The espresso machine hissed again, louder this time, like it was warning Ahaan that something was about to go wrong.

He glanced up from the steaming cup and froze.

There he was.

Matteo Romano.

The CEO. The face of Romano Tech. Known across Milan for his mind, his money, and most dangerously — his complete lack of warmth. The man had never smiled in a photograph. He was always in headlines but never in cafés like this.

Ahaan blinked once.

He had seen Matteo on magazine covers, company newsletters, even the huge screen in the lobby on his first day as a low-level intern. But now… he was standing at the counter of Caffè Rosso, looking completely out of place, yet somehow owning every inch of the space.

Tall, tailored, terrifying.

“Your order, sir?” Ahaan managed, gripping the edge of the counter so his fingers wouldn’t tremble.

Matteo looked at him, slowly. His eyes scanned from Ahaan’s messy curls to the name tag pinned crookedly to his chest.

“Ahaan.” The CEO’s lips curled slightly. “You make a habit of forgetting customers who sign your paycheck?”

Ahaan’s stomach dropped. “You’re... with Romano Tech?”

Matteo arched a brow. “You interned in Data Division last month. Didn’t last a week.”

He remembered.

“I—I didn’t quit,” Ahaan stammered. “I was just... transferred.”

“To coffee duty?” Matteo said, dry as ever. “That explains the bitterness.”

Ahaan couldn’t tell if he meant the drink or him.

He turned around to make the coffee, pretending not to feel that heavy, assessing gaze pressing into his back. He could feel it like heat through his shirt — like fire with no flame.

He placed the cup down on the counter with shaking hands. “Black. No sugar.”

Matteo didn’t pick it up.

Instead, he stepped closer.

Too close.

Ahaan’s breath caught.

“Tell me something, Ahaan,” Matteo said. “Why are you here? You graduated top of your class, didn’t you?”

Ahaan stayed quiet. Words never seemed to come out right when his chest felt like it was cracking.

“I’ve seen a hundred interns just like you,” Matteo said, fingers tracing the rim of the coffee cup. “They beg for attention, cry when criticized, and disappear the second it gets hard.”

“I’m not like them,” Ahaan said quietly.

Matteo’s eyes flickered. “No. You’re worse.”

He picked up the cup. Took a slow sip. Then stared.

“The coffee’s good,” he said, setting it down. “But you... you’ve got a bad habit of hiding.”

Ahaan looked up, finally meeting those cold gray eyes. “And you have a habit of breaking people just to see if they beg.”

Silence.

Then — a smile.

Not kind. Not warm. But real.

Matteo pulled a black card from his coat and dropped it on the counter.

“9 a.m. Tomorrow. My office. Dress better.”

Ahaan blinked. “I thought you said I was worse.”

“You are,” Matteo said. “That’s why I want to see what you do when I push you.”

He turned to leave, coat swaying with effortless arrogance.

At the door, he paused.

“Oh, and Ahaan?”

“Yes?”

“I like my coffee strong. And my men stronger.”

And then he was gone.

The door swung shut behind him, the bell above it trembling like Ahaan’s heart.

He stared at the card on the counter.

Matteo Romano — Private Office Extension.

On the back, in red ink, a single word was written:

> “Brew me something better next time.”

---

Ahaan didn’t sleep that night.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart pounding louder than the storm outside. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something else. Something burning in his chest that wasn’t fear.

It was... expectation.

The kind that only comes when someone sees you — even if it’s through ice-cold eyes.

Even if it’s the most dangerous man in Milan

Ahaan stood frozen in front of the towering glass building, Romano Tech gleaming like something untouchable. His palms were already sweating.

Why did he agree to come here?

This wasn’t a café, it was a shark tank. Everyone here wore money like perfume — and he was in his cleanest thrifted shirt, sleeves slightly too long.

He stepped in.

The marble lobby was colder than he remembered, but somehow, it felt like the world had shifted slightly — because this time, he was expected.

The receptionist barely looked up. “Top floor. Elevator 3.”

As he stepped in, the mirrored elevator reflected everything he hated seeing: the nerves, the slouch, the wide-eyed fear of someone who never felt like he belonged.

The doors began to close.

Then — they opened again.

A hand.

Matteo Romano.

The same cold, tailored presence from the café walked in like he owned gravity itself. He didn’t even glance at Ahaan. Just pressed the top-floor button, sharp jawline tight, lips in that unreadable expression.

The air felt thicker in seconds.

No music. No talking. Just silence and scent.

Matteo smelled like expensive leather, citrus, and trouble.

Then he spoke, casually.

“Your collar’s crooked.”

Ahaan turned, startled. “Huh?”

Matteo stepped closer, one hand reaching up — fingers brushing against Ahaan’s throat, slow and deliberate.

He adjusted the collar, but his touch lingered too long.

Just a second too long.

Ahaan’s breath hitched. His skin burned.

“Better,” Matteo murmured, stepping back with a faint smirk.

Before Ahaan could even recover, the elevator dinged. Matteo walked out without another word.

But then, he paused.

Without turning around, he said coolly,

“Rule number one: don’t speak unless I tell you to.”

And disappeared down the corridor.

---

Matteo’s private office was sleek and intimidating — all black wood, glass, and shadows. Ahaan stepped in cautiously, but Matteo didn’t offer a seat.

“You’re not here to make coffee,” he said, back turned, facing the city view.

“Then why am I here?” Ahaan asked quietly.

Matteo turned, eyes sharp.

“Because I want to see what happens when someone sees you.”

Ahaan didn’t reply. He couldn’t.

Something twisted in his stomach. Was it fear? Or… something far more dangerous?

---

That night, Ahaan couldn’t sleep.

Again.

He rolled over in his bed, sheets tangled, eyes wide open. The apartment was dark, but the memory of Matteo’s fingers at his collar kept replaying like static in his brain.

At some point, he drifted off.

And the dream came.

---

He was back in the elevator.

But this time, it wasn’t silent.

It was Matteo’s breath in his ear.

“You never ask to be touched,” Matteo whispered.

Ahaan turned — but before he could speak, Matteo pressed him against the mirrored wall.

Fingers grazed his chest, traced lower, slowly, teasingly. Ahaan gasped as Matteo’s hand slid to the waistband of his pants, fingers slipping just under the edge.

“You said you’d last,” Matteo murmured.

“Prove it.”

Ahaan arched into the touch — heart pounding, breath shaking — but just as Matteo’s lips brushed his neck—

---

He woke up.

Sweating.

Hard.

Embarrassed.

Panting like he’d run a marathon.

He stared at the ceiling, face burning.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

Right?

Then why did it feel like everything had changed?

---

The top floor of Romano Tech didn’t feel like an office — it felt like a private world where rules bent quietly under power.

Ahaan followed Matteo through the hallway, the CEO’s back straight, confident, unreadable.

He tried not to stare at the way Matteo’s hand casually rested in his pocket, how even his silence demanded attention.

They entered a glass-walled conference room.

“You’re late,” Matteo said flatly.

“I was on time—”

Matteo turned, slowly. “But I was early. So you’re late. Rule two: never be later than me.”

Ahaan clenched his jaw. “Is this a job or a punishment?”

Matteo stepped closer.

His voice dropped. “Maybe both.”

He walked past Ahaan and stood behind him, hands loosely clasped. Ahaan could feel the heat of his breath, his presence too close, too intentional.

“I brought you here because I’m bored of people who beg,” Matteo said. “You didn’t beg. You just looked at me like I was interrupting your peace.”

“I didn’t know staring at the floor was so rebellious,” Ahaan muttered.

Matteo chuckled — low and sharp. “You have a mouth on you. I like that.”

Before Ahaan could step back, Matteo’s hand brushed down his spine. Just a graze. But it lit something inside him — something hot, unwanted, and undeniably real.

He gasped.

And Matteo leaned in.

“You’re sensitive.”

Ahaan turned, stepping back instinctively — but his back hit cold glass. The city glittered behind him, but inside, the air was thick.

Matteo placed one hand beside his head, leaning in.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again, his voice a warm breath against Ahaan’s ear.

Ahaan’s eyes fluttered closed.

Matteo’s fingers traced his wrist, then moved — slowly, deliberately — up his forearm, to the curve of his jaw.

Then lower.

The edge of Ahaan’s shirt rose just enough for Matteo to press his fingers to bare skin just above the waistband. Barely touching, barely moving.

Ahaan’s pulse spiked.

“This isn’t... professional,” he managed to say.

“I’m not interested in professional,” Matteo whispered. “I’m interested in you.”

The tension cracked.

Matteo kissed him.

Hard, commanding — like he’d been holding back for days.

Ahaan responded before he even knew what he was doing. His body leaned in, lips parting, breath caught between resistance and need.

Matteo’s hand pressed lower.

Over fabric now.

Slow pressure. Testing.

Ahaan moaned — soft, helpless — his head falling back against the glass as Matteo’s palm cupped him through the fabric, fingers teasing, not quite enough to satisfy, but too much to ignore.

“You’re already hard for me?” Matteo whispered.

“I didn’t mean—” Ahaan gasped, flushed.

“Liar,” Matteo growled against his neck, kissing, biting, owning.

And then he stepped back.

Just like that.

As if nothing happened.

“I have a meeting in five minutes,” Matteo said, straightening his cuffs. “You’ll wait outside. Quietly. Unless you need a repeat of this lesson.”

He turned and walked out, not looking back.

Ahaan was left panting, disheveled, pressed against glass — heart racing, skin burning.

He blinked slowly, trying to calm his breath.

Then he looked down.

His pants.

His eyes widened in horror.

His little brother had fully stood up.

Painfully obvious.

And worse — he was wet.

“Sh*t...” he whispered, backing away from the glass and turning to hide behind the table. His fingers tugged at his shirt, trying to cover it, trying to breathe.

The heat on his face wasn’t just embarrassment — it was confusion, shame, and something terrifying:

He liked it.

And that scared him more than anything else.

🖤 Next Chapter Tease:

Matteo calls him into his private lounge for a “calm-down chat”

Things get dangerously quiet.

Touch gets bolder.

Ahaan begins questioning what he really wants... and who he is when he’s with Matteo.