The CEO and the Secret Beneath the Moon

CHAPTER 3

The pub was located on the rooftop terrace of a renovated old building, just a few blocks from the office. As soon as we stepped out of the elevators, the muffled sound of music and laughter already filled the hallway, mixed with the aroma of cold beer and appetizers.

The night breeze was cool against my skin, and the warm lights of the place created an enchanting contrast with the sky that was gradually darkening, tinged with orange and purple.

Dante walked beside me, practically bouncing with excitement, waving to colleagues scattered across the tables as if he were a celebrity.

"You're going to love this place," he said, gesturing widely. "It has the best drinks in the area, great people, and most importantly..."

He paused dramatically, pointing to the stage in the corner. "Mandatory karaoke."

"Karaoke?" I asked, feeling a pang of panic. "Mandatory how?"

"Exactly." He laughed at my expression. "I hope you warmed up your voice on the way here, because nobody escapes. It's company tradition."

The pub had a genuine charm that won me over immediately. The atmosphere was relaxed, with a retro touch that didn't try too hard—rustic wooden tables scattered across the terrace, hanging plants creating more intimate corners, and the irresistible aroma of pub food mixed with craft beer. The stage was small but well-lit by colorful spotlights that softly changed tones, creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere.

A young woman was finishing singing a romantic song from the 80s, her sweet voice echoing through the environment. When she finished, the applause was warm and genuine—nothing forced or polite. People were really having fun there.

The company was spread throughout the pub; we joined our department's group at a table near the stage. Someone pulled up extra chairs, others were already gesturing to the waiter, ordering the first round of drinks. The difference from the office environment was striking—there, everyone seemed truly relaxed, laughing loudly, sharing stories that sounded like inside jokes developed over years of coexistence.

"Isa!" An HR colleague I barely knew waved at me. "Come here, tell us: what did you think of your first week?"

While I tried to formulate a diplomatic response, my eyes automatically scanned the environment. That's when I noticed Cael on the other side of the pub.

He was standing near the entrance, leaning against the wall with a glass in his hand, but his posture was completely different from the relaxation around him. Our eyes met for an instant. To my surprise, he gave me a brief nod—almost imperceptible, but it was there. I was raising my hand to return it with a smile when he simply left his glass on top of the counter and disappeared through the back door, as if that kind of fraternization was personal torture for him.

"Don't mind Cael," Dante whispered in my ear, following my gaze. "He always does that. Shows up, finds some hot girl and leaves with her."

I laughed, but part of me was curious—who had he left with? Well, it's none of my business.

It was while turning my attention back to the table that I saw him.

And when I say I saw him, I mean it was as if the rest of the whole pub disappeared for a second.

He was leaning against the main pub, holding a glass of whiskey—judging by the shape and amber color, probably something expensive—with one hand, observing the environment with an air that was both calm and completely attentive. As if he were cataloging every detail, every person, every movement.

Tall. Impeccably dressed even in an informal environment—a well-cut dark blazer over a white shirt semi-open at the collar, no tie, but still elegant in a way that seemed natural, not calculated. His dark hair was perfectly styled, as if he had just stepped out of a photo shoot, not a company happy hour.

And his eyes...

Intense. Gray like molten lead. And—my God—too deep.

My stomach churned forcefully, as if I had just gone down a roller coaster. Something about that presence seemed familiar and at the same time impossible to ignore, like a song you're sure you've heard before but can't remember where.

But the strangest thing was that nobody around seemed to pay attention to him. People passed by the pub, ordered drinks, chatted animatedly, as if he were just another ordinary customer. Invisible.

This left me slightly relieved. Maybe I was imagining things, maybe that man had stepped straight out of my wildest dreams. Maybe he was just a charming stranger—extremely charming—who happened to be in the same pub as me on any given Friday.

But when he turned his face in my direction and our gazes crossed...

The electricity was palpable. Literal. As if someone had connected a high-voltage wire between the two of us.

He didn't approach. Didn't wave. Didn't smile.

He just looked at me. And I looked back.

For long seconds that felt like minutes, while around us Dante told a funny story about a difficult client and everyone laughed, I felt completely outside that reality. Conscious only of those gray eyes fixed on me, studying my face as if it were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

I forced myself to turn my face away, to pay attention to the conversation, to laugh at the right moment. But he was always there, on the edge of my peripheral vision, and every time I gave in to the temptation to glance over, I found that intense gaze watching me.

"Hey!" Dante elbowed me, making me jump. "Wake up? Your turn at karaoke. I'm not letting you escape this."

"What? No, I don't..." I tried to resist, but he was faster.

"No excuses! It's tradition. Everyone has to sing their first time."

Before I could protest properly, he was already pulling me to the stage. When I realized it, we had microphones in our hands and the screen was showing the music options.

"Something safe," I murmured, nervously scanning the audience. The stranger from the pub was still there, now turned completely in our direction.

"'Stand by Me'!" Dante chose without consulting me. "Foolproof classic."

The introduction began, and I had no choice. We divided the verses between nervous laughter and some wrong notes—more mine than his—but the audience was clearly enjoying themselves. Clapping to the rhythm, some singing along, shouts of encouragement.

When we finished, the applause was genuinely warm. I came down from the stage with a flushed face and racing heart, but also with a strange sense of freedom. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to be so spontaneous.

Dante returned to the table, still commenting animatedly about our performance, but I headed straight for the pub. I needed a drink. And maybe a moment to process the adrenaline.

"Your voice is sweet."

I turned slowly. It was him. Up close, his gray eyes were even more mesmerizing.

"Victor." He extended his hand, and when I shook it, I felt an electric current travel up my arm.

"Isa." My voice came out lower than normal.

He didn't let go of my hand immediately, and I didn't bother to pull away.

"First time at karaoke?" he asked, leaning against the pub beside me.

"Is it that obvious?" I laughed, finally freeing my hand and picking up the drink the bartender had left.

"I like seeing someone who takes risks."

"So..." he began, slowly swirling his whiskey glass, "what kind of music do you sing when you don't have an audience?"

"What do you mean?"

"In the shower, in the car, when no one is listening." His gray eyes sparkled with amusement. "That's when we reveal who we really are."

I laughed, feeling warmth rise up my neck.

"Oh, it's dangerous to answer that. You might discover I have terrible musical taste."

"Impossible." He leaned slightly closer. "I bet it's something no one would expect."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because you have that air of someone who keeps surprises."

The way he said it, with his voice low and eyes fixed on mine, made my stomach flip.

"And you?" I asked, trying to regain control of the situation. "What kind of man drinks whiskey at a karaoke?"

"What kind do you think I am?"

"That's not an answer."

"It's the best one you'll get for now." He smiled, and it was devastating. "I like to maintain a little mystery."

"Mystery is overrated," I countered, taking a sip of water. "I prefer honesty."

"Really?" He rested his elbow on the pub, his body now turned completely toward me. "What if honesty is... disturbing?"

"Disturbing how?"

"Like admitting that I can't stop looking at you since you arrived here."

My heart raced, but I tried to keep my voice steady: "That's your idea of disturbing honesty?"

"It's just the beginning."

The way he said it, loaded with promise and danger, made every nerve ending in my body tingle.

"Are you always so... direct?"

"Only when it's worth it." He paused, studying me. "And do you always blush like that when someone flirts with you?"

"I'm not blushing," I lied shamelessly.

"Yes, you are." He chuckled softly. "And you look even more beautiful."

"You must use that line very frequently."

"Never." The seriousness in his voice caught me off guard. "And it's not a line."

We stared at each other for a moment that seemed to stretch infinitely. The noise of the pub around us had become a distant murmur.

"Isa," he said my name as if he were savoring each letter. "Can I ask you an indiscreet question?"

"Depends on how indiscreet."

"What are you doing after here?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want this conversation to end when you go back to that table."

"What if I say I'm going home to sleep?"

"Then I'll hope you're the type who changes her mind."

The tension between us was so dense I could almost touch it. Every word was loaded with double meaning, every look a silent promise.

"You're dangerous," I murmured, more to myself than to him.

"Why?"

"Because you make it seem like you've known me for years."

"What if I did know you?" He leaned in a little more, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "What if some people were made to recognize each other at first sight?"

My breathing became irregular. He was so close I could feel the warmth emanating from him, the cologne I had noticed before now more intense and disturbing.

"That's impossible," I whispered.

"Is it?" His eyes traveled slowly across my face, lingering on my lips for a second that made my stomach churn. "Then why do I feel like I've had this conversation with you a thousand times in my dreams?"

The sincerity in his voice completely disarmed me. It wasn't a pickup line. It was a confession.

...