And I don’t know what it is—maybe the absolute shitstorm of my morning, maybe the pure rage of being $12,486 in the hole, maybe the way Jenna just gasps like she’s seen the Grim Reaper himself—but something in my gut says, look up, Bella. Look up right now.
So I do.
And I seehim—a man who looks like he walked straight out of a well-crafted illusion. He’s around my age, late twenties or early thirties, with the kind of looks that make you stare a beat too long. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that hints at either trouble or temptation—maybe both. There’s an ease to the way he carries himself, like he knows exactly who he is and doesn’t need to prove it to anyone.
Smirking. Smug as hell.
Like he knows something I don’t.
He stands there, assessing the disaster that is our once-functioning office, and I swear, I can actually hear the unspoken judgment radiating off him.
Who the hell is this guy?
He’s dressed impeccably. Dark tailored suit, slim fit, expensive as sin, the kind of thing that looks like it was hand-stitched by some old Italian man who only takes clients by referral.
Tall. Lean. But sharp, like he’s made of hard angles and deadly precision.
Hair? Light brown, wavy, like he probably runs his fingers through it just to look casually perfect.
And his eyes— Dark. Piercing. Calculating. The kind of stare that pins you in place, like he’s already dissecting you piece by piece.
The air shifts.
Jenna inhales sharply. Mark mutters “oh, shit” under his breath.
Sandra? Sandra, the high priestess of professional fuckery, straightens her blouse, squares her shoulders, and steps forward, ready to do what she does best—control the room.
“Can I help you?” she starts, her voice sharp, clipped, all business.
The man doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t acknowledgeher.
His eyes—those sharp, chess master eyes—lock onto me.
And stay there.
Like I’m the only thing worth noticing in this room.
Sandra’s face twists with irritation. She’s not used to being ignored.
“Excuse me,” she repeats, sharper this time. “Who the hell are you?”
And that’s when the doors open again.
Another man steps in.
Then another.
And another.
A whole goddamn procession of men in black suits, moving in like it’s a synchronized mafia-sponsored runway show.
Jesus Christ.
Mark visibly gulps. Jenna is gripping the desk like she’s afraid she’ll pass out.
The tension cracks through the office like a live wire, snapping against the nerves of everyone in the room. The men spread out in a deliberate, methodical way, covering exits, taking positions like this is a hostile takeover. Because—let’s be real—it probably is.
The air thickens.
