Chapter 7

My heart thudded relentlessly within my chest, yet I maintained a pleasant smile for every customer, exchanging polite words from behind my desk. Despite my outward composure, my mind was consumed by thoughts of him-only him.

Raphael.

Why did he appear so drained, so worn? Why did he bear the look of a man carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders? Could he be gravely ill? Was that why his face seemed so devoid of any trace of emotion?

No. It wasn't just exhaustion. There was something deeper in the way his gaze had drifted when he thought no one was watching. The dark shadows beneath his eyes weren't just from lack of sleep. Something haunted him, and I hated how desperately I wanted to know what it was.

Oh, Raphael! Why must you persist in haunting my every thought?

I was deeply engrossed in assisting a customer when Kyle appeared before me. Unlike his usual jovial self, his expression betrayed an unfamiliar emotion-fear. But fear of what?

"He wants you," Kyle said, his voice laced with unease as his eyes darted nervously.

"Who?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. Who could instill such trepidation in Kyle?

"Mr. Steel," he replied, his voice trembling. "He asked me to fetch you."

In that instant, the blood drained from my face.

Was this about earlier? Was he about to dismiss me for having the audacity to touch him, even after he'd insisted he was fine?

"Did he tell you why?" I whispered, hoping to glean some insight.

Kyle shook his head. "No, love. But he just fired Pamela-the cook-and now...he's asking for you." His fear mirrored my own.

Kyle knew how much I despised this job, yet I clung to it out of necessity.

I exhaled deeply, accepting the inevitability of the moment. "It was bound to happen," I muttered, attempting to steady my nerves.

"I'm sorry, love. Maybe it's not as bad as we think," Kyle offered, though his tone lacked conviction.

I gave a small nod, removed my headset, and prepared to face whatever awaited me.

The elevator carried me to the sixteenth floor, each second an eternity. I prayed fervently as I ascended. Perhaps I had offended him by touching him earlier, ignoring his insistence that he was fine. Foolish of me, I thought.

But I had only wanted to comfort him.

The memory of his face flickered in my mind-the sharpness of his jawline, the way his brows had furrowed slightly when I reached for him, the way his entire body had tensed. But what haunted me most was his eyes. They had burned with something unreadable, something that made my stomach tighten.

What was it about him that made my heart race this way?

The elevator doors parted, and I stood before the grand glass doors of his office. I took three deliberate breaths, steeling myself, and stepped inside.

The room was eerily silent. He was nowhere in sight.

I took a moment to observe my surroundings, my first glimpse of the CEO's office in all my three years of employment. The furnishings exuded opulence, sleek leather and dark wood, the expansive view of New York City offering a tranquil contrast to its usual chaos-a breathtaking sight of cars and people moving in harmony.

Then, something caught my eye-a single photo frame on his desk, the sole personal item amidst a sea of professional decor. I picked it up, studying it closely.

The image depicted a teenage girl and a young boy. The girl, adorned with braces, grinned widely, her hand resting protectively on the boy's shoulder. The boy's eyes were shut, his face alight with joy. Their bond was unmistakable; she was clearly his elder sister.

At the bottom of the photograph, a caption read: Bella – 2003.

I frowned in confusion. Bella? Could it be...Annabel? Or had I mistaken her for someone else entirely? Was the girl in the photo the same person who had called him that night? A cascade of questions swirled in my mind as I gently placed the frame back in its original position.

Turning to sit and wait, I froze.

He was standing behind me.

His gaze was piercing, unreadable. The silence in the room suddenly felt suffocating.

I stumbled, but his arm shot out, steadying me. His grip was firm, unyielding, sending a jolt of warmth through me. He pulled me closer, his presence overwhelming.

A sinister smirk played on his lips, sending shivers racing down my spine.

"Hello, Amy," he murmured dangerously, his voice rough, his breath warm against my ear.

Instinctively, I pressed my hands against his chest, hoping to create some distance between us, but he didn't budge. Instead, he closed his eyes at the contact, a low groan escaping his lips as his grip tightened further.

"Did I give you permission to touch my things?" His voice was low, teasing, yet there was something darker beneath it.

I swallowed hard. "I-I didn't mean to intrude."

His thumb brushed the curve of my wrist, making me shudder. "And yet, you did."

My breathing hitched. His scent was intoxicating-something rich and deep, a mix of cedarwood and something distinctly him. It clouded my senses, made it impossible to think straight.

"I was just waiting for you," I whispered, hating how breathless I sounded.

His smirk deepened. "And you thought you'd entertain yourself by snooping through my things?"

I forced myself to meet his gaze, though my pulse pounded wildly. "I wasn't snooping."

"Then what do you call it?" he countered, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around my wrist.

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died in my throat as he tilted his head, his eyes darkening.

"I wonder," he mused, his tone infuriatingly calm, "do you always get this flustered when you're caught doing something naughty?"

Heat flared in my cheeks. "I wasn't-"

His fingers trailed up my forearm, slow and deliberate. "No?"

I took a shaky breath, willing myself to push him away, but my body betrayed me. The space between us had vanished, his presence all-consuming.

"You touched me earlier," he murmured, his voice a whisper against my skin.

I swallowed hard. "You looked unwell."

A humorless chuckle left his lips. "And you thought you could fix me?"

I didn't answer. Because the truth was, I had wanted to fix something in him, though I knew it was impossible.

His fingers ghosted over my jawline, his touch feather-light. "You're always watching me," he murmured.

My breath hitched.

"So tell me, Amy," he continued, his gaze flickering to my lips before returning to my eyes, "what exactly is it that you see when you look at me?"

I felt trapped, ensnared in his gaze, in his presence, in the unspoken tension that crackled between us like a live wire.

I had been caught.

And now, I was about to face the consequences of my indiscretion.