Morning light streamed into Ava's apartment, but it didn't chase away the shadows pressing on her chest.
She had woken early, restless, replaying fragments of the night she'd promised herself to forget.
She'd shoved the black business card into the back of her desk drawer the second she came home yesterday, but the name still burned in her mind: Dante Moretti.
She told herself it was just a night. Just whiskey, heartbreak, and a dangerous mistake.
She told herself she could go back to normal.
So she dressed for work like nothing had happened — tailored blouse, pencil skirt, hair swept into a neat bun. She painted her lips with a steady hand, ignoring the tremor inside.
Her reflection in the mirror looked composed. The lie almost worked.
Almost.
The office was buzzing by the time she arrived. Phones rang, printers hummed, coworkers darted past her desk with files clutched to their chests. Ava worked for one of the city's rising marketing firms, and Monday mornings were notoriously brutal.
She welcomed it. Busyness meant distraction.
She dove into her tasks — copy edits, presentation slides, email drafts — but her focus kept slipping. Every time the elevator dinged, her head turned involuntarily. Every time her phone buzzed, her stomach knotted.
By noon, she'd convinced herself she was being paranoid. Dante Moretti wasn't going to show up here. He was a man who lived in shadows, in penthouses and black cars, not fluorescent-lit offices.
He probably didn't even remember her.
Except… he'd said her name.
She hadn't told him.
At lunch, she slipped out to the café across the street, needing air. She ordered her usual — a turkey sandwich, black coffee — and sat by the window, scrolling through her phone, pretending to be absorbed.
She felt it before she saw it.
That subtle shift in the atmosphere, like static against her skin. The awareness of being watched.
Her eyes lifted instinctively.
Across the street, parked in front of her office, was a sleek black car. Too polished, too deliberate.
Her breath caught.
The windows were tinted, but she didn't need to see the man inside to know.
Dante.
The coffee suddenly tasted bitter. She shoved the cup aside and stood, tossing bills on the table. Her chest felt tight as she crossed back to the office, telling herself she was imagining things.
But the car was still there.
And as she walked past, she thought she saw the faintest outline of a man leaning back in the seat, watching.
The rest of the day dragged. Ava kept her head down, fingers flying over her keyboard, but her mind was a storm.
When she finally left the office at dusk, the sky painted in bruised purples and oranges, she hesitated on the sidewalk.
The car was gone. Relief rushed through her.
She let out a shaky breath and headed toward the subway.
She'd barely taken ten steps when a voice stopped her.
"Going somewhere?"
Her entire body froze. Slowly, she turned.
He stood leaning casually against the hood of a different car this time — a sleek gray Maserati that gleamed under the streetlights. His suit was darker than the evening sky, his tie loose, his posture deceptively relaxed.
Dante Moretti.
Up close, he was even more devastating than she remembered. The sharp cut of his jaw, the shadow of stubble, the way his eyes pinned her in place as though he owned her next breath.
Ava's pulse roared in her ears. "What are you doing here?"
"Checking in," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I didn't ask you to."
"You didn't need to." His gaze flicked down her figure, unhurried, then back to her face. "You left in a hurry."
She swallowed hard. "It was a mistake."
He pushed off the car, closing the distance between them with a few steps. His presence was overwhelming — a force that bent the air around him.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" he asked, voice low, dangerous.
She lifted her chin, refusing to let him see the tremor inside. "Yes."
He studied her for a long, quiet moment. Then, his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You're lying."
"Look, I don't know what you think this is," Ava said, her words rushing out, "but I'm not interested. That night was—"
"Unforgettable." His interruption was smooth, certain.
"—a mistake," she snapped, her cheeks flushing hot.
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her defiance. "You can call it that if it makes you feel better."
Her nails dug into her palm. "I don't need you in my life."
Dante leaned in, just enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of smoke and cedar wrapping around her senses.
"Maybe not," he murmured. "But I think you want me in it."
Her breath caught, traitorous, and she hated that he noticed the way her chest rose a little too sharply.
She stepped back, breaking the pull of his gaze. "Stay away from me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Then he chuckled — low, dark, like he was in on a secret she hadn't been told. "That's not how this works, Ava."
The sound of her name in his mouth sent another shiver through her.
"How does it work then?" she demanded.
Dante's expression hardened, all trace of humor gone. "When I want something… I don't let it go."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to put as much distance as possible between herself and this man.
But her legs wouldn't move.
Dante's gaze softened, just slightly, enough to confuse her. "You're not afraid of me. Not really."
"Should I be?" she whispered.
The corner of his mouth lifted. "Probably."
A car door opened behind him — one of his men, Ava realized belatedly, a broad-shouldered figure she hadn't even noticed until now.
Dante straightened, his eyes never leaving hers. "Go home, Ava. Get some rest."
It sounded like an instruction, not a suggestion.
He stepped back, sliding into the car with the kind of elegance that came from a lifetime of power.
As the Maserati pulled away, Ava stood frozen on the sidewalk, her pulse still racing.
She told herself it was fear.
But deep down, beneath the panic, was something else. Something darker.
Something that scared her even more.
She barely remembered the walk back to her apartment. The city's noise felt distant, muted. By the time she locked her door behind her, her hands were trembling.
She pressed her back to the wood, sliding down until she sat on the floor.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. She fumbled for it, half-hoping, half-dreading what she'd find.
A single message lit the screen.
Unknown number:
Sweet dreams, Ava.
Her stomach dropped. She hadn't given him her number.
Her pulse hammered as she set the phone down like it might burn her.
For a long time, she just sat there in the dark, knees drawn to her chest, trying to steady her breathing.
But one truth gnawed at her, undeniable.
Dante Moretti wasn't finished with her.
And maybe… neither was she.
"Thank you so much for reading 💕 Chapter Three will be up soon — do you think Ava should trust the mysterious stranger, or run?"