Page 4 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

But this is my ego talking, not my heart.

I bite my lip, my pulse throbbing as I open my purse, grabbing the envelope. Best to rip the band aid off and deal with the consequences later. Feeling downhearted about losing this job is a small price to pay for still having a career.

I take the envelope out of the purse and hand it to Mr. Moretti… completely forgetting about the coffee cup.

I push the takeaway cup straight into Mr. Moretti, hot coffee flying landing straight in his lap.

“Oh my god!” Chair legs scrape against the laminate flooring as I stand up, mortified.

I cup my hands over my mouth. Mr. Moretti’s lap is drenched in hot coffee. It drips onto the floor, forming a puddle.

“Take care.” Sapphire’s words come back to haunt me. “Extra hot.”

“Mr. Moretti,” I begin, approaching this with caution. “I am so⁠—”

“Enough. Your apology won’t magically clean this mess up.” Mr. Moretti rises from the table, more coffee splashing to the floor. He grinds his jaw, staring down at his crotch.

Naturally, my gaze is there too, but as soon as I feel his eyes on me, I look away. Embarrassment heats my cheeks. My face must be a very visible shade of red if the people walking past outside are stopping to look at me instead of the victim.

I lock eyes with some of the HR ladies, who, of course, happen to be walking past the scene of the crime when there are another two hundred meeting rooms in this building.

I drop my gaze, refusing to feel shame. By the end of today, this will all be in the past for me as I walk out of Moretti Global forever and never look back.

“Remember, Phee, the sun keeps shining even when someone gets burned.”

I make eye contact with Sandra and her posse, flashing them a smile. To them, being alone in a room with Mr. Moretti is their dream. I may have screwed this up and spilled coffee on the guy, but the facts still stand. I get to meet with him alone in private. They do not.

“I need you to clean me up.”

My heart stops. “What?” I whip around, surprised to find him standing so close to me.

Mr. Moretti ignores the people gathered outside. “You heard me.”

My clit throbs, wetness leaking through my panties as we make intense eye contact. Salvatore Moretti eyes are penetrating, boring into me like green lasers, cutting into my soul.

Where everyone else stays on the surface, Mr. Moretti dives deep. He’s a good judge of character, and that’s probably why he became successful. People trained in the art of human psychology know how to talk their way in—or out—of practically anything. He sees things others don’t, making you feel… seen.

“Sure…” I stutter. “I can clean you up.” One look around the meeting room tells me that this is going to be difficult. The only thing in this room is the table. There’s no tissues, no mop to clean the floor. I’m left with no other option but to rip paper from the notepad, using them as makeshift tissues.

“Not here,” grumbles Mr. Moretti as I’m screwing paper up into a ball. “Follow me.”

I abandon the paper, my purse, my fucking composure, and follow Mr. Moretti out of the room like a puppy, not like a qualified assistant.

The people outside part to let us through. Mr. Moretti rakes a hand through his hair, bringing attention to the thick locks. He comes from an Italian family, the dark hair and olive skin two very obvious indicators, along with his accent.

According to his biography, he was born and raised in the state of New York. The slashes of silver streaked through his roots, most prominent around his temples, remind me that he has been on this earth much longer than I have, living an entire other life before I was even born. While I was in the womb, he was building an empire, having sex and doing adult things.

And apparently, I respect my elders by spilling coffee in their lap.

I catch up to him in the elevator, silence thickening between us as he thumbs the button, the mechanics stirring to life. I stand beside him, netting my hands in front of me, trying to stay calm and concentrating on slowing my breathing before he senses fear. The introspective way he always looks at people suggests he never misses a thing.

He turns to me in the elevator, flashing me a sidelong glare before the elevator doors open, saving us from a very awkward interaction.

But I fear the interaction is about to get even more awkward as he leads the way into his office, the one I often find myself in when I need a moment alone away from everything.

Based on the top floor of the building, this place is isolated away from the rest of the business, looking out onto the Manhattan skyline. The floor-to-ceiling windows make the room feel exposed, but being one hundred yards up into the sky gives you all the privacy you need.

“Paper towels are on your left,” says Mr. Moretti, leaning against his desk, waiting for me to get started.