The knock on the door was sharp, insistent, and way too bloody early in the morning.
Mila groaned into the pillow, her brain still thick with sleep and refusing to either rise or shine. Her shoulder throbbed in a dull, persistent ache that reminded her exactly where she was and why she felt like she had just been hit by a car.
Then the knock came again, only louder this time.
"Come in," Mila mumbled, her voice rough. It felt like she had just closed her eyes before the world was demanding that she open them again.
When the door opened, an older woman stepped inside. She was maybe fifty, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and a uniform so crisp it could give any unsuspecting victim a papercut.
While the woman's expression might have been neutral, it was definitely not friendly.
"Good morning, Miss Hart," the woman announced, her voice clipped...efficient...harsh. "Mr. Falcone asked me to bring you something appropriate for work." She held up a garment bag and a shoebox that was in her hands as if Mila couldn't understand the words that were coming out of her mouth.
Mila pushed herself up on her good arm, blinking frantically against the light streaming through the windows. "Thanks," she croaked, her voice still not fully working properly.
The woman laid the items on the chair by the window with precise movements. Then she turned, her gaze sweeping over Mila's tangled hair as she gripped the sheets to her naked body, still half-asleep.
Her mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Falcone is leaving in ten minutes," she said. "He expects you to be ready and waiting for him by then."
Mila's stomach dropped. Ten minutes? "Wait—what time is it?"
"Eight fifty." The woman's tone was perfectly neutral and perfectly unhelpful.
Mila's heart kicked into overdrive. "Why didn't anyone—"
"I'm telling you now." Once again, woman's expression didn't seem to change, but now that Mila was waking up a bit more every minute, she could see the smirk that seemed to disappear in an instant. The woman was baiting her.
As if to prove her point, the woman looked pointedly at Mila. "Ten minutes, Miss Hart. I suggest you not be late. I mean, you should at least try to keep up if you are determined to live here."
She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her with a soft click that somehow felt like a slap.
Mila sat frozen for half a second.
Then she scrambled out of bed.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Her shoulder screamed as she grabbed the garment bag and unzipped it with shaking fingers. Inside was a simple outfit... black pants and a gray blouse.
The fabric felt expensive under her hands, but she didn't have time to care.
Searching the very bottom of the bad, she hit payday. A pair of simple white underwear made out of what felt like silk and a bra that didn't seem to want to kill her. Without a second thought, she quickly put them on.
She had no idea who picked the outfit for her, but for a moment, she was grateful. Shoving her legs into the pants, she was grateful when they fit like they were made for her. She couldn't help running her hands down her thighs, soothing out non-existent wrinkles just to enjoy the feeling of the fabric.
But as much as she loved the pants, the blouse was a nightmare.
Lifting her arm to slide it through the sleeve sent a hot spike of pain through her shoulder. She gritted her teeth and pushed through it, her fingers fumbling with the buttons as she started to curse the fact that her hands were shaking.
Taking in a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down. But she hated this. Hated being rushed. Hated being unprepared. It hadn't happened since she was a kid, but the feeling of letting someone down, of not being good enough was coming back full force.
As a child, being late meant consequences, it meant her foster father's hand across her face, meant missing meals, meant proving she was exactly as worthless as he said she was.
She worked hard for years to get out of that headspace, and yet, one housekeeper that she didn't even know managed to send her spiraling in a way that she hate.
Letting out a deep breath, Mila turned her attention back to her fingers. She watched them tremble as she tried to line up the first button with its hole, but her fingers felt clumsy, disconnected...like they belonged to someone else.
Come on. Come on. You can do this. Nothing is going to happen to you for being late.
But as much as she tried to overwrite the voices in her head, one still came through loud and clear. You can't even show up on time. What good are you?
It was always the same voice, the same man. The one who said that if you weren't dependable, you were disposable.
And she'd been disposed of enough times to know exactly what that felt like.
Her breath came too fast, no matter how much she tried to calm down. The panic was building in her chest, pressing against her ribs like something alive.
He's going to think you can't handle this. He's going to realize you're not worth the trouble.
Mila buttoned the last button with shaking hands and grabbed the shoebox and opened it. It was a simple pair of black heels. They were only an inch or two high and very practical.
She shoved her feet into them, not caring that she hated heels of any kind. Looking briefly in the mirror, she discarded the fact that she wasn't wearing makeup. But she couldn't go to work looking like she had just rolled out of bed.
Running her fingers through her hair, she pulled it into a messy bun before realizing that she didn't have an elastic. Finding a random pen, she twirled her hair around it and then shoved it into a bun that way.
Eight minutes were now gone.
Two minutes left.
Mila grabbed the door handle and yanked it open before breaking out into a run. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, too loud in the quiet. Each step sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore it.
She didn't slow down. She couldn't.
The stairs appeared ahead of her. Wide. Polished. The kind of staircase designed to be descended gracefully.
Mila took them two at a time.
Her breath came in gasps now. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The panic was a living thing in her chest, clawing at her throat.
You're going to be late. You're going to prove him right. Everyone right. You can't do this. You were never going to be able to do this.
Her heel caught on the edge of a step and she stumbled, catching herself on the railing. Her shoulder screamed. She pushed off and kept going.
She couldn't be late. She couldn't.
Not on her first day. Not when he'd given her a chance. Not when she needed to prove she could do this.
The foyer opened up below her. The marble floors gleaming in the morning light and the massive front doors straight ahead.
And so was Dante.
He stood near the entrance with Marco beside him dressed impeccably, the black pinstripe suit highlighting his figure.
Dante's gaze lifted as she hit the bottom step.
Mila tried to slow down, she really did. But her heel caught on the edge of the marble and she pitched forward.
Time seemed to slow as her arms flew out instinctively, reaching for something—anything—to catch herself. But the only thing waiting for her was the floor.
Bracing herself for impact she paused when she didn't feel any pain. Instead, she felt a pair of strong hands wrapping around her waist.
Dante.
His grip was firm, warm through the thin fabric of her blouse. His body was solid against hers, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that she could smell him—something clean and expensive and distinctly him.
Mila's breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him.
His face was inches from hers, his dark eyes locked on her face and his expression unreadable.
Her heart was still racing as she saw that her hands had landed on his chest. But now it was racing for a different reason. She could feel the steady beat of his heart under her palms.
It was slow, calm, the complete opposite of the chaos inside her.
She was a mess, there was no way that she didn't look like a mess. But he wasn't looking at her like that. He was just... looking at her.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. The words tumbled out too fast. "I didn't—I'm not usually—"
"You're fine," Dante assured her, his voice soft and comforting. "There is no rush. It's one of the benefits of owning the company."
His hands stayed at her waist and neither one of them were in a rush to change that.
"I'm ready," she said, trying to catch her breath. Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to. "I'm sorry I'm late."
"Like I said, you're not late." Dante's hands released her waist slowly... deliberately. Like he was making sure she was steady before he let go.
Then he stepped back just enough to give her space. "If you are ready, let's go," he continued, a slight smile on his face. When Mila nodded her head, Dante turned toward the door with Marco following closely behind him.
Mila had completely forgotten that Marco was even there.
But now that she could breathe again, she simply stood there for half a second, her shoulder aching, her face still hot, her mind spinning.
The housekeeper's face flashed through her mind. That tight mouth. That perfectly neutral tone. Ten minutes, Miss Hart.
She had done it on purpose.
The realization settled over Mila like cold water.
The woman had waited until the last possible moment to let her know what was going on. She had made sure Mila would panic, that she would rush, would look exactly like someone who couldn't handle being here.
But Dante had caught her anyway.
And he hadn't looked at her like she was a problem.
Mila's hands were still shaking slightly as she smoothed down her blouse, trying to calm down the rush of adrenaline that she was feeling.
Only when she was sure that she was in full control of herself did she hurry after them.