ANMELDENWords are a luxury neither of them can afford right now.The quiet apartment is suddenly loud—the desperate hitch of Mia's breath, the wet, rhythmic friction of their lips, and the low, hungry growl vibrating deep in Elias's throat.Elias cinches his grip, his fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips as he hauls her flush against him."Finally," he breathes. "I finally have you.""Mm-hmm," Mia murmurs, her body feeling like liquid gold.A sudden gust of cold air from the still-open doorway cuts through the haze.Mia shivers, the chill snapping her back to reality. In a blur of movement, she detaches herself from his embrace, her face flushing a deep, vivid crimson as she realizes they've been putting on a public display of affection right in the hallway.She grabs him into the apartment. She peeks left and right, checking the silent corridor for any nosy neighbors before slamming the door shut with a definitive thud."Why so jumpy? It's not like we're a secret," Elias says. He
Milan's Porta Nuova district exists in deliberate contrast to the rest of the city. The UniCredit Tower's conference room on the thirty-second floor has a view of the Duomo's spires on clear days, though today's agenda has left no one with time to look.The table is long. Elias sits on one side. The Carbone Group's lead team sits on the other.He arrived from Toronto three days ago, went directly from Malpensa to the hotel and from the hotel to this building, and has not yet been to Milan in any meaningful sense—only to its conference rooms and its hotel corridors and its very good espresso."Mr. Carbone." Elias sets his pen down on the contract draft with the precise care of someone who has finished listening. "Fifteen percent channel management. I'll be direct—that number isn't one we can accept, and I'd prefer not to spend the afternoon pretending otherwise."Romano Carbone is the kind of Milanese businessman who has spent thirty years in rooms like this one, reading people faster
The summit had done more for Mia's standing at the institute than six months of excellent work had managed on its own.Her supervisor has been measurably warmer since the presentation. The referrals have been coming in from departments that previously seemed unaware she existed.One day, when Mia's finishing the last of her session notes, her colleagues appear in the doorway."Mia." Federica leans against the frame. "We're going to that place on Via Torino. You're coming too?""I'm coming," Mia agrees, shutting her laptop.They walk out together into the early evening. Federica is mid-forties, the kind of colleague who notices everything and comments on roughly half of it. The younger one, Chiara, has been at the institute for eight months and is still in the phase of finding everything interesting."By the way," Federica says, as they wait near the entrance for their car, "I was going to ask you about Marco from the third floor. He asked about you."Mia looks at her. "He's only twent
The National Sports Medicine Summit in Milan isn't just a conference, it's a battlefield.For Mia, being invited to present her report on early rehabilitation strategies for professional knee injuries is the ultimate promotion. It is the key to the inner sanctum of elite sports medicine.She doesn't know why the opportunity fell into her lap—perhaps a peace offering from a superior who had pushed her too hard—but she isn't about to waste it.For weeks, Mia's life has been a grueling military drill. She is a ghost in her own apartment, buried under mountains of printed journals and hand-drawn biomechanical sketches. She anticipates every possible trap a critic might set, building a fortress of theory and case studies to protect her conclusions.But this "military" focus comes with a price.Across the Atlantic, Elias is feeling the chill of neglect. Ever since their last experimental video call, Mia has gone practically radio-silent. When she does call, it isn't for sweet nothings.No,
The blue-grey flicker of the computer screen reflects in Elias's eyes, a sharp contrast to the dimly lit study.Elias leans back in his chair, the weight of the Weston empire pressing against his shoulders more heavily than any defender on the ice ever could.He checks the participant list one last time before his executive assistant gives the nod."The board is assembled, Mr. Weston. You may begin."Elias looks up, his gaze narrowing as the faces of his European executives fill the screen.These are the titans—men who have spent twenty years entrenched in the Weston hierarchy, veterans who see the young heir as little more than a golden boy with a hockey stick. They have spent the last hour meticulously crafting a "localized" strategy for the Italian market expansion, their words polished, their smiles thin and experimental.They are testing him. He can feel their skepticism like a physical weight."Joseph," Elias interrupts, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Clarify your reporting
"Mia," Elias stares into her eyes. "Eighteen months. At most. Or less, if I can swing it. Once the contract extensions are signed and the Weston Group's restructuring is finalized, I'm coming for you."He speaks with the gravity of a king swearing an unbreakable oath before his deity. "I promise."Mia doesn't cry. They have spent too many nights tangled in each other's arms, whispering their fears and desires into the darkness, for tears to be necessary now.Instead, she tilts her head back, rising onto her tiptoes. Ignoring the hundreds of strangers rushing past, she presses a firm, lingering kiss against his cool lips."I'll be waiting," she whispers against his mouth. "See you in Milan."With a final, sharp nod, she pulls away. She doesn't look back. She knows that if she catches even a glimpse of those crystalline eyes, the carefully constructed wall of her resolve will crumble into dust.Elias stands frozen, a statue of longing amidst the human tide.Finally, he turns on his heel







