A challenge

A challenge


CATHERINA’S POV

The moment I stepped out of the car, the air felt different—too sharp, too cold, too aware of me. I closed the door gently behind me, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Controlled. Pretending I wasn’t crumbling inside.

My legs carried me forward even though every part of me wanted to turn around and run back into Leonardo’s car.

The company building loomed above me like a quiet threat—tall glass walls reflecting sunlight so brightly it felt like they were daring me to look away. The kind of building that screamed power before you even stepped inside.

I dragged my feet toward the entrance.

The lobby hit me like a wave.

The room was bustling with activities:People moved everywhere.Phones ringing. Papers stacked. Heels clacking against marble with an urgency I couldn’t match even on my best day. Heads bent over screens. Conversations clipped and professional. No laughter. No warmth.

Just work. Work. Work.

My breath tangled in my throat.

I straightened my spine, even though it felt like someone had hooked a weight onto it, and walked toward the main desk.

A blonde secretary sat there—hair tied in a painfully tight bun, lipstick too red to smile. Her fingers danced across the keyboard with the elegance of a pianist and the aggression of a soldier.

“Excuse me,” I said softly.

She paused, barely, and lifted her gaze, a hint of coldness and impatience visible. She looked like she was already irritated by the mere existence of my voice.

“I…I’m looking for Dante’s office.”

Her eyebrows shot up so fast I almost flinched.

“Dante?” she repeated. “Do you mean Mr. Dante?”

I blinked. “I… yes?”

A spark of fury lit behind her eyes.

“You do not address the boss by name here,” she snapped, dropping the last word like a slap. “We are not your little family house.”

Humiliation punched heat into my cheeks. My cheeks reddening.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted quickly. “I meant—Boss.”

The word tasted wrong. It felt like I was chewing a foil.

She gave a satisfied sniff, then picked up her phone, pressing a button with exaggerated irritation.

“Boss,” she said sweetly into the receiver. “Are you expecting any… visitor? A brunette woman, wrinkled blouse, tired eyes…”

My heart stopped.

Was she describing me?She tilted her head, listening.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll send her up.”

She hung up and pointed to the elevators without bothering to look at me.

“Top floor. Don’t touch anything.”

I swallowed every emotion choking my throat and forced myself toward the elevator. Each step felt heavier. Louder. Like the marble floor wanted me to know I didn’t belong.

Inside the elevator, I pressed the button. The doors slid shut with a soft hiss that felt like judgment.

I watched the numbers climb.

My pulse climbed with them.

When the doors opened again, a long, silent hallway stretched out before me. Soft lighting. Thick carpets that swallowed footsteps. A single black door at the end.

I walked toward it slowly.

The inscription gleamed in gold letters:

DANTE.

I stared at it longer than necessary.

My stepfather became “Boss” the moment I stepped into the building.But here… here he was still Dante.Still the man I had mixed feelings about.
Still the man who commanded rooms without saying a word.

I took a breath.Turned the handle.Walked inside.

His gaze met mine instantly.

“Get out,” he said.

My mouth parted. “What? I..I’m here like you said—”

“Get out,” he repeated, voice steady. “And knock.”

I stared at him.

He wasn’t joking.

His tone left no room for argument.Ridiculous. That’s what it felt like. Completely ridiculous.

But something in the calm severity of his eyes told me to obey.

So I stepped out. Closed the door. Stood there with my pride crumpled in my palm.

Then knocked.

“Come in.”

I entered again.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge the absurdity of the moment. Just leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked, expression unreadable.

“Since you will be my personal assistant,” he began, tone clipped and formal, “you will follow my rules.”

He slid a stack of papers toward me—so thick it could’ve been a novella.

“These are your duties. And restrictions.”

I stared at it.

“This many?” I whispered.

“There are more,” he replied. “But I thought it best to start slowly today.”

Slowly.
This was slowly?

He began listing them out—one by one.No late arrivals.No personal calls.No leaving the office without permission.No entering his workspace unless summoned.No emotional display.No unscheduled questions.No mistakes.

Each rule felt like another push, another test, another attempt to make me fold.
They didn’t feel real.
They felt crafted. Designed with intention.

To frustrate me.To scare me away.To make me quit.

He finished and looked at me, dark eyes steady.

“If this is too much,” he said calmly, “you may leave now. No shame in admitting you’re not capable.”

The words hit harder than he probably intended.

Not capable.

I felt something harden inside me—small, sharp, stubborn.

I lifted my chin.

“I’m staying,” I said quietly.

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker.As if he already expected the answer.As if the entire speech had been nothing but a diagnostic test.

“Very well,” he murmured. “You begin tomorrow morning.”

My shoulders sagged a little. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath.

“You may leave.”

His dismissal was soft. Almost gentle. But it still felt like a door closing.

I nodded, turned, and walked out of the office. My heart thudded against my ribs with a mix of humiliation and determination.

I didn’t know what was wrong with him. He should have known that I hated working here the same way he does. I'd do anything to not be in his office.

I still wanted to know Why he needed to push.Why he wanted to make it difficult.

But one thing was certain:

This wasn’t just a job.It was a challenge.

And as I stepped back into the elevator, palms shaking but chest lifting, I told myself…

I will show him.
I am not weak.