THE BULLY WHO WANTS MY HEART AND MY RUIN

(Sloane POV)

The emergency executive meeting was called for 9 AM on a Wednesday, which meant someone important was either getting fired or promoted. In my experience at Moretti Holdings, those outcomes weren't mutually exclusive.

I slipped into the glass-walled conference room on the twenty-seventh floor with my tablet and coffee, aiming for my usual position-middle of the table, left side, where I could observe without being observed. Six months at this company had taught me that survival meant understanding power dynamics before they crushed you.

"Sloane, you're up here today." Marcus Chen gestured to a seat closer to the head of the table, his smile sharp as a letter opener. "Communications is moving up in the world."

Everything about Marcus was precisely calibrated:his steel-gray suit, his efficient gestures, the way he said your name like he was already writing your performance review. As Senior Vice President of Operations, he occupied the razor's edge between executive leadership and the CEO's inner circle. People feared him the way they feared black ice: you didn't see him coming until you were already falling.

I took the assigned seat, ignoring the way my stomach tightened. Being visible in meetings like this was rarely a blessing.

The conference room filled quickly. Sarah Chen from Legal, no relation to Marcus despite the shared surname. David Kozlov from Finance, perpetually exhausted and brilliant. A handful of other department heads I knew by sight and reputation. We were upwardly mobile:young enough to work eighty-hour weeks, hungry enough to think it would pay off.

At exactly 9 AM, Giovanni Moretti entered.

The CEO of Moretti Holdings moved like old money and controlled violence had a baby radiating the kind of power that didn't need to announce itself. At sixty-seven, he was still commanding: silver hair swept back from a face that had probably broken hearts across three continents, dark eyes that assessed you like a balance sheet, finding you either profitable or disposable.

"Sit," he commanded, though we were already sitting. Giovanni's accent carried the faintest Italian inflection, softened by decades in New York but sharpened when he wanted to remind you who held the knife.

Behind him entered a man I didn't recognize, and the air pressure in the room changed.

He was tall with the build of someone who had personal trainers and used them. Dark hair slightly too long for corporate convention, styled in a way that suggested he'd run his hands through it repeatedly and it had fallen perfectly anyway. Sharp jawline, olive complexion, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or wedding invitations from families who summered in Lake Como.

Then he turned his head, and his gaze swept across the assembled executives.

My coffee mug slipped from my fingers.

It didn't shatter,I caught it halfway to the table, liquid sloshing over my hand, scalding hot but I barely felt it. Because I was looking into eyes I hadn't seen in seven years. Eyes that had once looked at me with