Strip You Naked-R+18

Chapter 1

By two in the morning, the executive suite felt entirely isolated from the rest of the world. Rain continued to drum against the high glass panels, creating a steady, rhythmic white noise that amplified the quiet tension between them.

Spread across the large oak table were stacks of legal documents, printed financial projections, and the dusty manila folder Katarina had retrieved from the lower archive. They had spent the last two hours dissecting every clause in section four, line by painstaking line.

Katarina adjusted her small blue-light blocking glasses, her shoulders aching slightly from posture she had kept rigid for hours. Across from her, Matteo was leaning back in his leather chair, the top three buttons of his shirt undone, his dark hair a messy tangle from where he kept dragging his fingers through it.

A loud, clear rumble echoed through the quiet room.

Katarina froze, her pen lingering mid-air. Her face flushed a deep crimson as she realized the sound came directly from her own stomach.

Matteo stopped mid-sentence, his pen hovering above a contract sheet. He looked up, his sharp gray eyes landing on her burning cheeks.

"I... my apologies, Mr. Orsini," Katarina murmured quickly, clearing her throat and pressing a hand to her abdomen to suppress any further betrayals. "Please continue. You were mentioning the indemnity terms."

Matteo didn't continue. He slowly set his pen down, leaning his elbows on the table and studying her. For the first time all night, his expression wasn't cold or exasperated—it was genuinely intrigued.

"When was the last time you ate, Miss Meneses?"

"I had a light lunch at noon, sir," she answered smoothly, trying to sound as unaffected as possible. "I usually skip dinner on busy workdays to stay sharp."

"That is ridiculous," Matteo said dryly, reaching for his desk phone. "I’ll have my personal driver fetch something from L'Étoile. The five-star bistro near the plaza. Their truffle risotto and wagyu steak usually quiet down a protesting stomach."

"Oh, no, please—there’s no need for that, Mr. Orsini!" Katarina blurted out, her thrifty instincts kicking in before she could stop herself. "That bistro charges three thousand pesos for a portion of steak that wouldn't fill a tea cup. It's completely unnecessary."

Matteo paused, his finger hovering over the speed dial button. He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his usually stern face. "Excuse me?"

Realizing she had spoken a bit too candidly, Katarina straightened her posture and softened her tone back to strict professionalism.

"I mean... it is late, and food delivery services would take too long to arrive in this weather," she explained reasonably. "If I may, I actually brought my own late-night meal in the office pantry's refrigerator. I can fetch it, and if you are hungry, I have an extra portion."

Matteo looked at her as if she had spoken to him in a foreign language. The women in his circle—models, heiresses, high-society socialites—would have swooned over a midnight truffle delivery. None of them had ever turned down luxury in favor of a container from the staff pantry.

"You brought your own food?" he asked quietly.

"I prefer home-cooked meals," she replied simply, standing up. "It is healthier, and it saves a substantial amount of money over time. I will be right back, sir."

Five minutes later, Katarina returned with two modest glass Tupperware containers and two sets of wooden utensils.

She placed one container in front of Matteo and opened her own. Inside was a humble, neatly arranged meal: garlic fried rice, sliced hard-boiled eggs, and homemade chicken adobo with a side of steamed broccoli.

Matteo stared down at the glass container. He hadn't eaten anything like this since he was a young boy visiting his mother's extended family. The rich, savory aroma of soy sauce, bay leaves, and caramelized garlic filled the sterile, air-conditioned office.

"It's just home cooking," Katarina said, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious under his heavy gaze. "If it's not to your taste, you don't have to—"

Without a word, Matteo picked up the wooden fork, scooped a generous portion of rice and chicken, and ate it.

He chewed slowly, his dark brows knitting together in intense focus. Katarina held her breath, half-expecting him to push it away with his usual aristocratic disdain.

Instead, Matteo swallowed, looked down at the container, and took another bite. And then another.

"Did you cook this yourself?" he asked softly, his tone stripped of its usual icy edge.

"Yes," Katarina said, relaxing slightly as she took a small bite of her own meal. "I cook in bulk every Sunday night. It cuts down my weekly grocery budget to less than fifteen hundred pesos."

Matteo looked up from his food, his gray eyes locking onto hers. He didn't say anything about her tight budget, nor did he make fun of her frugal habits. Instead, he just observed her—the practical way she ate, the quiet dignity in her choices, and the utter lack of pretense in everything she did.

"My father used to order thousand-dollar dinners to this desk," Matteo said low, his eyes dark with a quiet, reflective intensity. "He thought expensive things meant quality. He was wrong about a lot of things."

"Your father was a complicated man, Mr. Orsini," Katarina offered gently, keeping the conversation strictly on comfortable ground. "But he cared deeply about the legacy of this company."

"And you?" Matteo leaned back, his gaze lingering on her face, noting the soft glow of the desk lamp against her skin. "Why do you stay here, Katarina? You work fourteen hours a day, you live off home-cooked rice, and you flinch whenever your boss looks at you for too long."

Katarina set her fork down carefully. The professional boundary was still very much alive between them, and she was determined to keep it intact.

"I stay because I take pride in my work, sir," she said steadily, meeting his intense stare without backing down this time. "I have personal goals, financial security to build, and a life I am carefully constructing piece by piece. And as for flinching... I am simply learning how to navigate working with you."

Matteo stared at her for a long moment. The silence between them felt thick, charged with an unspoken dynamic that neither of them was ready to label.

Slowly, a tiny, rare ghost of a smile touched his lips.

"You navigate me surprisingly well, Miss Meneses," he murmured, his voice smooth and calm. He picked up his pen again and leaned back over the legal papers. "Eat your food. We still have twenty pages of section four to finish before dawn."

Katarina nodded, feeling a quiet sense of relief wash over her. He wasn't rushing things, and neither was she. They were boss and secretary, bound by contracts, midnight rain, and shared silence—and for now, that slow, cautious distance was exactly where she needed to be.