Page 3 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

This particular glass building overlooks the atrium, making the room very exposed. Mr. Moretti values an open working environment, probably so he can monitor all activity happening inside of his building. The glass offers very little privacy.

All I need right now is a few minutes of privacy before Salvatore Moretti arrives, a few minutes of slumping my shoulders, of bad posture so I can gather my thoughts and buckle up the courage to hand in this resignation, but there’s too many people walking past outside for me to drop my guard and look deflated for even a moment.

The door cracks open several minutes later, the boss himself striding in.

I stare up at Mr. Moretti, his enormous frame engulfing mine, turning everything dark.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he starts, shaking my hand. “Friday has come around in a flash. Any plans for the weekend?”

“Um,” I stutter, losing myself in his perfect face. “No… Not much. You?”

“The weekend is a concept I’ve been struggling to understand for several decades now,” he chuckles, pulling up a seat beside me. “I’m assuming you got my message last night?”

“Yes,” I gulp.

“The 10 a.m. meeting will have to be rearranged. Please see to that.”

“Of course,” I say, grabbing a pen from a purse, freezing when I see the envelope with his name written on it.

“Everything okay, Miss Bennett?” he asks, leaning into my space. The spiced notes of his cologne unfortunately find their way to my nose, his scent washing over me the brazen way it always does.

“Yes, everything is fine,” I say, clearing my throat and clicking on the pen, jotting down some notes on the pad.

Silence extends between us as I scribble down the details. I feel Mr. Moretti’s eyes on me. My skin always prickles this way when he is watching me.

Wetness leaks down my thighs, my pulse thumping through my body like a drum. I click off the pen, clutching it tight in my hands to stop them from shaking.

Finally, I look up. Mr. Moretti’s eyes are already there to meet me, which confirms he was staring at me the whole time. This happens a lot. Our eye contact contradicts a lot of what we say to each other. Everything that comes out of our mouths is cordial. We exchange corporate jargon, discuss business and eye fuck each other between the silence before one of us has to leave.

Usually, it’s me.

“So, um,” I continue, clearing my throat. “What else?”

“Your hand is trembling, Miss Bennet. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never been better,” I quip, taking a sip of coffee and setting it back down in the space between us. The gum is still in my bag. It’s 9 a.m. and I have already fucked up, drinking coffee in front of Mr. Moretti instead of chewing gum to mask the smell of coffee breath.

But what does it matter? This is my last day.

Besides, the smell of coffee doesn’t seem to be an issue as Mr. Moretti leans in, taking the pen from my grasp. His weathered hands brush over my palms, tingles exploding across my skin. For a founder and CEO who built his success by typing away on a computer, he has incredibly rough hands.

“I have a meeting scheduled with Sandra Williamson from HR,” says Mr. Moretti, clicking on my pen, the paper crinkling as he takes the notepad from me. “I’ll meet with the board on Monday instead, cancelling that meeting with Miss Williamson. Please make all necessary adjustments, calling the people involved.”

I’ll have to let Sandra down very gently.

“Of course,” I say.

Mr. Moretti crosses out the meeting for today, making a note for Monday. “I need you present in the board meeting, Miss Bennett.”

“For Monday?” I stutter.

“Correct,” he says, staring down at me. “Is there a problem with that?”

“It’s just…” I stall, my composure slipping.

Handing in my resignation to Mr. Moretti should not be a big deal, but a small part of me feels disheartened about never being this close to him again.

The man is a spectacle, plastered on the front cover of magazines, even billboards. Everyone in this city knows his name. Men want to be him, women want to be with him. Sharing intimate eye contact with a man this famous makes me feel special, different, like I have exclusive rights to him.