The day before the big meeting, stress hung over Dante Blackwood like a stormcloud waiting to burst. His calls were shorter, sharper. His footsteps echoed louder down the marble halls of the Milan branch office. His sighs came more frequently—low, strained, and impatient. Employees walked on eggshells, ducking their heads and avoiding his gaze.

Everyone, that is, except Sienna.

She noticed the things others missed. The deepening lines carved into his forehead. The way his fingers twitched slightly when he massaged his temple. The untouched salad sitting cold beside his untouched espresso. Even the way he stared out the window between meetings, as if the skyline might offer him a break he wouldn’t take himself.

When the last meeting finally wrapped up that evening, Sienna lingered by the door before gathering her courage and stepping forward.

“Sir… you’ve been working non-stop,” she said softly. “Maybe you should take a break.”

He looked up at her, expression unreadable. “This isn’t a vacation, Miss Brooks.”

“I know that,” she said quickly. “But even machines need to recharge. You’re not helping anyone if you burn out.”

For a long moment, she expected him to wave her off—or worse, reprimand her. But something in her tone or her eyes made him hesitate. His gaze lingered on her face, and without a word, he stood.

Twenty minutes later, Sienna found herself seated across from him at a quiet rooftop café overlooking the Duomo. The sky was painted in soft golds and dusky purples as the sun dipped behind the cathedral. A plate of warm pasta sat in front of her, steam curling into the cool evening air. Dante stirred his espresso, silent but more relaxed.

She didn’t push him to talk. That was new for him—someone who didn’t fill the silence with small talk or business. Instead, she watched the clouds gather on the horizon.

“Looks like rain,” she said, glancing up.

Dante barely moved his eyes. “Milan rains often.”

As if summoned by his words, thunder rumbled low across the sky, and moments later, the heavens opened in a sudden downpour. The streets below shimmered as people scrambled for cover. Sienna let out a surprised laugh, lifting a napkin over her hair in vain.

Dante stared at her—really stared—as if seeing her for the first time. Something flickered behind his stormy eyes, a rare softness cutting through the usual steel.

“You really find this funny?” he asked, watching her grin through the chaos.

“I find it real,” she said, looking straight at him. “Sometimes life needs a little storm.”

A pause. Then, the corner of his mouth tugged into the faintest smirk. “You’re strange.”

“And you’re overworked.”

They left the café under one small umbrella, shoulders bumping occasionally as they walked back. The rain was relentless, but neither of them seemed to mind. At one point, Sienna slipped on the slick pavement. Dante reacted instantly, catching her by the waist.

Their eyes locked. His hand lingered.

Neither of them said a word.

By the time they returned, Dante was silent—but lighter.

The rain had rinsed something from his shoulders.

But tomorrow, the real storm would arrive.