Valerio's Secretary

Chapter Twelve: The Digging.

Valerio’s POV



She’s under my skin, and I hate it.

I lean back in my leather chair, staring through the glass wall at Zara Matthews as she works at her desk. The executive floor has emptied out hours ago, but she’s still here. Head bent over the latest files I’ve thrown at her, fingers moving with that maddening precision that makes my blood run hot.

After interrupting her with Marcus in the records room, I can’t shake the image of her standing there, looking guilty and determined at the same time. I lean back in my chair, rubbing the scar on my temple. The headaches have been getting worse since she arrived, and fragments keep surfacing — a woman’s laugh, soft hands on my face, the taste of vanilla and sin.

I open the encrypted folder I’ve started building, notes on Zara Matthews. Her references are so perfect, her background clean, and the way she looks at me…like she knows secrets about my own life that I don’t.

Late night in this office. A lady on her knees in front of me, looking up with dark eyes as she took me deep, whispering “Ti voglio” between strokes (I want you). My hand in her hair, guiding her, losing control like I never did with anyone else.

I curse under my breath and close the folder. What the hell is happening to me? And who the f**k is this lady?

At 8:45 p.m., I change the deadline again, another impossible rework of the European merger projections. I want to see how far she can go, how much she can take before she breaks and shows me what she is really made of. Most assistants would have crumbled by now. Some had cried in this very office, but Zara? She squares her shoulders, gives me a quiet nod, and gets to work.

I stand up and walk to the bar cart, pouring myself two fingers of whiskey. The burn helps, barely though. I carry the glass back to my desk, but don’t sit back down; instead, I watch her again.

She stretches her neck, rolling her shoulders with a small grimace, and the movement pulls her blouse tight across her breasts. My grip tightens on the glass, and suddenly, it feels like I know how those curves feel under my palms, and how she arches into me when I touch her just right.

“f**k,” I mutter, downing the rest of the whiskey. I don’t even know her.

I shouldn’t want her this badly.

I have Clara, the perfect fiancée on paper. The strategic alliance. The woman who fit neatly into the empire I’ve rebuilt after waking up from that coma. But Clara’s touches feel calculated, and Zara’s presence feels…inevitable.

I change the deadline again, send her the email, and watch her reaction through the glass.

Her shoulder tenses slightly, then she relaxes, and glances towards my office, those dark eyes meeting mine for a long moment. No frustration, just quiet determination.

Who are you, Zara Matthews?

I grab two fresh coffees from the machine and walk out to her desk, and she looks up as I approach. Tired, but still strikingly beautiful. Hair slightly mussed from running her fingers through it, with lips parted just enough to make me think dangerous thoughts.

“Black, two sugars,” I say, setting the cup beside her keyboard.

“Grazie,” she murmurs again. That Italian slipped out so naturally.

I pull up the chair beside her like I did the night before. Our knees brush under the desk, and neither of us moves away, the contact sending heat racing up my thigh.

“Show me your progress,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.

She turns the screen toward me, and as I lean in, my shoulder presses against hers. Her scent, soft vanilla and something uniquely her, wraps around me, and I inhale deeply.

We work like that for nearly an hour, shoulders touching, arms brushing whenever we reach for the same document. Every accidental touch felt electric and deliberate. I catch myself watching her lips move as she explains the risk adjustments she’s made. The way her breath hitches slightly when my fingers graze hers.

Then another memory fragment hits me.

Late night, just like this. A lady bent over my desk in a red dress, reviewing the same kind of reports. I had come up behind her, slid my hands under her skirt, and whispered “Sei così bagnata per me” (You’re so wet for me) before sinking two fingers inside her while she tried to keep working. She had come undone right there, biting her lip to stay quiet.

I shift in my chair, uncomfortably hard.

“You’re doing it again,” I say quietly.

She looks at me. “Doing what?”

“Anticipating everything I need, and knowing exactly how I like things done.” I turn my chair fully toward her, our knees pressing together. “Most new assistants ask questions. You don’t. You just…know.”

Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. “I pay attention. That’s all.”

“Liar.” The word comes out soft. I reach up and brush a stray curl behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her neck, making her pulse jump under my touch. “You’re hiding something, cara. And I’m going to find out what it is.”

Her breath changes, shallower and faster, just like in the elevator last night.

I want to kiss her so bad. Right here. Push her back onto this desk and finally taste what has been haunting me since the moment she walked into my interview. To hell with the rule. f**k Clara. f**k everything.

Instead, I stand up abruptly and pace to the windows, creating distance between us.

The city lights stretch out below us. My empire. I turn back to her, and she is watching me, eyes full of emotions I can’t name.

“Come here,” I say.

She hesitates, then stands and walks over. I meet her halfway, stopping just a short distance from touching her.

“Why does this feel familiar?” I ask, voice low. “Why do I keep feeling like I’ve touched you before? Like I’ve had you right here in this office?”

Her lips part, pain and longing flash across her face so quickly I almost miss it.

“Valerio…” she whispers.

“Dimmi,” I murmur (Tell me). I cup her face with one hand, thumb stroking her cheek. “Tell me I’m not crazy for wanting you this badly.”

Her eyes glisten, and she leans into my touch for one dangerous second, then steps back.

“We can’t,” she says, voice breaking slightly. “You have rules. You have… Clara.”

The name lands between us like ice.

I drop my hand, anger at myself flaring hot. Clara. The fiancée I barely touch. The woman who fits the image but stirs nothing real inside me…not like this.

“Go home, Zara,” I say roughly, turning away. “Finish the rest in the morning.”

She gathers her things quietly. At the door, she pauses and looks back at me.

“Goodnight, Valerio.”

The way she says my name, soft and intimate, nearly breaks me.

After she leaves, I sit at her desk. Her scent still lingers. I’m acting strange over someone I don’t even know. I stand up, go back to my desk, and pull up the security footage for today. I watch her in the records room, with Marcus talking to her, and jealousy surges through me with full force.

I am becoming obsessed, and I don’t know how to stop.

I pour another drink and open a new encrypted folder titled: Zara.

Tonight, I will start looking for answers properly.

Because whatever she’s hiding, I am going to uncover it, piece by piece.

Even if it destroys everything I think I know.