Chapter Three: The Obsession

Valerio’s POV

I can’t get her out of my fucking head.

Zara Matthews.

Even her name feels like it belongs to my mouth. I stand at the window of my penthouse, whiskey in hand, staring at the city sprawled below me like scattered diamonds. The glass is cold against my palm, and my mind refuses to settle. Every time I close my eyes, I see her, poised in that black skirt, the way her fingers move across the keyboard like she’s done it a thousand times in that exact office. The way she looks at me, not nervous like the others, and not eager to please me.

It pisses me off.

I take another sip, letting the burn slide down my throat. The no-office-romance policy I’d put in place after the accidents was law, and I wasn’t going to break it myself. It’s there for clarity and control: something I really needed after I’d woken up from that coma with pieces of myself missing and the need to keep everything and everyone at arm's length.

Especially women who made my blood run hot for no goddamn reason.

And Zara Matthews makes it boil.

I cross to my desk and open the file that HR sent over. Clean background, impressive resumes, everything looks too clean. But nothing screams danger. Still, something in my gut twists every time I look at the photo clipped to the front. Those eyes. That mouth and the graceful line of her neck that I keep imagining under my lips. The inexplicable urge to trace the outline of her jaw with my fingertip.

“Cazzo (Fuck),” I mutter, slamming the file shut.

I’d hired her on pure, stupid instinct. The other candidates had been forgettable, but when she walked in, the air changed. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—pulse kicking up, blood rushing south, that low pull in my stomach I haven’t felt in years. Maybe never, not like this.

I drag my hand through my hair and pace the length of the living room. Clara’s last text still sits unread on my phone.

Clara: Dinner tomorrow? The Bergmans want to discuss the merger. Wear the navy suit. I’ll pick you up at 7.

I haven’t answered. The thought of her perfectly manicured hand on my arm, her calculated smiles, her voice talking about projects when we ate overpriced steak…it all feels too much tonight. Everything feels flat except the memory of Zara standing in my office, challenging me without even raising her voice.

She’d restructured my schedule like she’s been doing it for years, anticipated the Nakamura overlap, and caught the error in the financials. All in one day! She even made my coffee exactly right without being told. Small things but dangerous.

Who the hell is she?

I pour another finger of whiskey and drop into the leather chair by the window. My head throbs faintly, the faint scar from the accident acting up whenever I think too hard. The doctors said I had permanent memory loss in some places, but fragments might return; the doctors sounded vague. Luca keeps telling me not to bother too much, to avoid triggering anything.

I reach for the small orange bottle on my nightstand. Dr. Arnolds increased my dosage last month, explaining that it would help stabilize my mood and prevent the headaches from worsening. I swallow two pills dry, the way I’ve done it every day for three years.

I close my eyes, and there she is again—Zara, bent slightly over the desk, reviewing documents. The soft curve of her ass. The way her blouse pulled tight across her breasts when she reached for something. That second when my hand had brushed her while reaching for the coffee. Her nipples had tightened visibly under the silk, and she’d frozen for a fraction of a second. I’d frozen. The silence between us had been so thick I could’ve cut it with a knife.

I wanted to push her back on that desk and find out what other sounds she could make.

The thought hits me hard enough that I curse under my breath and stand up. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t chase employees. I don’t break my own rules. Not after everything I’d lost in that crash. The policy existed for a reason—I’d made sure of it. No distractions, and no complications. No one is getting close enough to stab me in the back again. And I have a fiancé for crying out loud.

Yet here I am, half-hard in my own penthouse because of a woman I met twelve hours ago.

I need air or sleep. Or to fire her tomorrow and be done with it this torture.

Instead, I grab my keys.

…

The office is dark when I get there, just after ten. Most of the floor’s empty, cleaning crew long gone. I told myself I was only going to check on some projects, but I lied. I walk straight to her desk instead. She’s already added a small potted plant on the table. There’s a half-drunk bottle of water, no personal pictures, nothing else to leave a clue.

I sit in her chair.

It’s still faintly warm, or maybe I’m imagining it. Her vanilla scent lingers, and my fingers trace the edge of her keyboard. I open the laptop. Password protected, smart girl.

“What are you hiding, Zara?” I say into the quiet.

The sound of my own voice startles me. I sound obsessed. Am I?

My phone buzzes. Luca.

Luca: You still at the office?

Me: Yeah. Why?

Luca: Nothing. Just checking. New assistant settling in okay?

I stare at the message. Luca’s been off lately. What’s his deal? And he’s been kind of protective of her today too. Is there something I don’t know?

Me: She’s fine.

I set the phone down and stand up. My gaze lands on the bottom drawer of her desk, and I pull it, but it’s locked. Interesting. Most assistants didn’t bother.

I could open it. I have master keys for everything in this building. But something stops me. Not morals—fuck morals. Just the sense that if I cross that line tonight, there’d be no coming back.

Instead, I go into my office, leave the door open, and pour another drink from the bar cart. The city stretches out below. I’ve built all of this from the ashes of that accident, turned weakness into strength, and erased every loose end.

So why did Zara Matthews feel like the biggest loose end of all?

I’m still standing there when the elevator dings softly down the hall. It’s too late for anyone to be here.

I move to the doorway.

Zara steps out, looking exhausted. Hair slightly mussed from the day, heels in one hand, phone in the other. She doesn’t see me at first. She walks straight to her desk, sets the heels down, and checks something on her phone. Her face softens in a way I haven’t seen all day—gentle, and almost pained.

“I’m coming soon, my love,” she whispers to the screen. “I promise.”

My love.

The word hits me like a gut punch. The thought of her being intimate with another man makes my skin crawl, and I don’t understand why.

She looks up then and freezes.

“I thought you left?” I ask, voice low.

I step out of the shadows of my office, drink still in hand. The distance between us feels electric.

“Mr. Cruz.” Her voice is steady, but her eyes widen slightly. “I… forgot my tablet. I thought everyone had left.”

She straightens, lifting her chin in a defiant way that makes me want to push her against the nearest wall. I walk closer, slowly, watching every micro-expression across her face. The way her breath catches, and the way she doesn’t step back even when I stop less than two feet away.

“Who are you talking to?” I say.

Her fingers tighten around the phone. “It’s none of your business.”

Something dark and possessive releases in my chest. The silence stretches, full of things neither of us is saying. I can see the pulse beating in her throat fast. I want to press my mouth there, taste her skin. Find out if she sounds as good as I imagine when she falls apart.

Instead, I say, “The rule applies to everyone, Miss Matthews. No exceptions. I won’t have distractions in my office.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m not here to distract you, Mr. Cruz.”

“Liar.”

The word slips out before I can stop it.

Her lips part, and for a second, I think she might close the distance, and I might finally do what my body has been screaming at me to do since she walked into my office.

Then she looks away.

“I should go,” she says quietly.

She grabs the tablet, slips her heels back on, and moves towards the elevator, every step away from me feeling like she’s taking a piece of me with her.

“Zara.”

She pauses without turning around.

I want to ask her a hundred things. Who hurt you? Why do I feel like I know you? Why the hell can’t I stop thinking about you?

Instead, I say, “Be careful driving home.”

She nods once, and then she’s gone.

I stand there long after the elevator doors close, whiskey forgotten in my hand, and her fragrance still hanging in the air.

This woman is going to be a problem. A very big, very tempting problem.

And for the first time in three years, I’m not sure I want to solve it.

I just want more.