The Negotiation

The elevator ride to the forty-eighth floor feels endless. I watch the numbers climb, each one tightening the knot in my stomach. Not nervousness—I don't do nervous. This is anticipation. The kind that makes my skin feel too tight, my pulse too fast.

Dominic Russo.

Even his name sounds like sin wrapped in an Italian suit.

I've been preparing for this meeting for three weeks. I know every clause in the merger agreement, every potential objection, every counteroffer I might need. What I'm not prepared for is the man himself. The stories about him are legendary in our circles—ruthless in business, commanding in every room he enters, and rumored to have tastes that venture far beyond the boardroom.

The elevator chimes. Forty-eight.

The doors slide open to reveal a reception area that screams money. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Manhattan skyline, abstract art that probably costs more than my apartment adorns the walls, and everything is done in shades of charcoal and steel.

"Ms. Bennett?" A woman in her fifties with perfect posture and a knowing smile greets me. "Mr. Russo is expecting you. This way."

I follow her down a hallway, my heels clicking against marble. My reflection in the glass walls shows exactly what I intended—a woman in control. Black pencil skirt, white silk blouse, hair pulled back in a sleek bun. Professional armor.

She opens a door, and suddenly I'm standing in his office.

And there he is.

Dominic Russo stands with his back to me, hands in his pockets, looking out at the city like he owns it. He probably does, or at least a significant portion of it. The tailored lines of his charcoal suit emphasize broad shoulders that taper to a lean waist. Dark hair, slightly longer than conservative, touches his collar.

"Ms. Bennett," he says without turning around. His voice is deep, with the slightest hint of his Italian heritage roughening the edges. "You're punctual. I appreciate that."

"Respect for other people's time is basic professionalism, Mr. Russo."

Now he turns, and I feel the full force of his attention like a physical touch.

He's devastating. Sharp jaw, olive skin, and eyes so dark they're almost black. But it's not just his looks—it's the way he carries himself, the absolute certainty in every movement. This is a man who's never questioned his right to take up space, to demand, to have exactly what he wants.

Those dark eyes sweep over me, and I feel assessed, catalogued, seen in a way that makes heat creep up my neck.

"Please, sit." He gestures to the sitting area—a leather sofa and two chairs arranged around a glass coffee table. Not the massive desk that dominates one wall. Interesting choice.

I sit in one of the chairs, crossing my legs, opening my briefcase with practiced efficiency. "I ass...