Chapter 9
869 Words
After freshening up in the restroom, I spent the rest of my time mingling with potential investors. God knows I tried not to notice Damien Grey.
But every time I turned, my eyes found him. Or maybe… his eyes found me first.
He didn’t even pretend not to stare. And the longer we were in the same room, the heavier the air became—like something was pressing against my skin from the inside out.
It wasn’t just awareness.
It was heat.
And I could feel his.
“Everything went well, Ms. Mikyla. Your presentation was a success once again,” Rafaella said with a proud smile as we sat back down at our table.
I forced my lips into a polite smile.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you and the team.”
“You’re too humble,” she teased. “No wonder everyone here keeps watching you.”
I laughed softly, but my cheeks warmed. If only she knew—one person was watching me, and it wasn’t admiration in his gaze. It was something darker, sharper… and far more dangerous.
When I first arrived in Italy, I didn’t know what to expect. This country had only been a series of bedtime stories from my mother. But now? I was here, building a name for myself, living the kind of life I once thought belonged in someone else’s world.
Then a deep, husky voice cut through my thoughts.
“Excuse me, Ms. Ferrer. Can we talk?”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Rafaella lit up. “Mr. Grey! Ms. Ferrer is available now—”
“I was thinking,” he interrupted smoothly, “that we could talk in private.”
The way he said "private" was low and deliberate—and it sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I forced myself to keep my breathing steady.
“It’s okay,” I told Rafaella, giving her a small smile. “I’ll speak with Mr. Grey.”
I stood and finally faced him.
He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe I had just been avoiding looking too closely before. His suit was tailored to perfection, but it was the eyes—the same deep, burning eyes—that caught me and wouldn’t let go.
Without another word, I turned and walked away.
My steps were quick, each one an effort not to betray the restless energy coiling in my stomach.
I didn’t stop until I reached my hotel suite on the second floor.
The moment the door closed behind us, I spun around.
“What do you want?”
He paused just inside the room, as though deciding whether to play coy or go straight for the kill.
“Aren’t we going to sit down first?”
I rolled my eyes but dropped onto the couch in the sitting area.
He followed, taking the longer sofa across from me. Only a small glass table separated us—a safe space I wasn’t sure would stay safe for long.
I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on a harmless spot on the carpet. But after a few seconds, curiosity betrayed me. I glanced up.
And froze.
He was watching me again.
Not like a businessman in a meeting.
Not like a casual acquaintance.
But like a predator who already knew the sound of my heartbeat.
I scowled. “Will you stop staring at me… Tito?”
The corner of his mouth lifted slowly.
“Tito… interesting choice.”
He leaned back lazily, resting his chin on one hand, his gaze still locked on me.
“Are you sure you want to keep calling me that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? That’s what I’ve always called you. You are my ex’s father. And honestly, I don’t even understand why you want to talk to me now. If this is about business, you can go through my secretary.”
He chuckled—deep and low, the sound curling around my spine like smoke.
My irritation flared. “What’s so funny?”
He shook his head slowly, still smiling in that infuriatingly confident way.
Then, without warning, he stood.
My pulse jumped. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer.
He just crossed the space between us, each step deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
I pressed myself back against the couch as he stopped in front of me.
His height, his scent, the shadow he cast over me—it was all too much.
My throat went dry. “W-What are you doing?”
His hands braced against the armrests, caging me in.
I could feel the heat radiating from his body, his breath brushing my cheek.
That same jolt of memory hit me—the one I’d been running from for years.
The memory of his hands, his voice, and the way he looked at me that night.
He tilted his head slightly, his lips just a breath away from my ear.
“Should I remind you what happened that night?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “So you’ll stop calling me Tito?”
- Writer
