If there was a world record for running late and still looking fabulous, Ishani would’ve shattered it.

"Yaaar, abhi se late ho gayi?!" she muttered under her breath, nearly tripping over her own feet as she rushed through the grand entrance of Valenti Enterprises—the kind of place where people probably sipped imported coffee while plotting world domination.

Her oversized tote bag bounced against her side, half-open and threatening to spill its chaotic contents: a half-eaten protein bar, three tangled charging cables, and—because why not—a chappal she swore wasn’t hers.

Classy.

"Miss Mehta!" A crisp voice cut through the air. It was Alain, the event coordinator, a man so uptight he probably ironed his socks. "The meeting started five minutes ago. Where were you?"

Ishani gave him her best innocent smile—well, as innocent as a girl who had just jogged across Paris traffic could look. "Oh, you know," she shrugged, "saving the world, curing diseases, being fabulous—just the usual."

Alain blinked, unamused. "Your sarcasm is not appreciated here."

Neither was his attitude, but Ishani had bills to pay, so she bit back the urge to ask if the stick up his backside was permanent. "Got it, boss. No fun allowed. Message received," she said, flashing a mock salute.

She adjusted her blazer—crooked, obviously—and marched into the sleek conference room. Marble floors, glass walls, and people who probably dreamed in spreadsheets. Her nose twitched at the faint smell of overpriced leather and judgment.

And then… she saw him.

Dante Valenti.

Seated at the head of the table, dressed in a charcoal-black suit that looked like it cost more than her entire student loan. Jawline sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than her future in physics, and a brooding aura that screamed “Touch me and die.”

Ishani plopped into the chair nearest to the door—emergency exits were important when your mouth had no filter—and tried not to stare. Tried.

“Miss Mehta,” Dante’s voice was low, smooth, and a little too illegal for a Monday morning. “I trust you are prepared.”

Prepared? Bro, she was just happy she didn’t faceplant on the way in.

"Of course," Ishani replied, her voice bright. "I live to dazzle."

A faint twitch of his lip—was that a smirk?—and just like that, Silence King turned back to the documents in front of him.

Ishani exhaled softly. She could handle this. After all, it was just one corporate event. Nothing complicated. Nothing dramatic. Nothing—

A buzz on her phone made her glance down. A text from her bestie:

“Did you see him yet? Mafia or main character vibes?”

Ishani snorted, barely muffling the sound. If this guy was a main character, he was the villain everyone simped for.

Unfortunately for her, Dante Valenti chose that exact moment to lift his head. Their eyes met—chills down her spine—and his brow arched ever so slightly.

Yeah. She was so screwed.

—

TBC.

Ishani had faced a lot of terrifying things in life—Physics practicals, her mom’s chappal-throwing accuracy, and once, a monkey who stole her ice cream. But none of them compared to Dante Valenti’s death glare.

As the meeting dragged on, she tried—emphasis on tried—to focus on the agenda. But really, how was she supposed to care about floral arrangements when Mr. Broody McSuitpants was sitting there looking like the human embodiment of a “Touch her and you die” meme?

“Miss Mehta,” his voice cut through the room like butter through a hot knife—wait, wrong metaphor—like a knife through butter. Damn, even her brain was glitching. “Your thoughts?”

Ishani blinked. "Uh…" Think, Ishani, think. Something smart. Professional. Preferably not stupid.

“I mean, roses are basic. We should go for orchids. Classy but not ‘I-might-marry-a-politician’ vibes. Unless that’s the aesthetic you’re going for—then full support, boss."

The room went dead silent. Somewhere, a cricket was probably filing for overtime pay.

Dante’s cold gaze lingered on her for a beat too long. “Orchids, then.”

Wait—what? Did he actually agree with her? Was this power?

Alain shot her a murderous glare, which only made her sit up straighter, smug as hell. She risked a glance back at Dante, and his face? Blank. Emotionless. Stone-cold mafia king vibes.

But there was something in his eyes—like he couldn’t decide whether to fire her or… something else.

Not her problem.

Meeting: survived. Dignity: mostly intact.

As the others filed out, Ishani gathered her things, already half-dreaming of a croissant and a nap. Just as she reached the door—

“Miss Mehta.”

Oh, crap-basket.

She turned slowly, plastering on her best “I’m innocent” smile. “Yes, Bossman?”

Dante leaned back in his chair, the very picture of power and disapproval. "You seem… distracted."

"Me? Distracted? Pfft." She waved a hand. "Multitasking queen. I could probably plan this event in my sleep. Which—bonus—means no overtime."

His lips twitched, but the smirk never quite landed. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely." She tilted her head. "Besides, I’m pretty sure I just saved this event from being a floral disaster. Honestly, you should thank me."

Dante rose from his seat—tall, sharp, and way too intimidating for someone who probably drank his coffee black with a side of human tears. He strolled toward her, stopping just close enough that her heart did a weird little tap dance.

“You have an interesting definition of professionalism.” His voice dipped lower, smoother. Dangerous.

Ishani, because she had zero survival instincts, smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still employed.”

A heavy pause. The kind where you either win the argument or end up jobless.

Finally, Dante’s mouth curved into something that almost looked like amusement. “For now.”

And just like that, he turned and walked out—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, leaving Ishani alone with her thudding heartbeat and a single thought:

Yeh toh zyada hi intense hai.

—

TBC.

Ishani had survived the first day without getting fired—a personal record, honestly. But this wasn’t just any event. It was the event. A high-profile corporate gala for billionaires, business sharks, and people who probably had offshore bank accounts and questionable morals.

In other words—Dante Valenti’s natural habitat.

Her job? To make sure everything ran smoothly. Which was hard when your boss looked like he belonged on the cover of Forbes: Scariest Rich People Edition.

She was halfway through organizing the guest list when a familiar voice cut through the air. "Still pretending to work?"

Ishani looked up to find Luca De Rossi, Dante’s right-hand man, leaning against the doorway like he had nowhere else to be. With his tailored suit, messy brown hair, and the kind of smirk that screamed "I get away with everything", he was the human version of a walking red flag.

“Oh, please.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t pretend. I excel.”

Luca chuckled. "You know, you’re either really brave or really stupid talking to Dante like that."

“Maybe both. But hey, I’m still here, right?”

He gave her a mock salute. "Respect. Most people are too scared to breathe around him."

"Good for them." She shrugged. "Fear wrinkles your face. I’m trying to age gracefully."

Luca snorted, pushing off the wall. "Careful, Ishani. If you keep talking like that, you might actually amuse him."

Amuse Dante Valenti? Yeah, right. The man probably considered smiling a cardinal sin.

Still, her curiosity itched. "What’s his deal, anyway?"

Luca’s smirk deepened. "If I told you, I’d have to kill you."

“Classic mafia answer,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” She flashed him a sweet smile. "Now, unless you’re here to offer actual help, shouldn’t you be off doing… I don’t know, mysterious mafia errands?"

Luca grinned. "You’re fun. I hope you survive."

That makes two of us, buddy.

Later That Evening…

By the time the gala rolled around, the venue sparkled with obnoxious wealth—gold accents, crystal chandeliers, and an atmosphere thick with rich-people tension. Ishani hovered near the entrance, double-checking everything.

And then he arrived.

Dante Valenti didn’t walk into a room—he owned it. The air shifted, like everyone instinctively knew to stay the hell out of his way. Clad in an all-black suit, crisp and lethal, he was the picture of ruthless perfection.

Ishani swore the temperature dropped a few degrees.

He scanned the room once, eyes landing on her with surgical precision. And great—now he was walking toward her.

Play it cool, Ishani. Be normal.

"You’re on time." His voice was smooth and sharp, like a velvet-covered dagger.

“Shocking, right?” She smiled. "I figured it’s harder to fire someone who’s competent."

A pause. His gaze lingered on her a beat too long. "Hm."

Was that… approval? Or a polite way of imagining her disappearance?

Before she could decide, an older man approached Dante—a big-shot investor, judging by the way people practically bowed in his presence. "Mr. Valenti," the man greeted. "A pleasure, as always."

Dante nodded, the warmth in his voice dialed down to absolute zero. "Mr. Moretti."

Ishani, still standing there like the third wheel to a crime documentary, accidentally bumped the table behind her—sending a glass crashing to the floor.

Well, shit.

Both men turned. Dante’s jaw tightened a fraction, but it was Mr. Moretti who chuckled. "Clumsy little thing, isn’t she?"

Ishani bit back a snarky reply, but before she could speak, Dante did.

"She’s efficient," he said, his tone cool and cutting. "And I don’t keep incompetent people around, Mr. Moretti."

Ishani’s eyes widened. Was that… Dante defending her?

Mr. Moretti hummed, clearly unimpressed, but Dante didn’t seem to care. Without another glance, he turned back to her.

"Clean it up," he ordered softly. "Then meet me on the balcony. You’re coming with me to handle the next discussion."

Wait—what?

Before she could argue—or remind him that she was an event manager, not his PA—he was already walking away.

And just like that, Ishani had gone from barely surviving to officially in over her head.

TBC.