Ruhi Kapoor believed in fairytales. Unfortunately, life kept slapping her in the face for it. But no matter how many real-life frogs she met, she still dreamt of wicked kings and dark princes who’d ruin her world and then kneel at her feet, hopelessly devoted.

Except none of that was supposed to happen at Romano Luxury India Pvt Ltd, her brand-new job that her mother had called a ‘miracle after so many rejections.’

At 8:45 AM sharp, she stood in the glimmering marble lobby of the Romano building in Connaught Place, clutching her tote bag and a dog-eared romance paperback — because obviously, she needed to calm her nerves by rereading Tempted by the Mafia Boss for the fiftieth time.

Her best friend’s voice echoed in her head: ‘Ruhi, you live in a la-la land. This is an office, not Wattpad. No mafia bosses here.’

Well. She would prove them all wrong. Maybe.

---

When the HR lady ushered her up the executive elevator to the 20th floor — the ‘top floor only Mr. Romano uses’ — Ruhi swore she heard wedding bells. Or maybe funeral bells. Same difference.

She adjusted her navy blue kurta tucked neatly into formal trousers, repeating her pep-talk: ‘Smile. Don’t stutter. Pretend he’s not a Greek god. Get your salary. Save the family. Live happily ever after.’

The HR lady knocked lightly on an enormous mahogany door etched with gold initials: A. Romano.

Inside, a deep voice said something she didn’t catch. Italian, maybe? Her heartbeat decided to break the sound barrier.

---

She stepped in.

And for a moment — time rewound.

Because seated behind a massive black oak desk was the very image of every villain she had ever read about at 3 AM under her blanket:

Jet black hair slicked back yet rebelliously messy at the front. Grey eyes so pale they looked carved from mist. A crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins on his forearms stealing her attention like a thief in the night.

He did not look up immediately. He signed a document, muttered, “Maledizione…” and only then lifted his gaze.

He did not smile.

Neither did her knees. They decided to become water.

---

“Miss Kapoor?” he drawled — a low, accented thunder.

She nodded. And, because her mouth did not obey her brain:

“Good morning, sir. Lovely weather. I—I’m Ruhi. New secretary. Huge fan— I mean, big admirer— no, not admirer— employee! I mean, obviously—”

Oh God. Shoot her now.

His eyebrow arched a fraction, lips curving into something that looked suspiciously close to a smirk.

“Breathe, Miss Kapoor.” He gestured at the chair across from him. “Sit.”

She sat. Her hands trembled on her lap, so she clutched her paperback under the table like a life raft.

He glanced at it. His eyes darkened a shade. “What’s that?”

“Oh. Uh. Just a book. Romance. Mafia. Fiction. Totally fiction. Not real at all.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her with an unreadable look. “Do I look like your... mafia boss?”

Heat crawled up her neck. “N-No, sir! Of course not, sir.”

A cruel glint sparked in his eyes. “Pity.”



Hi. I’m Ruhi Kapoor. Twenty-four. Delusional. Certified romance novel addict.

My entire life revolves around four things:

1. my mom’s unstoppable shaadi lectures,

2. my dad’s medicine bills,

3. my little brother’s overpriced cricket coaching, and

4. the scandalous mafia books I hide under my pillow every night.

I know, I know. Real life isn’t a Wattpad mafia story. There’s no brooding billionaire with an Italian accent waiting to ruin me in a glass tower. Or so I thought.

---

Today is my first day as the personal secretary to Alessandro Romano. THE Alessandro Romano. CEO of Romano Luxury India. Rumoured to be rich enough to buy half of Delhi and mean enough to set it on fire if he felt like it.

I didn’t believe the gossip. Until I stepped inside his building and instantly felt like a cockroach in an art gallery.

Everything gleamed — floors so shiny I could see my terrified reflection, receptionists with smiles as fake as reality TV, and the AC so cold it froze my bones and my confidence.

I clutched my one and only fancy tote bag (a Diwali sale special) and my precious dog-eared mafia novel — Tempted by the Mafia Boss. Because obviously, a paperback hero would protect me from my real-life demon boss. Right?

---

The HR lady, a robot in stilettos, guided me to the 20th floor.

‘Madam, please be respectful. Mr. Romano does not tolerate tardiness, excuses, or incompetence.’

Ma’am, I barely tolerate my own existence. But okay.

We stopped in front of a door so fancy it made my entire house look like a roadside tea stall. In gold letters: A. Romano.

My heart forgot how to beat.

Knock knock.

A deep, rough voice rumbled something in Italian from inside. The HR robot cracked open the door, motioned me forward, and abandoned me like a traitor.

I stepped in.

And forgot every English word I’d ever learned.

---

He sat there — behind an evil black desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, hair perfectly ruined. A villain handcrafted by God on His day off.

He didn’t notice me at first. He signed something, clicked his pen, cursed in Italian (I think?), of course I read mafia and books but those are all in english transalation. I know a few words of Italian that too not so important I guess.and then lifted his eyes.

Grey.

Stormy.

Deadly.

---

“Miss Kapoor?” he said, voice so low it probably scared away the sunshine.

“Yes, sir, good morning, lovely weather, I’m Ruhi — your new — secretary — huge fan — no, not fan — admirer — no no no — employee! I mean—”

Kill me. Someone. Now.

One eyebrow rose. His lips twitched like he wanted to laugh but decided to murder me instead.

“Sit,” he ordered. Just that one word and my knees basically evaporated.

I sat. Clutched my book under the desk like a talisman.

He noticed. Of course he did.

“What is that?”

I squeaked. “A book. Romance. Mafia. Totally fiction. I read it to relax. It’s not about you. Not that you’d be — mafia — obviously — ha ha.”

He didn’t even blink. He leaned back in his chair like a king on a throne.

“Miss Kapoor,” he murmured, voice softer than sin, “Do I look like your mafia boss?”

Holy mother of fanfiction. Yes ofcourse, you do.

I squeaked again. “No, sir! Absolutely not, sir!”

A cruel glint flickered in his eyes. “Pity.”

---

Silence. Long. Suffocating.

Then he spoke — too soft, too close, and in pure Italian:

“Sei troppo ingenua per questo posto, piccola.”

I tried to smile like a sane human. “Sorry, sir... English?”

He leaned forward across the table, so close I smelled expensive cologne and ruin.

“It means,” he whispered, “don’t test my patience. One mistake and sei licenziata.”

" Sei licenziata? I know it's means you are fired " I thought.

I nodded like a terrified pigeon. “ yes sir "

He stood up, a towering nightmare wrapped in Armani.

He came around the desk, stopped right behind my chair, and I swear my soul left my body for a moment.

His hand brushed the backrest. I held my breath.

He bent down, just enough for his lips to brush the shell of my ear.

“Welcome , Miss Kapoor.”

---

So yeah it's me , Ruhi Kapoor. And I think I just fell headfirst into the darkest love story I’ll ever survive.