THE SECRETARY WHO SIGNED MY DEATH WARRANT

The first time I died, it was on a Tuesday morning with bad coffee and a signature that wasn't mine.

I stood outside the glass wall of the executive floor, straightening my tie as the city of New York glittered beneath me like it had secrets of its own. The kind of secrets you buried with bodies and money. I knew that world well, I ruled it.

Lucien Moretti CEO of Moretti Global On paper, I was a billionaire strategist with a taste for hostile takeovers. Off paper, I was the Don of an empire built on blood, silence, and loyalty. And today, my empire cracked because of a woman with ink stained fingers and eyes that remembered me.

My secretary Ava Sinclair She sat at her desk like she belonged there, spine straight, heels crossed at the ankle, auburn hair pulled into a neat bun that did nothing to hide the curve of her neck. She typed fast, precise, lethal. Every key sounded like a countdown. She didn't look up when I approached, even though she always did. That was the first warning.

"Mr Moretti," she said smoothly, still typing. "Your ten o'clock is waiting and legal needs your signature before noon."

Her voice hit me low and deep, stirring something buried and dangerous. Three years, Three years since she disappeared without a word, Three years since she left me bleeding on a marble floor in Milan with my enemies closing in.

I should have fired her the moment I saw her name on my HR intake list last month. Instead, I hired her, brought her closer, let fate tighten its grip.

"Cancel the meeting," I said "Bring me the documents." That made her pause.

Just a fraction of a second, Enough!

She looked up then, and the air between us snapped. Her eyes were the same stormy gray that haunted my dreams, sharp and unreadable, but this time there was something else buried deep.

Fear, Anger and Guilt.

"You're sure?" she asked "I'm sure."

She stood and walked into my office, hips swaying with controlled tension. The door closed behind her, sealing us in glass and silence.

Fated mates, That was what my grandmother used to whisper about the Moretti men, One woman, One fate, One weakness.

I had found mine, Lost her, And somehow, she was back. She placed the folder on my desk, fingers brushing mine as she slid it forward. The contact burned, Memories slammed into me without mercy. Her body beneath mine, Her tears on my skin, The night she begged me to leave the life behind. I signed without looking.

My mistake.

"Anything else?" she asked, already turning to leave. "Why did you come back?" The words ripped out of me. Her shoulders stiffened, She didn't turn around.

"I need this job."

"That's a lie." She finally faced me, eyes blazing now. "You don't get to question my choices anymore, Lucien."

Hearing my name on her lips again was a wound reopening. I