Hi. It’s me again.

Ruhi Kapoor. Age twenty-four. Occupation: human stress ball for one (1) terrifying Italian vampire in an Armani suit.

Current mood: humiliated.

I’m squished in the back of a rattling Delhi cab at midnight, hugging my stupid tote bag like it’s a bulletproof vest. My heart is still somewhere back in his office — probably melted into the marble floor where Alessandro Romano cornered me like a villain in a bad fanfiction.

---

Let’s recap:

1. I spun in his chair.

2. I hummed a Bollywood song in his glass palace.

3. I pressed his fancy cufflink to my face like a literal psycho.

4. He caught me.

Conclusion? I need therapy.

“Do you think this is a playground?”

His words replay in my head on a loop — low, soft, dangerous enough to short-circuit every brain cell I have left.

When he stepped so close I could feel his breath on my forehead, my soul left my body. Literally. I think I saw my own ghost floating near the AC vent.

---

God, what’s wrong with me?

Why does my boss — my rude, cold, work-obsessed BOSS — make my knees wobble like a teenager’s? He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t thank me when I stay late. He calls me incompetent at least twice a day. And yet, when he leans down and growls ‘Next time you touch what is mine, I won’t be this kind…’

WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN, SIR?

I know he was threatening me what ehy the hell does my stupid novels obsessed brain thinks that he was flirting with me? Ayein?

---

The cab driver side-eyes me through the mirror because I keep giggling-then-groaning into my scarf like a maniac.

“Madam, sab theek hai?”

(Madam, everything okay?)

“Yes, bhaiya! All good! Bas shyd zada hi novels padh li hai demag gume ja rha hai dhamki bhi flirt lag rhi hai ”

He turns the radio up to drown out my mental breakdown. Fair.

---

I look out the window at the streetlights flickering past. I should quit. I really should. Normal people quit jobs that eat their sanity for breakfast. But the truth is —

I don’t want to.

There’s something about him — about his quiet rage, his stormy eyes, his unexpected moments of softness that make absolutely no sense — that makes me want to see more. Maybe I’m stupid. Maybe I’m sick. Or maybe, just maybe, I want to prove to Alessandro Romano that even a small-town daydreamer can survive his cold, cruel empire.

---

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.

+39 — Italy’s country code.

I freeze.

Click it open.

> Alessandro Romano: Next time, wait in the lobby if I am busy. Do not touch my chair again. And sleep properly tonight, Miss Kapoor. Your incompetence tomorrow will be my headache.

---

My heart trips over itself. A tiny, traitorous smile tugs at my lips.

" Wtf ruhi? He just insulted you, threatened you not confessed his love "

God, Ruhi. You are so doomed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ NEXT DAY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If there was a prestigious award for Most Likely to Die of Embarrassment Before Lunch, Ruhi Kapoor would win it. Twice.

It was a fresh Friday morning, but there was nothing fresh about Ruhi’s mental state.

She’d promised herself — PROMISED — that today she would keep her head down, do her work, and avoid making any squeaking rodent noises in front of Alessandro Romano.

So naturally, by 8:37 AM, she was already failing spectacularly.

He hadn’t spoken a word to her all morning. Not one. He’d breezed past her desk, murmuring a curt “Buongiorno.” (Good morning.) in that deep rumble that did unspeakable things to her spine — then slammed his office door shut.

She’d spent the next hour triple-checking his calendar, color-coding his meetings, and bribing the pantry boy with leftover chocolates to brew his espresso exactly as His Royal Demonness liked it.

At precisely 9:45 AM, her phone buzzed.

A. Romano: Inside. Bring my coffee.

She inhaled, exhaled, straightened her kurta, and practiced her poker face in the elevator reflection.

She knocked twice. No answer. She peeked in — and her heartbeat dropped into her stomach.

He wasn’t behind his desk. He was in the lounge corner of his office — a plush, moody space with a dark leather couch, shelves lined with thick Italian law books, and a floor-to-ceiling window that made the Delhi skyline look like it belonged to him.

Which, technically, it did.

He stood there, back to her, coat discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up again — and that wristwatch she had no business staring at glinting as he typed furiously on his phone.

She cleared her throat. “S-sir? Your coffee.”

His head turned slightly, just enough for his eyes to slice through her composure. He didn’t say thank you. Alessandro Romano did not do thank yous.

He gestured for her to place it on the small table by the couch. She did, carefully, as if defusing a bomb.

---

He spoke without looking at her. “Did you confirm Singapore?”

“Yes, sir. They want to reschedule Friday’s conference to—”

“Non è possibile.”

(That’s not possible.)

Ruhi froze. “Sorry?”

He turned fully this time, prowling closer until she could see the faint dark circles under his eyes — the only proof that he might actually be mortal.

“I said,” he repeated slowly, as if explaining rocket science to a pigeon, “Singapore does not reschedule me. I reschedule Singapore. Call them back.”

She gulped. “But sir, they said—”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Miss Kapoor.”

Oh no. Miss Kapoor in that voice meant two things:

1. He was seconds away from a tirade in rapid Italian.

2. She was about to regret every cell in her body.

She threw her hands up in surrender. “Okay! Okay. I’ll call them.

A flicker of amusement ghosted across his stony face. Bastardo.

She fumbled for her phone, tapping at the dial pad, when his voice — lower now, almost curious — stopped her.

“You didn’t sleep last night.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation. Like he was inspecting a scratch on his expensive car.

Ruhi’s cheeks betrayed her, heating instantly. “I—I did. A little. Just work and—”

A smirk. Barely there. Dangerous.

" Stop stuttering Miss Kapoor. I don’t bite.” He leaned closer, his cologne wrapping around her like a silk noose. “Unless provoked.”

She forgot English again. Her brain screamed: Run. Squeal. Melt. Something!

But her mouth, traitorous as ever, said, “Maybe you should bite Singapore instead. They’re the real villains here.”

For half a heartbeat, he looked like he might laugh. A real, human laugh. But instead, he stepped back, the cold mask snapping back in place.

“Focus on your calls, Miss Kapoor. Subito.”

(Now.)

She scrambled out of his lounge like a startled rabbit. Behind her, she swore she heard a low chuckle. But maybe that was just her sleep-deprived brain trying to romanticise her executioner.

                       11: 00 AM

By mid-morning, she was a tornado of phone calls, emails, and apologetic grovelling to various international executives who had no clue that the man they were trying to negotiate with would rather bulldoze their building than shift a meeting by thirty minutes.

She typed furiously, hair falling out of her bun, muttering curses in Hindi she prayed he’d never learn to translate.

“Miss Kapoor.”

His voice snapped her out of her internal meltdown. He was standing right behind her desk again, reading her half-done email over her shoulder.

She nearly fell off her chair. “Sir—!”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me. What is this nonsense you’re sending Singapore?”

She blinked. “Uh… an apology for the reschedule—”

His laugh — a sharp, humorless bark — sliced through her. “You don’t apologise on my behalf. Mai non chiedo scusa a nessuno.”

(I do not apologise to anyone.)

" English mei bolne mei takleef hai kya. Ek toh subtitles bhi ni hai " She muttered.

" What did you say ms kapoor? " He asked.

" Hindi" She rolled her eyes and said. Then realisation hit her and her eyes widen. " Ah—no—nothing sir "

He leaned down, one hand braced on her desk beside her elbow, trapping her with that unholy scent and those godforsaken grey eyes.

“Rewrite it. Tell them the new time is final. No excuses, no apologies. Capisci?”

(Understand?)

Ruhi nodded so fast her neck cracked.

He straightened, gave her hair a fleeting glance like he might scold her messy bun, then stalked back into his lair, barking into his phone in pure, indecipherable Italian.

She exhaled shakily. If she survived this job for one month, she’d apply to the army next. It would be a vacation in comparison.

                           3:00 PM

The rest of the day blurred into a mess of orders, corrections, eye rolls, and too many Maledizione muttered from behind his door.

By mid-afternoon, Ruhi’s eyelids drooped. Her fingers paused over her keyboard, mind drifting to her mother’s voice on the phone that morning — asking if she’d eaten, slept, if her bada boss was kind.

Kind. Right.

She huffed a tired laugh, let her eyes close for just a second—

A low, dangerous rumble jolted her awake.

“Miss Kapoor.”

She snapped up like a guilty schoolgirl. Alessandro stood in front of her desk, two fingers drumming on her paperwork.

“You were sleeping at your desk?” His tone was ice and thunder, yet she spotted something else flickering under it — concern? No, impossible.

“I wasn’t sleeping! I was… power napping. Very professional.”

He didn’t smirk this time. He sighed. Actually sighed. Then, to her utter horror, he placed a small paper bag next to her keyboard.

“Eat. Or you’ll faint on my paperwork. And that will annoy me.”

Ruhi blinked at the bag. A warm sandwich. An energy bar. A tiny bottle of juice.

“You— You got this for me?” she squeaked.

He looked away, jaw tight, eyes on anything but her face.

“Don’t misinterpret it. It’s not kindness. It’s efficiency. A dead secretary is useless.”

He turned on his heel, muttering in low Italian, “Dio, questa ragazza mi farà impazzire…”

(God, this girl will drive me insane…)

Ruhi watched him vanish behind his glass door, her heart thundering so loud she was sure half the building heard.

She opened the sandwich, took a bite, and whispered to herself — part terrified, part giddy:

“Oh God. Maybe he hit his head somewhere Should I book him a check up? .”

—

As she munched that suspiciously delicious sandwich at her cluttered desk, she wondered if she was the one who needed admission.

Don’t overthink it, Ruhi. She slapped her cheeks lightly. It’s not romance. It’s not softness.

He’s feeding the livestock so it doesn’t die.

She nearly giggled at her own thought. But then her phone vibrated:

A. Romano: Inside. Now.

Every nerve in her body tensed. Not again.

---

She knocked — once, twice — and stepped in.

Alessandro was seated behind his fortress of a desk, reading some contract so aggressively the paper might catch fire.

His eyes flicked up. Piercing. Blank. Except for the faintest ghost of... annoyance? Or was that worry? Ha, good joke.

“Miss Kapoor,” he said, voice all ice, “why were you speaking to that man from Singapore for twenty-three minutes?”

Ruhi blinked. “Um... because he was clarifying the new timings?”

His jaw clenched so hard she heard it. “And did clarifying require so many grazie and thank you and that idiotic giggle you do?”

Her mouth fell open. “Excuse me? I don’t giggle!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “You do. I hear it. Don’t do it again. Not with him. Not with anyone. They are our clients not your friends.

She sputtered. “You were listening to my call?”

His eyes darkened like a brewing storm. “Everything under this roof is mine, Miss Kapoor. Including the phone lines. And the attenzione of my staff.”

She hissed and muttered to herself, " Does he has a problem of paranoia? " But he heard.

He leaned forward — so close his cologne snatched her breath away. His voice dropped an octave, smooth and lethal.

“Paranoico?” he murmured. “No, dolcezza. I simply don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

Her knees begged for mercy. Her brain short-circuited at dolcezza — sweet one. Was she hearing him right?!

She scrambled for words. “I’m not yours"

One heartbeat. Two. His stare sliced her open.

A cruel, lazy half-smile curved his mouth. “of course miss kapoor you are, you are my employee. You work for me"

                            6:00 PM

Ruhi had survived the rest of the afternoon by avoiding eye contact, eye contact’s evil twin (eye contact with veins), and any situation that required her to speak more than three words.

But the universe hated her. Because by six o’clock, the printer rebelled — right as Alessandro needed ten urgent copies of a high-profile contract for an overseas call.

Ruhi begged. Pleaded. Hit the stupid machine. Cried a little. Nothing worked.

Finally, she stomped into his office, rage overriding her common sense.

“Sir. The printer is dead. I tried everything. It hates me. Please don’t fire me for this, but I can’t revive the dead.”

He glanced up, bored. “Did you check the paper tray?”

She threw her arms up. “Of course I did! I’m incompetent, not brainless!”

He stood. The air shifted. If arrogance could be bottled, he’d be selling it for a billion dollars a drop.

He stalked out past her — sleeves rolled up, tie discarded somewhere, top buttons undone. Ruhi trailed behind, still ranting under her breath.

He reached the printer, bent slightly, and Ruhi’s poor eyes zeroed in on the lines of his throat, the faint shadow of his stubble. She forgot English. Again.

Click. Whirr. Print.

The machine purred to life in his hands.

She stared. He straightened and caught her staring. “Eyes up, Miss Kapoor. Or should I charge you for staring?”

She mumbled under her breath, “Kya banda hai yr …”

He heard her. Of course he did. “What did you say?”

She smiled sweetly. “Nothing, sir. Thank you,

He grunted and walked back to his den. Devil man.

---

                          8:00 PM

By eight, the whole floor was empty except Ruhi and him. She packed her bag slowly, hoping he’d forget she existed.

Ping!

Her phone: Inside. Now.

She bit her tongue, opened his door. He sat, eyes tired, fingers rubbing his forehead. For once he looked... human.

“Miss Kapoor.” His voice was soft. She froze. Was he dying?

“Yes, sir?”

He looked at her, tired but serious. “Why do you stay so late?”

She blinked. “Because you do?”

He gave a tiny laugh — tiny, but real. “Sciocca ragazza.”

(Silly girl.)

She threw her hands up. “Again Italian! Sir,

English boliye! Ya at least subtitles do!”

He rubbed his temple, then looked at her with an expression so tired yet soft, it stole her breath.

“Go home. Sleep. Be here at seven sharp tomorrow. Not seven-fifteen. Not seven-oh-five. Sette in punto.”

(Seven exactly.)

She pretended to salute him. “Yes, captain

He glared — but a tiny smirk tugged at his lips. She saw it.

“Out, Miss Kapoor.