When She Learned My Name

2. Excuses

“No…? Hahaha, what are you talking about? I gotta go now! Byeeee!”

The frantic excuse barely finishes clearing her lips before she spins on her heel, making a sharp pivot toward the double doors like a sprinter waiting for the starting pistol.

.

Not on my watch.

.

In a blur of motion that defies his casual posture, Fernando’s hand shoots out, his long fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist before she can take two steps. The grip isn't painful, but it is absolute—unyielding steel disguised in warm skin. He doesn't yank her back; he simply anchors her in place, halting her frantic escape dead in its tracks.

The abrupt stop causes Gabriella to stumble slightly against the momentum of her own rush.

"Going somewhere?" Fernando asks, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerously soft register that slices straight through the ambient hum of the office.

He slowly steps in, closing the microscopic gap between them until the faint, expensive scent of his cologne completely surrounds her. He doesn't let go of her wrist; instead, his thumb brushes once—slowly, deliberately—over her pulse point, feeling the wild, erratic thumping beneath her skin. He tilts his head down just an inch, his dark, inscrutable eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that makes it impossible for her to look away.

Gray, still holding the signed portfolio, watches the exchange with a slow-dawning frown, finally picking up on the heavy, electric undercurrent passing between his best friend and his sister.

"Fern," Gray starts, his tone sharpening with a protective edge as he shifts in his chair. "Let go of her wrist. If she says she has to go—"

"Relax, Gray," Fernando interrupts smoothly, never breaking eye contact with the trapped, wide-eyed girl standing inches from his chest. A slow, thin smirk touches the corner of his lips, carrying a shadow of something dark, possessive, and entirely calculation-driven. "We’re just having a conversation. Right, Gabby?"

His thumb presses a fraction harder against her pulse, a silent reminder of who holds the strings in this room.

"You haven't answered my question," he continues softly, the warmth in his tone a facade masking the razor wire underneath. "Why are you always running from me?"

“Hey…! I’m not… I just have to go now, I’m running late for the shifts…!”

A low, skeptical hum vibrates in his chest. A shift? At twenty, with the vast wealth of the Valentina family at her fingertips, the idea of Gabriella rushing off to punch a clock is almost laughable—and an absurdly transparent excuse.

He doesn't loosen his grip. If anything, his fingers tighten just enough to ensure she stays anchored right where she is, completely at his mercy. The erratic fluttering of her pulse beneath his thumb is a dead giveaway; she's terrified, and she's lying through her teeth.

"A shift," Fernando repeats, rolling the word over his tongue as if tasting a particularly poor vintage. His dark eyes rake slowly over her flushed face, mapping every micro-expression of panic with the cold, calculating precision of a predator studying a cornered bird. A thin, slow smile touches the corner of his lips, devoid of any genuine humor. "Since when does a Valentina care about hourly wages, Gabby?"

Gray, sensing the mounting friction and growing visibly uneasy with the way Fernando has caged his sister against the desk, pushes his chair back with a sharp scrape.

"Fern, enough," Gray snaps, rising to his feet and stepping around the desk to put himself physically between them. "If she says she has to go, let her go. You're making her uncomfortable."

Fernando slowly lifts his gaze from Gabriella’s wide eyes to meet Gray’s protective glare. The heavy, suffocating aura of dominance that blankets the space doesn't waver for a single second. Slowly, deliberately, Fernando releases his grip on her wrist, though his eyes never leave her face.

"Am I?" Fernando murmurs smoothly, taking half a step back to grant Gray his desired space, yet still standing dangerously close to Gabriella’s orbit. He adjusts the cuffs of his black suit jacket, his expression chillingly composed once more. "I was merely trying to be a good family friend and ensure she wasn't rushing into trouble. Toronto can be a very dangerous city for someone who doesn't watch their step."

He holds her gaze for a beat too long, the double meaning hanging heavily in the thick air between them—a silent, razor-sharp reminder that he knows she's hiding something, and that he isn't going to let it go.

"Run along then, little shift-worker," Fernando says, his voice dripping with low, silken mockery. "We wouldn't want you to be late. But we will finish this conversation later."