Breath
1545 Words
Author’s POV
The morning arrived sharp and unforgiving.
Milan woke under a pale sky, the kind that pressed down rather than opened up. Prerana felt it the moment she opened her eyes—that heaviness that sat behind her ribs, tightening with every breath. She lay still for a few seconds longer than usual, staring at the ceiling of her apartment, listening to the distant hum of traffic climbing into the day.

Her phone vibrated on the bedside table.
She already knew it wouldn’t be good news.
The call had come too early, too insistent. A project manager from the eastern division—voice strained, words rushed, panic poorly disguised as professionalism. Approved documents. Minor deviations. Overlooked compliance gaps. Nothing fatal, they had said. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.
But Prerana knew better.
There was no such thing as minor in Moretti Global Holdings.
Especially not when Vittorio Moretti’s signature sat at the bottom of the approval page.
By the time she ended the call, her hands were cold.
She moved through her morning routine on instinct—shower, pressed clothes, hair neatly tied back. She chose a neutral sari blouse beneath her formal blazer, fingers steady despite the tremor beneath her skin. Fear was not unfamiliar to her. It lived quietly in her bones. But today it had teeth.
At the office, glass walls reflected a woman who looked composed enough to deceive anyone who didn’t know how to look closely.
Prerana walked into the executive floor with her tablet clutched tightly to her chest.

She did not pause.
She did not breathe deeply.
She went straight to the CEO cabin.
Vittorio Moretti’s office was quiet in the way powerful rooms always were. Sound didn’t dare linger there. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in a controlled amount of light, never enough to soften the edges. Everything inside had purpose—nothing decorative, nothing indulgent.
He sat behind his desk, dark suit immaculate, posture relaxed in a way that never meant ease.
Prerana stepped in.
“Good morning, Sir,” she said, voice steady.
He nodded once.
She placed the tablet on his desk, already unlocking it. “Today’s schedule has been rearranged slightly. The Zurich call has been moved to noon due to time zone conflicts. I’ve informed legal and finance.”
She spoke quickly.
Too quickly.
Vittorio noticed immediately.
She moved to the side, pulling a folder from her arms. “These are the final drafts for the Milan branch expansion. Marketing approvals are complete. I’ve made the requested edits to the vendor contracts and sent them for countersign.”
She crossed to the side table, placed his coffee down with careful precision.
Black. No sugar. No cream.
Exactly how he liked it.
He didn’t touch it.
Prerana continued. “Your afternoon is blocked for the board review. I’ve prepared the summary notes. I’ll forward them to your mail shortly. Also, there’s an investor dinner tomorrow evening. I’ve confirmed your attendance and arranged transport.”
She didn’t look up.
Didn’t wait.
She turned a page. “I’ve also responded to overnight mails—”
“Prerana.”
Her name cut through the air.
She paused only for a fraction of a second.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Sit.”
The chair across from him waited, untouched.
She didn’t move.
“I’m fine standing,” she said, already continuing. “There’s also a compliance review—”
“Sit,” he repeated.
Her fingers tightened around the folder. She shook her head once, barely noticeable. “It will only take a moment. I’ll be quick.”
She wasn’t defying him.
She was avoiding stillness.
Vittorio leaned back slightly, studying her now.
She stood straight, posture perfect, but her shoulders were too rigid. Her voice, though professional, carried an edge—tight, controlled, restrained. There was a faint flush along her cheekbones that hadn’t been there before.
Fear.
Not the kind others brought into his office. Not the kind born from authority or intimidation.
This was older.
Deeper.
She spoke again. “The eastern project approvals—”
“That file wasn’t scheduled for today,” he said.
Her words stumbled.
Just for a moment.
“I took the liberty of reviewing it earlier,” she replied quickly. “I thought it best to inform you immediately.”
Immediately.
Before it became worse.
Before someone else spoke.
She turned another page. “There appear to be discrepancies in the safety compliance checklist. Minor deviations, but—”
“But?” he prompted.
She inhaled.
“—but they were approved under your signature.”
The words fell between them.
Silence expanded.
Vittorio’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but calculation. He finally glanced at the untouched coffee, then back at her.
“And?” he said calmly.
She swallowed. “I’ve already contacted the project head. I asked for a revised report within the next two hours. Legal has been alerted discreetly. I can prepare a damage-control response if needed.”
She was handling it.
Too much.
He stood.
The movement was unhurried, but it changed the room immediately.

Prerana felt it before she saw it. Her voice faltered mid-sentence as his presence closed the distance between them. She forced herself to continue. “I’ll draft a provisional mail to the board explaining—”
“Enough.”
Her mouth closed.
Vittorio stopped in front of her.
Close.
Too close.
She could smell his cologne—subtle, expensive, restrained. Feel the heat of him without contact. Her heart accelerated, betraying her.
She lifted her eyes then.
And met his.
Dark. Focused. Searching.
He raised his hands slowly and placed them on her shoulders.

Not hard.
Not gentle.
Firm enough to stop her.
Prerana froze.
Every thought scattered.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—nerves lighting up, breath caught halfway between inhale and exhale. She should have stepped back. Should have apologized. Should have lowered her gaze.
She didn’t.
Something about his touch felt anchoring.
Dangerous and safe all at once.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Vittorio felt it.
The tremor beneath his palms. The tension coiled too tight for a woman who was always composed. His breath paused—not deliberately, but instinctively.
This was new.
He had never touched her before.
The realization struck him harder than expected.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
She already was.
Her eyes spoke before her mouth ever could.
Fear.
Not of him.
Of something else.
Something she was carrying alone.
“What happened?” he asked.
She shook her head slightly. “It’s under control, Sir.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Her lashes lowered, then lifted again. Moisture gathered—not tears, but the warning of them. She tried to steady herself.
“I should finish the approvals,” she murmured. “You can review later.”
“No,” he said.
His hands remained on her shoulders.
“Tell me.”
She hesitated.
That hesitation told him everything.
“Prerana,” he said, voice firm now. “Why are you afraid?”
Her throat tightened.
Because fear was not something she explained. It was something she survived.
She looked down at the folder between them. “The project manager said the deviations were overlooked intentionally to meet deadlines.”
Vittorio’s eyes hardened.
“That’s not why you’re afraid,” he said.
She exhaled shakily. “If this escalates… it won’t just reflect on the team. It will reflect on you.”
There it was.
The reason.
His irritation flared—not at the mistake, not at the incompetence—but at the fact that this had touched her. That someone’s carelessness had shaken her so deeply.
“And you thought you had to fix it alone,” he said.
She nodded once.
Slowly.
“I didn’t want it to reach you like this,” she whispered. “Not first thing in the morning.”
Something shifted inside him.
A sharp, dangerous tenderness.
“You don’t decide what reaches me,” he said softly. “You bring it to me.”
Her eyes lifted again. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
The words landed like a blow.
Disappointment.
He removed his hands from her shoulders—but the space they left felt louder than the touch itself.
“Sit,” he said again.
This time, she did.
She sank into the chair, hands folded tightly in her lap. Vittorio returned to his desk, picked up the coffee finally, took one sip without tasting it.
“Send me the revised report the moment it arrives,” he said. “Cancel my noon call if necessary.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And Prerana?”
She looked up.
“You do not carry this alone,” he said. “Not today. Not ever.”
Her breath shook.
Something in her chest loosened—just slightly.
She nodded.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said, standing quickly.
As she left the room, Vittorio remained still, staring at the door long after it closed.
For the first time in years, his control had slipped—not into rage, but into something far more dangerous.
Emotion.
And he already knew—
This was only the beginning.
- Writer
