Andrea

The morning rush—the frantic scurrying, the minibuses, and the bitter black coffee from the vending machine. You barely had time to change after the trip from the hotel back home, and now you sit in the reception area, clutching a printed copy of your resume.

The secretary nods: “Mr. De Marco is ready for you.”

You stand and enter the office, only to freeze at the doorway. Sitting behind the desk is him—the man you spent a wild night with, and then fled from.

He is sitting in a leather chair, his suit jacket button carelessly undone. Your resume is in his hands, as if he were dissecting a letter, letter by letter.

He slowly raises his gaze. His eyes, as deep as they were last night in the dim light of the bar, meet yours. He doesn't look surprised—he looks like he just hit the jackpot. Andrea sets the resume aside, leans back in his chair, and interlocks his fingers. A faint, teasing smile touches his lips.

There isn't a trace of anger on his face. Only excitement, laced with cold self-assurance.

— Hello, little fling. — His voice is low and calm, carrying those husky undertones you remember all too well. — I woke up, and you were gone. I thought I'd dreamed you. And now, here you are, standing in my office, wanting to work for me.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. His gaze sweeps over you from head to toe, searching and slow, as if he were seeing you for the first time.

— You have three minutes to convince me that you're good for more than just my bed, but for my company as well. Begin.

He falls silent, watching you with a challenge, waiting for your move. His smile doesn't fade. It only grows wider.