elegant to be accidental, too expensive to be a prank.

I picked it up slowly, heart thudding.

Opened it.

Inside was a folded note.

Crisp, professional, printed on thick ivory stock like a wedding invitation but colder, cleaner, laced with power instead of love.

It said:

“Miss Hart,

I believe your talents are being wasted.

Let’s talk.

Damian”

And just like that, everything tilted.

Because sometimes, your enemies don’t wear knives on their sleeves.

Sometimes, they wear an opportunity.

—

The paper trembled in my hands, not because of fear, but because of the weight behind the offer clean, simple, powerful, like a blade hidden inside velvet gloves stitched with ambition.

I stared at the name printed on the bottom Damian Cross the rival Matteo never spoke of directly, the man everyone whispered about in elevators when they thought no one important was listening.

He was sleek, smart, dangerous the kind of businessman who didn’t ask questions twice and made the ground shake without anyone noticing until they were already buried under his empire.

I read the note again, then again, as if a third time would change the meaning or strip away the tension curling in my stomach like smoke without fire.

What would it mean, to say yes?

To leave this office?

To leave him?

I pressed the card flat against my desk and stared ahead at nothing, blinking hard as voices around me blurred into background noise behind the rush of my thoughts.

Would Matteo care if I left?

Would he even notice?

Or had he already decided I was a mistake one more disposable thing in a life already littered with regrets he refused to name?

I wasn’t ready to answer that.

But the idea of walking away felt less like defeat, and more like escape like breathing without needing permission or breaking every time someone else couldn’t make up their mind.

A part of me quiet, but not small wanted to walk into Damian’s office and see what it felt like to be chosen without having to beg for it.

But I didn’t move.

Not yet.

Because as much as I wanted answers, I was still holding on to too many questions about Matteo, about myself, about the kind of woman I was becoming here.

I folded the note and slid it into my drawer just as Ryan appeared beside my desk, a question already forming in his eyes before he even opened his mouth to speak.

“You okay?” he asked gently, glancing at my face like he knew something had shifted in the air and wasn’t sure if it was good or just another crack forming.

I smiled, but it felt too thin, too practiced. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Ryan looked like he wanted to ask more, but instead he offered the kind of smile that felt like a coat on a cold morning warm, protective, wordless.

I watched him walk away and wondered why the world always seemed to give its loudest choices to the quietest hearts the ones who didn’t deserve to be caught in anyone’s storm.

Behind me, a door opened.

Matteo.

I didn’t have to turn to know it was him his presence arrived before his voice, heavy and unrelenting, the way thunder shows up before the lightning finally crashes.

I kept my head down.

Not because I was afraid.

But because I wasn’t sure what would happen if our eyes met and I wasn’t ready to find out what truth might bleed through silence.

The weight of his stare passed over me like a shadow cast by something once warm, now cold long, stretching, almost impossible to ignore even when I pretended not to notice.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop.

Just walked past.

And that silence said more than any kiss ever could.