Valerio's Secretary

Chapter Nine: The Space Between

Zara's POV



The next day also blurs into another test of endurance.

Valerio changes deadlines again at midnight, another impossible rework, and another late night that stretches into early hours. I know what he’s doing; he’s pushing me, and watching how I’ll break, and every single time I deliver, the hunger in his eyes grows darker.

By eleven-thirty, the office is once again empty, except for us. I sit at my desk, neck aching, fingers flying across the keyboard as I update the latest financial projections he demanded. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let him see me weak.

His door is wide open. He hasn’t spoken much since I arrived, but I feel him constantly.

At 12:17 a.m., he walks out carrying two coffees again and sets one beside me without asking.

“Grazie,” I murmur without thinking, the Italian slipping out from old habit.

Valerio pauses mid-step. His eyes sharpen on me. “You speak Italian?”

I curse myself internally. “A little. Picked it up somewhere.”

“Your accent is terrible,” he says flatly. “Don’t use it again.” The lie hangs between us. My accent is perfect. He told me so, unless he was lying then.

He doesn’t press, but the way he looks at me changes again. Like another piece of the puzzle had clicked into place, and he couldn’t explain it. He pulls the chair beside my desk once more and sits down, closer than last night. His knee presses against mine under the table, and stays there.

We work in silence for nearly an hour, and every few minutes our arms brush, and his fingers will graze mine when we reach for the same document. Each touch sends sparks racing across my skin. I keep my eyes on the screen, but my body is painfully aware of every shift in his chair and every breath he takes.

“You’re tense,” he says suddenly, voice low and rough.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.” He stands up, reaches over, and gently presses his thumb into the knot at the base of my neck. My eyes flutter closed for a second before I catch myself and pull away.

“Valerio—”

“Relax, cara (darling),” he murmurs. The Italian word rolls off his tongue naturally. “You’ve been at this for hours. Let me.”

His hands return, massaging the tight muscles in my shoulders with slow, deliberate strokes. It feels too good, and too familiar. I remember these same hands on my bare skin in the middle of the night, kneading away stress before pulling me onto his lap.

I bit my lip hard to stay quiet.

“You carry the weight of the world on these shoulders, Zara Matthews,” he says softly. His breath brushes the shell of my ear. “Why?”

“Because I have to,” I whisper.

His fingers still for a moment, then continue. The silence between us grows heavier, loaded with everything unsaid—the no-office-romance rule, my son sleeping across town, the past they’d stolen from him, and the fraud ring still lurking these walls.

His hands slide lower, thumbs pressing along my spine. I shiver, and he notices.

“Freddo (Cold)?” he asks quietly, his voice dropping into that dangerous rasp I remember so well.

“No,” I breathe. “Not cold.”

He leans in closer, chest almost brushing my back. One hand moves to my waist, steadying me as he works. The touch feels possessive, like his body remembered what his mind didn’t.

I turn my head slightly, our faces inches apart. His steel-gray eyes burn into mine, heavy eye contact that makes my pulse thunder.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, the words rough.

I don’t want to.

Instead, my gaze drops to his mouth, and his grip on my waist tightens. The air crackles between us, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he’ll kiss me, finally. I want him to. I want him to forget every rule he thinks he made and claim me right here on this desk like he used to.

His head dips lower, his nose brushing mine.

Then the elevator dings softly down the hall.

We jerk apart like guilty teenagers. He moves fast, jaw clenched, running a hand through his hair. I turn back to my screen, cheeks burning, and heart racing.

Luca appears a moment later, carrying a takeout bag. His eyes flicker between us, taking in the scene—my flushed face, Valerio’s tense posture, and the way we were both breathing too hard.

“Thought you two might need food,” Luca says carefully. “It’s late.”

Valerio’s voice is clipped. “We’re fine.”

But he doesn’t sit back down. He paces to the windows instead, staring out at the city while I try to steady my hands enough to keep typing.

Luca sets the food on my desk and gives me a subtle warning look before leaving. The message was clear: be careful.

Valerio stays by the windows for a long time, and when he finally speaks, his back is still to me.

“You should eat something, Zara.”

I open the container, and the smell of warm pasta fills the air. I take a few bites, but my appetite is gone. All I can think about is how close we’d come, and how easily I would have ruined everything with one kiss.

At 2:45 a.m., I finally save the final version and send it to him.

“It’s done,” I say, standing up and stretching my sore back.

He turns around, and his eyes trace over me slowly: my wrinkly blouse, the strands of hair that have escaped my bun. I shift on my tired feet.

“Come here,” he says.

I hesitate, then walk over. He reaches out and adjusts the collar of my blouse with careful fingers, his knuckles grazing my collarbone.

“You look exhausted, bella (beautiful),” he murmurs. “Go home. Get some sleep.”

I nod, too drained to speak.

But as I gather my things, he speaks again.

“Zara.”

I look up.

He steps closer, voice dropping. “Whatever you’re hiding from me…I’m going to find out. Piece by piece if I have to. And when I do, you will wish you had told me yourself.” He let the words hang between us, dark and promising.

I don’t answer. I just walk to the elevator on unsteady legs.

I turn, and I see him still standing there, watching me with that intense, unsettled hunger.

I sag against the wall, pressing a hand to my racing heart. This is only day three.

And Valerio Cruz is already breaking through every wall I’ve built.

And what’s worse? I’m starting to want him to.

But if he discovers the truth too soon, everything could explode before I am ready. Before he is ready.

I close my eyes and whisper a quiet prayer to whoever is listening.

Just a little more time.

Please.