Soraya sat behind her sleek glass desk, reviewing documents when her intercom buzzed.

“Ms. Reigns,” Lily’s voice came through, “Mr. Butera is here.”

“Send him in,” Soraya said, her tone even—but there was a flicker of anticipation in her eyes.

The door opened, and Milo stepped in.

He looked breathtaking.

Dressed in a striking GuTera patterned tuxedo, tailored perfectly to his lean frame, he exuded effortless elegance. The scent of GuTera Believe drifted into the room—a bold, intoxicating fragrance that clung to the air and wrapped itself around Soraya’s senses. His signature messy, curly hair was—somehow—chaotically perfect, like a styled accident that only someone like him could pull off.

For a brief moment, Soraya stared, her eyes trailing up from his broad shoulders to the easy confidence in his stride. His aura wasn’t loud—it was smooth, magnetic, self-assured.

She cleared her throat softly. “Mr. Butera,” she said with a small smile, “you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Milo returned the smile as he took a seat. “Hmmm.”

She folded her hands on her desk. “I brought you in to inform you—the pitch for the English investors will be presented in three weeks. You’ll have full access to our previous data, internal support, and everything you need.”

Milo nodded. “Understood.”

Then, Soraya’s tone shifted—still calm, but with a spark of curiosity. “I have to ask… someone like you, coming from a wealthy Italian family with connections, comfort… why leave all that behind?”

Milo paused for a moment, then looked her straight in the eyes. “Because I wanted to forge my own path and build something on my own.”

Soraya held his gaze, and for a split second, there was something more than professionalism in her eyes—admiration, maybe even a flicker of understanding.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I respect that.”

They exchanged a small, mutual smile—two people with ambition in their bones, staring across the desk, sensing something deeper.

They were locked into each other’s eyes, it felt like the world stopped for them to completely lost in each other’s eyes.

Milo’s cologne filled the room, the only thing she wanted to breathe in was the scent of his cologne, he was gorgeously breathing taking— Italian fine, with a confident demeanor. Her thoughts— he knows how to make sparks fly, his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes, I could stare at him forever.

Milo was lingering on Soraya’s face.

How could a woman be this beautiful, strong and confident? Everything about her is elegant. She’s divinely gorgeous.

He was drowning in his thoughts. Eyes locked on each other, they could stare at each other forever.

Soraya’s intercom buzzed waving away the little moment they had.

“Excuse me” she said softly reaching out to answer the call.

“I should take my leave” he said quietly to himself trying to snap out of her charm—a part of him never wanted to.

Milo rose from his seat, giving Soraya a final glance—just enough to feel the pull again before he forced himself to walk away. His polished shoes clicked softly against the marble floor as he exited her office, the scent of her perfume lingering faintly in his senses, battling with the memory of her gaze.

Back in his office, the space was quiet—too quiet compared to the intensity of the moment he had just left. He loosened his tie, set his laptop on the desk, and sank into the leather chair. For a second, he leaned back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the way her eyes had held his.

But work called.

He pulled up files on the English investors, cross-referencing reports, studying financial projections, and tracing patterns through the company’s past ventures. He scribbled notes in sharp, deliberate handwriting, the way his father once taught him: write with precision, think with clarity.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. The office grew darker until only the soft glow of his desk lamp lit the room, throwing golden shadows across the papers scattered before him. He rolled up his sleeves, his jacket abandoned on the back of his chair, as he typed relentlessly into his laptop.

By 8 p.m., Milo was still at it—graphs, figures, market forecasts all sprawled across his screen. His phone buzzed with a message from his family group chat back in Italy—photos of dinner, laughter, warmth. For a brief moment, a pang of homesickness hit him. But he silenced the phone and returned to the spreadsheets, jaw tight with determination.

This was his path now. His work. His name.

And yet… when he leaned back to finally stretch his tired muscles, the image that came to him wasn’t numbers or investors—it was Soraya’s face, her eyes locking with his across her glass desk, like she had seen something in him no one else ever had.

The hours had slipped away unnoticed. Milo’s office was dim, lit only by the warm circle of his desk lamp. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, a pen balanced between his fingers as he studied a spreadsheet with laser focus. The soft hum of the building at night was the only sound—until a faint knock touched his door.

He looked up.

The door cracked open, and there she was. Soraya.

She leaned lightly against the frame, still dressed in her tailored suit, though she had slipped off her heels—he noticed she was holding them casually in one hand. Her hair was slightly looser than it had been earlier, a small detail that made her seem softer, more human in the low light.

“You’re still here,” she said, her voice calm, but carrying a note of surprise.

Milo offered a faint smile. “I could say the same about you.”

Soraya stepped inside, her bare feet silent against the polished floor. She moved closer, her eyes flicking to the spread of papers and glowing graphs on his screen. “You’ve been working nonstop since this morning?”

“I like to be prepared,” Milo said, his tone even, though the truth was—he hadn’t wanted to leave. Not yet.

Her lips curved slightly, almost amused, almost approving. “Most people would’ve called it a day hours ago. But not you.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her with quiet intensity. “And what about you, Ms. Reigns? Shouldn’t you have gone home by now?”

Soraya tilted her head, her gaze lingering on him longer than it should have. “Maybe I was curious.”

For a moment, the silence stretched—her standing over him, him seated, their eyes locked once again. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, like that earlier current between them had followed her in.

Finally, Soraya looked away, breaking the spell. “Don’t burn yourself out,” she said softly, almost like a warning, almost like she cared more than she should.

Milo’s eyes followed her as she turned toward the door, her silhouette outlined in the glow of the hallway.

When she disappeared, the office felt emptier than it had before she entered.

Soraya’s gaze lingered on him, then drifted to the stack of papers spread across his desk. With a quiet exhale, she shook her head slightly.

“You should go home and rest, Milo,” she said softly. “The work will still be here tomorrow.”

He raised a brow, half-smiling. “That sounds almost like concern.”

“Maybe it is,” she replied, her tone controlled, but her eyes betrayed the flicker of something more.

For once, Milo didn’t argue. He shut his laptop with a deliberate click, slid his papers neatly into a folder, and rose from his chair. “If the boss insists, I’ll take her advice.”

She arched a brow at his words, but said nothing as they walked side by side out of his office. The building was eerily quiet at this hour, their footsteps echoing down the polished hallway.

When they stepped into the elevator, the doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing them in.

The confined space magnified everything—the faint brush of Soraya’s perfume, the warmth radiating from his presence, the way their reflections stood almost too close in the mirrored walls. Neither spoke at first, the silence thick with unspoken things.

Milo stood with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he glanced at her. Soraya felt his gaze and turned her eyes forward, but not before he caught the faintest curve of her lips, as though she knew exactly what he was doing.

The hum of the elevator filled the quiet. Time seemed to stretch, every second heavy with tension neither wanted to break.

Then, almost too softly, Milo said, “If you wanted to make sure I went home, you didn’t have to escort me.”

Her eyes slid to his, cool and composed—but her voice betrayed the faintest warmth. “Maybe I just wanted to make sure you listened.”

The doors opened to the lobby with a soft ding, cutting the moment short.

They stepped out together, but that charged silence clung to them like a second skin.

The lobby was almost deserted, the security lights casting a faint golden glow over the marble floor. Their footsteps echoed softly as they crossed toward the glass doors, the hush of the night settling around them.

Outside, the parking lot stretched quiet and still, lined with sleek cars under the dim glow of overhead lamps. A cool breeze stirred, carrying with it the faint hum of the city beyond.

They walked together, unhurried, the silence between them no longer awkward but charged, heavy with everything unspoken.

Soraya reached her black Bentley, her heels dangling casually from her hand. She paused, turning slightly toward him. “Goodnight, Mr. Butera. Don’t make a habit of working yourself into the ground.”

Milo stopped by his own car, the keys glinting in his hand. His smile was small but genuine. “Goodnight, Ms. Reigns. And thank you—for the… advice.”

For a moment, they stood there, the distance between them feeling far smaller than the space of the parking lot. Their eyes lingered once again, as if neither wanted to break away first.

Finally, Soraya slipped into her car, starting the engine with a low purr. Milo did the same.

They drove off in opposite directions, headlights cutting through the night—two figures bound by ambition, colliding paths, and a tension neither of them could quite ignore.

But as each of them disappeared into the city, the memory of the other’s gaze lingered, refusing to fade.