His Innocent Obsession

The first Encounter

The day had been dragging, each tick of the clock louder than the last. I was rearranging a bouquet for the third time when the bell above the shop door chimed. I looked up, expecting a customer with a last‑minute order.

But the man who entered wasn’t here for flowers.

He was tall, broad‑shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked too sharp for my little shop. His shoes clicked against the wooden floor, polished to a shine. He didn’t glance at the roses or the lilies. His eyes found me immediately, and something in the way he carried himself made my stomach twist.

“Miss Hart?” His voice was smooth, clipped, like he was used to being obeyed.

“Yes,” I said cautiously, setting the bouquet down.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card. He placed it on the counter between us, sliding it forward with two fingers. The cardstock was heavy, the lettering embossed in silver.

Moretti International.

“My employer would like a word with you,” he said. “Regarding your father’s debt.”

The words hit like a slap. My throat tightened. “Your employer?”

“Mr. Lucien Moretti,” he said simply, as if the name should mean something to me. “He requests your presence at his office. Tomorrow morning.”

I stared at the card. The name gleamed up at me, cold and final. “I… I don’t understand. Why would he want to see me?”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “You’ll understand when you meet him.”

I swallowed hard. “And if I don’t?”

His eyes flicked over me, sharp and assessing. “It would be unwise to refuse.”

The silence stretched. My heart pounded in my ears. Finally, I nodded, my voice barely a whisper. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

He inclined his head once, as if that was enough. Then he turned and left, the bell above the door chiming again as the door swung shut behind him.

The shop felt colder after he was gone.

I picked up the card with trembling fingers. Moretti International. The name meant nothing to me, but the weight of it pressed down on my chest. I slipped it into my apron pocket, though it felt like it burned against my skin.

---

That night, I sat on my couch with the card in my hand. I turned it over and over, tracing the embossed letters. Lucien Moretti. CEO. Moretti International. Address: 500 Kingsway Tower.

A skyscraper. Of course.

I stared at the name until it blurred. Who was this man? Why did he care about my father’s debts? And why did he want to see me?

I thought about ignoring it. About tearing the card in half and pretending none of this had happened. But the man’s words echoed in my head. It would be unwise to refuse.

By midnight, I’d made my decision. Tomorrow, I would go.

---

Morning came too quickly. I dressed carefully, though my hands shook as I buttoned my blouse. I chose a simple skirt and jacket, something that made me look professional, though I felt anything but. I tied my hair back, slipped the card into my purse, and forced myself out the door.

The city was already alive, cars honking, people rushing to work. My feet carried me toward Kingsway Tower, though every step felt heavier than the last.

When I finally looked up, I stopped in my tracks.

The skyscraper loomed above me, glass and steel stretching into the clouds. Its mirrored windows reflected the morning sun, blinding and beautiful. People in suits streamed in and out of the revolving doors, moving with purpose. I stood frozen on the sidewalk, suddenly small, suddenly out of place.

But I forced myself forward.

Inside, the lobby was vast, marble floors gleaming under crystal chandeliers. A massive fountain gurgled in the center, surrounded by sleek leather chairs where people in expensive clothes sat tapping on phones or flipping through files. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and money.

I clutched my purse tighter and approached the reception desk. The woman behind it was immaculate — blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun, red lipstick flawless, nails perfectly manicured. She looked me up and down, her eyes flicking over my modest outfit with thinly veiled disdain.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone cool.

“I’m here to see Mr. Lucien Moretti,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

Her brows arched. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I admitted.

Her lips curved into a faint, dismissive smile. “Then I’m afraid Mr. Moretti is very busy. He doesn’t see walk‑ins.”

She turned back to her computer, dismissing me as if I were invisible.

Panic fluttered in my chest. I fumbled in my purse and pulled out the card. “I was given this yesterday. By one of his men. He said Mr. Moretti wanted to see me.”

The receptionist’s eyes flicked to the card. For a moment, her expression faltered. Then she picked up the phone.

“Yes,” she said into the receiver. “There’s a Miss Hart here. She has one of Mr. Moretti’s cards.” A pause. “Understood.”

She hung up and gave me a tight smile. “Someone will escort you.”

Moments later, a man in another dark suit appeared. “Miss Hart? This way.”

I followed him to the elevators, my heels clicking against the marble. We rode in silence, the numbers climbing higher and higher until the display read 48. The second‑to‑last floor.

The doors opened into a sleek hallway lined with glass offices. The man led me to a corner office where another man waited — older, with graying hair and a sharp suit.

“This is Mr. Carrow, the manager,” my escort said before leaving.

Mr. Carrow gave me a polite smile. “Miss Hart. Mr. Moretti has been expecting you.”

Expecting me. The words made my stomach twist.

He led me down another hallway, this one quieter, more imposing. At the end stood a pair of tall double doors. Mr. Carrow stopped, picked up a phone on the wall, and spoke quietly.

“Yes, sir. She’s here.”

He hung up and turned to me. “You may go in.”

Then he opened the doors and stepped aside.

I stood frozen, staring into the dimly lit office beyond. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might break free from my chest.

This was it.

Lucien Moretti was waiting.

And I was about to meet him.

The doors closed behind me with a soft, final click.

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

The office was vast, the kind of space that made you feel small just by stepping into it. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows stretched across the far wall, the city sprawling beneath them like a glittering map. The furniture was sleek, modern, and expensive — dark leather, polished wood, steel accents. Everything about the room whispered power.

And then there was him.

Lucien Moretti.

I had expected someone older. A man with gray hair, maybe, or a paunch hidden behind a tailored suit. Someone who looked like the kind of ruthless businessman who dealt in debts and contracts.

But the man who rose from behind the desk was nothing like that.

He was young. Not boyish, but young in the way marble statues are timeless — sharp jaw, dark hair swept back, eyes the color of storm clouds. His suit was black, perfectly tailored, and when he moved, it was with the kind of quiet confidence that made the air shift around him.

My cheeks burned. I hated myself for it, but I couldn’t stop the heat that rushed to my face.

His gaze locked on me, steady and unyielding.

“Are you going to just stand there?” His voice was low, dark, and smooth, curling through the room like smoke.

I startled, my feet moving before my brain caught up. “S‑sorry,” I stammered, hurrying to the chair in front of his desk. My knees felt weak as I sat, clutching my purse in my lap like a shield.

For a moment, silence stretched between us. His eyes never left mine, and I had the unsettling feeling that he could see straight through me — past my nervous smile, past my trembling hands, down to the fear I was trying so hard to hide.

I cleared my throat. “Good morning, Mr. Moretti. I… I was given this card yesterday.” I fumbled in my purse and set the business card on his desk, sliding it toward him. “One of your men came to my shop and said you wanted to see me. He said it was about my father’s debt.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. He didn’t glance at the card. His eyes stayed on me.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Your father owed me.”

The words landed like a stone in my chest. I gripped the edge of my skirt. “I… I didn’t know. He never told me. I didn’t even know he owed anyone.”

Lucien tilted his head slightly, studying me. “And yet, here you are. Sitting in my office. Which means you understand that debts don’t vanish just because the debtor does.”

My throat tightened. “But the shop—” My voice cracked, and I forced myself to steady it. “The Velvet Stem is all I have. It’s my father’s legacy. Please, there has to be another way. I’ll do anything, but I can’t lose it.”

The words tumbled out faster than I could stop them. “I can work extra hours, I can pay in installments, I can— I don’t know, I can find another job on the side, I can—”

“Dahlia.”

My name in his voice stopped me cold.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t harsh. But it cut through my rambling like a blade.

I froze, my lips parted, my chest rising and falling too quickly.

Lucien leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. His eyes pinned me in place. “Do you always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

Heat rushed to my face again. “I— I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know what you expect from me.”

He smiled faintly, though it wasn’t kind. “Honesty. And composure. Two things your father lacked.”

I flinched. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “Why not? He left you with his mess. He gambled with money that wasn’t his. He made promises he couldn’t keep. And now, you’re the one sitting here, begging me to spare what’s left.”

My hands clenched in my lap. “He was a good man. He loved me. He loved that shop. He must have had a reason.”

Lucien’s expression didn’t change. “Love doesn’t pay debts.”

The words stung, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Then tell me what will. Tell me what I can do.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside the windows, the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re braver than I expected.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Most people in your position would have run. Or hidden. You came here.” His eyes flicked over me, assessing, calculating. “That tells me something.”

I swallowed hard. “That I’m desperate?”

“That you’re willing,” he corrected.

The way he said it made my pulse quicken. Willing. The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning I couldn’t quite grasp.

I shifted in my seat. “So… what happens now?”

Lucien leaned back again, his gaze never leaving mine. “Now, we discuss terms.”

My breath caught. “Terms?”

“Yes. Your father’s debt is substantial. You can’t pay it off with flower sales. Not in this lifetime. But…” His eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing me. “There are other ways.”

I gripped the arms of the chair. “Other ways?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood, walking around the desk. My heart pounded as he came closer, his presence overwhelming. He stopped just a few feet away, looking down at me.

“You said you’d do anything,” he reminded me.

I nodded quickly. “Yes. Anything. Just… please, don’t take the shop.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile. “Careful, Dahlia. Words like that can be dangerous.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse racing. “I mean it. I’ll work, I’ll— I’ll find a way. Just give me a chance.”

Lucien studied me for a long moment, then finally stepped back, returning to his chair. “Very well. I’ll give you time. But understand this: the debt is mine now. Which means you belong to me until it’s paid.”

The words sent a shiver down my spine. “Belong…?”

He didn’t elaborate. He simply leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. “You may go. For now.”

I stood on shaky legs, clutching my purse. My heart was still racing, my cheeks still hot. I wanted to say something — to argue, to thank him, to demand clarity — but the words stuck in my throat.

So I turned and walked to the door.

Just before I stepped out, his voice stopped me.

“Dahlia.”

I froze, glancing back.

His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Don’t make me regret giving you this chance.”

I nodded quickly, then slipped out into the hallway, the doors closing behind me.

Only when I was alone in the elevator did I let out the breath I’d been holding. My hands were trembling. My heart was still pounding.

And yet, beneath the fear, there was something else. Something I didn’t want to name.