Valerio's Secretary

I grip the steering wheel so tight that it makes my knuckles ache. The city blurs past my window—steel towers and honking traffic that feels both familiar and wrong after three years. I should have turned around at the last exit.

I almost did.

But the envelope in my bag, the one with Liam’s latest daycare bill marked overdue in angry red wouldn’t let me. “You’ve got this,” I whisper to the empty car. The lie tasted bitter.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder, and it’s a message from the nanny.

Mrs. Rivera: Liam’s fine. He asked again about his daddy. I told him he works far. You okay?

I don’t answer. I mean, what would I say? That I was driving straight back into the mouth of the man who had looked at me like a stranger three years ago? That our son—three years old with Valerios’s stubborn chin and my own dark eyes—is the only reason I was doing this at all?

I pull up outside the modest brownstone where Mrs. Rivera lives before I head towards doom. Liam stands on the steps in his favorite blue sneakers, clutching a toy car. The second he sees me, his whole face lit up.

“Mommy!”

He barrels into my legs before I can even close the car door. I drop to my knees on the sidewalk, hugging him tight, breathing in the smell of baby shampoo and crayons. God, he is getting heavy. “Hey, little man,” I say, voice steady even though my throat hurts. “You behave for Mrs. Rivera, okay? Mommy has a big meeting today.”

Liam pulls back, studying me with those too-sharp eyes. “You going to see my daddy?”

The question hit like it always did. I force a smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shirt.

“Not today, baby. But I’m going to a place where a lot of important people work. Maybe one day I’ll tell you more.”

He nods solemnly, like he understood more than any three-year-old should. Mrs. Rivera appears at the door, giving me a knowing look but saying nothing. Good woman. She never pushes. I kiss Liam’s forehead, lingering a second longer than necessary. “I love you bigger than the sky.”

“Love you bigger than the moon,” he answers immediately, a huge smile plastered across his face, and my heart aches. He looks just like his dad.

I watch them disappear inside before I let myself breathe again. Then I get back in the car, smooth down my black pencil skirt, and drive the last ten minutes to Cruz Holdings like I am heading to war.

The building hasn’t changed significantly. It’s still all glass and sharp angles, towering over the financial district like it owned the sky. My heels click against the marble lobby floor, the sound echoing too loudly in my ears. Security checks my ID—the new one. The one Luca had quietly helped clean up.

“Top floor, Miss Matthews,” the guard says. “Mr. Cruz is expecting you.”

My stomach twists. Mr. Cruz. Not Valerio. Never Valerio again.

Behind the security desk, a man in a white coat steps out of a private elevator. He looks like he’s in his mid-fifties, silver-haired, with the easy confidence of someone who has walked these halls for years. He nods at me like he knows me, though I’m certain we’ve never met before.

“New hire?” he asks the guard, and he confirms I’m coming for an interview. Then the old man smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome to Cruz Holdings,” he says, and disappears through a door marked Corporate Health.

Well…

The elevator ride takes forever. I stare at my reflection in the polished doors; brown skin glowing under the lights, hair pulled into a neat bun, lips painted a calm nude. I look like someone who belongs here, but I don’t feel like it anymore.

When the doors open on the executive floor, the familiar layout hits me like a punch. Same sleek desks, same glass walls, and the same faint scent of expensive coffee and power. But the people are different. New faces glance at me curiously as I walk toward the corner office. Luca is waiting outside the double doors. Tall, sharp-suited, with that same guarded expression he’d worn the night he helped me slip out of the hospital three years ago. His eyes soften a fraction when they land on me.

“You sure about this, Zara?” he asks quietly, voice low enough that only I can hear.

“No,” I say. “But I don’t have a choice.”

He nods once, with no effort to comfort. That is Luca. But before he opens the door, his hand hesitates on the handle. “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Nothing, I just didn’t sleep well.”

“You sure that’s it?  See, you don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“He’s in a mood. The interview’s been brutal on the others. Just… be careful.”

I lift my chin. “I’ve been careful for three years.”

Luca opens the door, and I inhale a sharp breath.

Valerio Cruz sits behind the massive oak desk like he was born for this. Three years have sharpened him. The lines of his face are harder, the set of his shoulders more rigid. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and his suit is tailored to perfection. But when he looks up from the file in his hands, the room narrows, and everything goes still.

It was just the two of us in the world; nobody mattered.

His gaze drags over me in a slow and deliberate manner. From the heels up legs, across the curve of my hips, lingering for half a second too long at the dip of my blouse before settling on my face. Something flickers in those steel-gray eyes. Not recognition, but something rawer, which looks like irritation mixed with hunger.

My pulse hammers in my throat. I remember exactly how that same look used to end—his hands in my hair, my back against the desk, his voice rough in my ear, telling me to be quiet because the cleaning crew was still in the building.

I push the memory down hard.

“Zara Matthews,” he says. His voice is the same: deep and commanding, with that slight rasp that used to make my knees weak. He doesn’t stand. He just leans back in his chair, watching me like I am a puzzle he hasn’t decided to solve yet. “You’re the last one. Sit.”

I sit. Cross my legs and keep my hands folded over my tablet so that he doesn’t see them trembling.

He watches me sit and lets out a humorless breath. “You took too long to sit. Hesitation reads as weakness. You’ll have to fix that if you want to work with me.”

And then he taps a pen against the desk. Once. Twice. “Most candidates last five minutes in here. You’ve got ten. Impress me.”

I meet his eyes straight on. “I don’t do presentations, Mr. Cruz. I do results. Your current secretary schedule has three overlapping meetings tomorrow at ten. The Tokyo call needs to move, or you’ll lose the Nakamura deal. Also, the quarterly report has an error on page seventeen—understated depreciation by 2.4 million. You need to fix it before the board sees it.”

Silence stretches between us, and my palms get sweatier as the seconds go by.

Valerio’s pen stops moving, and he stares at me so intensely that for a minute it feels like he is trying to peel off my skin. For a moment, I think he might remember. That some piece of him might crack open and say my name the way he used to, soft and possessive in the dark.

Instead, he leans forward. “How do you know about the Nakamura deal? That’s not public.”

“I do my research,” I say simply. “And I’m good at my job.”

He tilts his head, unimpressed, and leans back in his chair. “You memorized a few numbers and call that research? Half the candidates who walked through that door today could have done the same if they bothered to read the quarterly reports. The difference is they had the sense not to show off.”

My fingers clench against the tablet.

He doesn’t smile. Valerio Cruz rarely smiled anymore, from what I’d read in the papers. But something shifts in his expression.

He stands up and walks around the desk until he’s leaning against it with his arms crossed. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—woody, expensive, and so familiar that it hurts. “You’re hiding something,” he says quietly.

My heart falters. “Everyone’s hiding something, Mr. Cruz.”

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and then back up. The air between us feels too thick, like it used to before he’d push me against the wall and—

“Rule number one in this office,” he says, voice dropping lower. “No personal entanglements. No exceptions. No disruptions.” Says the person who used to do that and more some years ago. He continues, his tone cold and distant. “If that becomes a conflict for you at any point, the door is that way

The words land like ice water, and I almost laugh. “I’m here to work,” my voice firm. “Nothing else.”

He studies me for another long moment, and then he walks back behind his desk and picks up his phone. “HR. Send up the paperwork for Zara Matthews. She starts immediately.” He hangs up without waiting for a response.

I blink. “Just like that?”

He looks at me again, and this time, there is no mistaking the dark edge in his eyes. “Something about you pisses me off, Miss Matthews, and I haven’t decided if that’s useful yet. But you’re staying close until I do.”

He steps around the desk once more, stopping just short of invading my space completely. Close enough that if I lean forward half an inch, my knees would brush his thighs.

“Welcome back to Cruz Holdings,” he says softly.

The words cut like a blade. Welcome back?

He doesn’t know what he just said, but I feel it all in my bones. The weight of every erased photo, every deleted file, every night I’ve spent alone with our son while the man I loved built an empire on lies they had fed him.

I gather my things with steady hands, even though my legs feel like water. “Thank you, Mr. Cruz.”

And as I turn towards the door, I could feel his eyes boring holes into my back, but I don’t look back.

I can’t.

But the second the elevator door closes behind me, I sag against the wall, pressing a hand to my mouth. No, I can’t break down now. He’s still in there. Somewhere deep, beneath all the lies and the missing pieces, the man who used to trace patterns on my bare shoulder at dawn and whisper that I am the only real thing in his world…is still in there.

And I have just walked straight back into his cage. And what’s worse is, I have brought our son into the shadows.