Tonight, you’re my girlfriend.” My boss said those words at 6:15 p.m

The alarm clock went off at 6:00 a.m., shattering a night filled with restless, tangled dreams of ballroom lights and dark, demanding eyes.

By 8:45, I was sitting at my desk on the fortieth floor of the Moretti Tower, wearing a sharp charcoal pantsuit and a cream silk blouse. My hair was pulled back into a severe, professional knot, and my fingers were flying across the keyboard, clearing out the weekend backlog of emails before Luca arrived.

At 8:58, the private elevator chime chimed down the hall.

The heavy oak doors of Luca’s office opened, and he stepped out. He had already shed his suit jacket, his white sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the taut muscles and faint scars of a man who hadn't spent his entire life behind a mahogany desk. He didn't go straight into his office. Instead, he walked across the open-plan floor and stopped directly in front of my desk.

I didn't look up immediately. I finished typing a sentence, hit send, and then slowly raised my eyes.

"Good morning, Mr. Moretti," I said, my voice crisp and entirely business-like.

Luca’s lips twitched into a faint, dry smirk. "Good morning, Sophia. Did you sleep well?"

"Wonderfully, thank you. The budget review is prepared on your tablet. All the Q3 projections have been adjusted for the Bellamy Foundation donations, and the restructuring in the London branch is ready for your signature."

Luca leaned his hips against the edge of my desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked entirely too relaxed for a Monday morning. "No lingering effects from the champagne?"

"I drank water all evening, as any good executive secretary would do to ensure her employer didn't have to manage a hungover assistant."

"An executive secretary," Luca repeated, tasting the words as if they were foreign. "Is that what we're calling it today?"

"That is what is printed on my W-2 form, yes."

"W-2 forms can be amended."

"My job description cannot," I countered smoothly, picking up a stack of physical files and handing them to him. "Here are the logistics contracts for the shipping yard expansion. You need to sign pages four, seven, and twelve before eleven o'clock if you want the port authority to approve them by Wednesday."

Luca took the folders, his fingers brushing against mine. He didn't take his eyes off me. "You're very efficient this morning."

"Efficiency is my primary virtue."

"Among others."

Before I could respond, the elevator chimed again. This time, out stepped Marcus Vance, Luca’s head of security, looking grim and holding a secured leather briefcase. Marcus strode across the floor, ignoring me completely as he headed straight for Luca’s office door.

"Moretti," Marcus said tersely. "We have a problem with the Chicago shipping manifests. The customs audit is being pulled forward by forty-eight hours."

Luca’s professional mask slammed down instantly, replacing the playful warmth in his eyes with cold, calculated steel. He tossed the folders back onto my desk. "Cancel my morning appointments. Clear the schedule."