Elena walked into the boardroom with her spine straight and her gaze sharp. The room smelled of polished wood and ambition—the kind of ambition that could crush a person who wasn't careful.
Luca was already there, seated at the head of the long table, his presence filling the room as though the walls themselves leaned toward him. Around him, men and women of power, wealth, and influence murmured quietly, waiting for the meeting to begin.
She paused at the doorway, letting the weight of the room settle around her. Every eye was on her. Some curious, some wary, some openly dismissive.
Elena didn't flinch. She didn't hesitate. She walked forward, heels clicking against the marble floor like the toll of a warning bell.
"This seat," she said, her voice calm, firm, carrying authority she hadn't known she possessed, "is mine."
Luca's eyes flicked up, unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he nodded. A silent acknowledgment that she had crossed the threshold from outsider to participant.
The room fell into uneasy silence. Whispers began—some skeptical, some surprised, all watching.
"You're young," one of the older men said cautiously. "And inexperienced."
"I am," Elena replied evenly. "But I am not unprepared. And I am not irrelevant."
She slid into the chair beside Luca, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. He didn't correct her, didn't interrupt. He simply let her take her place—because he knew she had claimed it, and that she would not step back.
The meeting began, numbers, strategies, and politics flowing across the polished surface of the table. Elena spoke carefully, confidently, demonstrating insight and intelligence that even the skeptics could not ignore. Every suggestion she made, every observation, chipped away at the doubt in the room.
Luca's eyes never left her. Not once. And with every glance, every subtle touch of his hand brushing against the table near hers, the unspoken tension between them thickened.
By the end of the meeting, murmurs had shifted. Respect had begun to take root where skepticism once stood.
When the session ended, she rose, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and met Luca's gaze across the room.
"You demanded a seat," he said softly as they walked down the corridor. "And the room yielded."
"I demanded it," she said firmly, "because I am not someone to be ignored. Not by them. Not by you."
He stopped, close enough that their shoulders brushed. "Good," he murmured, voice low, edged with something dangerous. "Because neither should I ever forget it."
Elena felt the weight of his presence, the heat beneath his words. It was both warning and praise. Desire and power intertwined, a reminder that in this world, authority and attraction were rarely separate.
That night, as she returned to her room, she realized: claiming her place at the table wasn't just about strategy or survival—it was the beginning of her own power, one that Luca respected, feared, and desired all at once.
And as always, she knew—her seat at the table was only the first step.