Chapter 188

Chapter 188
ISABELLA

A man stepped in—tall, impeccably dressed, commanding the very air. My pulse hammered in my chest, and I felt a mixture of fear and anticipation coil in my stomach as the door closed.
The elevator smelled like him before I even saw his face.
A sharp, woody cologne—something expensive, foreign—filled the air and seemed to press against the mirrored walls. It was suffocating, magnetic, alive. Charlotte and I stood near the back, our reflections multiplied in the gold-tinted panels.
He stood by the doors.
Six foot four, maybe more. Broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His shirt was white, crisp—the kind that didn’t wrinkle even after hours. Light caught on his watch—Patek Philippe—and his fingers, long and deliberate, brushed the elevator’s railing once before slipping into his pocket.
His hair—dark honey-brown, wavy, and cut just short enough to suggest discipline—fell a bit on his forehead, then back, like he had disheveled it finely with his hands. But it was his eyes that rooted me still: piercing green, feral almost, the kind of green that dared you to hold their gaze and punished you for doing it.
Charlotte gave me a subtle “Huh” glance, sensing my reaction.
I stuck out my tongue quickly, letting the adrenaline wash over me as I looked away from the man.
Charlotte leaned closer, her voice brushing my ear. “I think he’s looking at you.”
My throat tightened. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I murmured, keeping my eyes on the glowing numbers climbing past the sixties, seventies, eighties—higher than any normal company needed to go.
“He’s definitely looking,” she whispered again, smiling like this was all a game.
But it didn’t feel like one.
He shifted, turning toward us, and every inch of air seemed to thin. His presence filled the elevator—too close, too controlled. Then the screen blinked: 99.
The elevator slowed.
And that’s when he moved.
One step—soundless. Another—slow, deliberate.
By the time the bell chimed, he was beside me. The doors slid open, but he didn’t leave. Instead, he bent close enough for his breath to graze my cheek, his voice low, dangerous, intimate.
“You smell like honey,” he said. “I love the taste of honey.”
My pulse tripped.
“Sir,” I managed, straightening, almost choking on my spit. “That’s—”
But the doors opened fully then, and the hallway beyond glittered in white marble and glass. Light spilled over chrome edges, the walls lined with abstract art that screamed money. It wasn’t just wealth—it was legacy, an empire here.
And in the heartbeat it took me to gather myself, he was gone.
Charlotte grabbed my wrist, her heels clicking across the polished floor. “There are only two offices on this level,” she murmured, scanning the plaques on the wall. “Mateo De Santis. Lorenzo De Santis.”
The De Santis Corporation—one of New York’s most elusive private oil syndicates. Billion-dollar mergers on paper, quiet disappearances in rumor.
I turned, scanning the corridor that stretched like a museum hallway. “You think that was—”
“Lorenzo,” Charlotte said quickly, her voice dropping. “Mateo’s son. The heir.”
My breath caught.
Charlotte’s fingers tightened around mine. “Come on. We have to go now.”
I let her pull me forward, leading me to Mateo’s office at the end of the hallway.
When we got there, in front of the huge double door, I swallowed, feeling my nerves riot inside me, my chest trembling with a fear I couldn’t quite name. I’d come here for help, yet I had a feeling that I might just be walking into more trouble.
And I had just met the man who would cause it.