THE BULLY WHO WANTS MY HEART AND MY RUIN

(Sloane POV)

The emergency executive meeting was called for 9 AM on a Wednesday, which meant someone important was either getting fired or promoted. In my experience at Moretti Holdings, those outcomes weren't mutually exclusive.

I slipped into the glass-walled conference room on the twenty-seventh floor with my tablet and coffee, aiming for my usual position-middle of the table, left side, where I could observe without being observed. Six months at this company had taught me that survival meant understanding power dynamics before they crushed you.

"Sloane, you're up here today." Marcus Chen gestured to a seat closer to the head of the table, his smile sharp as a letter opener. "Communications is moving up in the world."

Everything about Marcus was precisely calibrated:his steel-gray suit, his efficient gestures, the way he said your name like he was already writing your performance review. As Senior Vice President of Operations, he occupied the razor's edge between executive leadership and the CEO's inner circle. People feared him the way they feared black ice: you didn't see him coming until you were already falling.

I took the assigned seat, ignoring the way my stomach tightened. Being visible in meetings like this was rarely a blessing.

The conference room filled quickly. Sarah Chen from Legal, no relation to Marcus despite the shared surname. David Kozlov from Finance, perpetually exhausted and brilliant. A handful of other department heads I knew by sight and reputation. We were upwardly mobile:young enough to work eighty-hour weeks, hungry enough to think it would pay off.

At exactly 9 AM, Giovanni Moretti entered.

The CEO of Moretti Holdings moved like old money and controlled violence had a baby radiating the kind of power that didn't need to announce itself. At sixty-seven, he was still commanding: silver hair swept back from a face that had probably broken hearts across three continents, dark eyes that assessed you like a balance sheet, finding you either profitable or disposable.

"Sit," he commanded, though we were already sitting. Giovanni's accent carried the faintest Italian inflection, softened by decades in New York but sharpened when he wanted to remind you who held the knife.

Behind him entered a man I didn't recognize, and the air pressure in the room changed.

He was tall with the build of someone who had personal trainers and used them. Dark hair slightly too long for corporate convention, styled in a way that suggested he'd run his hands through it repeatedly and it had fallen perfectly anyway. Sharp jawline, olive complexion, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers or wedding invitations from families who summered in Lake Como.

Then he turned his head, and his gaze swept across the assembled executives.

My coffee mug slipped from my fingers.

It didn't shatter,I caught it halfway to the table, liquid sloshing over my hand, scalding hot but I barely felt it. Because I was looking into eyes I hadn't seen in seven years. Eyes that had once looked at me with contempt and something darker, more complicated, something that had haunted my nightmares through high school and into college.

Dante Moretti.

The room tilted. Or maybe I did. My vision tunneled, sounds becoming muffled and distant. This wasn't possible. Dante was in Europe. Milan, London, somewhere far away where the past stayed buried and I didn't have to remember being sixteen and stupid and so desperately, pathetically in love with the boy next door who had made destroying me his personal hobby.

"This is my son." Giovanni's hand landed on Dante's shoulder with obvious pride. "Many of you know he's been overseeing our European acquisitions for the past seven years. Dante's been instrumental in expanding our holdings in London, Frankfurt, and Milan. He's returned to take on a larger role here."

No. No, no, no.

"As of today, Dante will serve as Vice President of Operations, working directly with Marcus to streamline our domestic initiatives." Giovanni smiled, and I recognized that expression:the pleased look of a king placing his heir exactly where he wanted him. "He'll be interfacing with all departments. I expect your full cooperation and expertise as he transitions into this position."

Dante's eyes found mine across the table.

For a moment something flickered in his expression. Recognition, yes. But also something that looked almost like satisfaction, like a chess player spotting the piece he'd been searching for.

Then his mouth curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I look forward to working with all of you."

His voice had deepened. It rolled through the conference room like smoke, cultured and controlled with just enough rasp to suggest he'd done interesting things to earn it. This wasn't the reckless nineteen-year-old who'd blasted music at 2 AM and brought home different girls every weekend. This was a man who'd been forged into something harder, more dangerous, wrapped in expensive fabric and corporate authority.

"Let's go around the table," Giovanni said. "Introductions, your department, and one priority you're currently focused on. Marcus, start us off."

I barely heard Marcus's polished introduction. My mind was racing through calculations, scenarios, exit strategies. Could I request a transfer? Could I quit without a reference? How long before Dante recognized me-really recognized me, not just as another face at the table but as Sloane Rivera from 47th Street, the girl who used to watch him from her bedroom window, who'd made the fatal mistake of letting him see what she watched?

The introductions moved around the table. Sarah. David. Others whose names I couldn't process.

Then it was my turn.

I forced myself to meet Dante's gaze. Seven years of therapy, self-defense classes, and climbing corporate ladders had given me armor. I was twenty-three now, not sixteen. I wore Everlane and confidence, had mastered the art of the strategic smile and the professional deflection. He couldn't hurt me anymore.

"Sloane Rivera, Communications Director." My voice came out steady. Point for me.

"I'm currently focused on the Castellano merger messaging and managing our executive social media presence."

"Rivera." Giovanni's attention sharpened on me. "You're the one who handled the Forbes profile. Excellent work. Made me sound almost likable."

Polite laughter rippled around the table. I inclined my head in acknowledgment, willing the attention to move past me.

It didn't.

"Sloane Rivera," Dante repeated, as if testing the syllables. His head tilted slightly, studying me with unnerving intensity. "Have we met before?"

Every cell in my body screamed. He knows. He's playing with you already.

But when I looked into his eyes, I saw genuine curiosity rather than malice.

Maybe I'd changed enough. I'd lost the awkward baby fat, traded glasses for contacts, learned to style my hair into something beyond a ponytail. I dressed like I belonged in these rooms now, moved like I had every right to breathe their rarified air.

"I don't believe so," I said coolly. "I would have remembered."

The lie tasted like ash and survival.

His eyes narrowed fractionally, and I saw the exact moment he started to remember.

His gaze dropped to my hands(I still twisted my ring finger when nervous, even though I no longer wore the cheap silver band I'd had at sixteen. Then to my mouth)I'd bitten my lip, an old tell I'd tried for years to break.

"Perhaps." But his tone suggested otherwise. He made a note on the tablet in front of him, and I imagined my name being flagged, filed away for further investigation.

The meeting continued. Giovanni outlined quarterly goals, Marcus presented operational updates, and I stopped processing words into meaning. I was too busy calculating whether I could slip out during the break, whether I could reach HR before Dante connected all the dots, whether any of this mattered because I was about to lose my job anyway.

Companies like Moretti Holdings didn't let executives carry baggage. If Dante wanted me gone, I'd be gone.

"That's all." Giovanni stood, signaling dismissal. "Dante will be scheduling individual department meetings over the next week. Be prepared to discuss your initiatives in detail."

People began gathering their materials, the buzz of conversation rising. I moved to leave, keeping my head down, aiming for the door like it was the last helicopter out of a war zone.

"Ms. Rivera."

Dante's voice stopped me three steps from freedom.

I turned slowly, arranging my expression into professional neutrality. Up close, he was even more devastating. The boy I'd known had been beautiful in a careless, unfinished way. The man he'd become was weaponized attractiveness,everything sharpened and deliberate, from the precise shave line along his jaw to the way his suit jacket emphasized his shoulders.

He smelled like cedar and something darker, richer. Expensive cologne that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"Yes, Mr. Moretti?" I kept my voice level, my body language open but not inviting.

His eyes traveled over my face, cataloging details, and I saw memories clicking into place behind them. The slight widening of his pupils. The tension that entered his jaw.

He knew.

"I'd like to schedule time with Communications first," he said, his tone perfectly professional even as his eyes said something else entirely. "This afternoon, if possible. Two o'clock?"

"I'll need to check my calendar-"

"Check it now."

It wasn't a request.

I pulled out my phone, pulled up my calendar app, knowing damn well I had nothing scheduled at two. "I have a meeting with-"

"Cancel it." He stepped closer, and I smelled cedar again, threatening to drag me back to summer nights when I'd watched him smoke on his roof deck, when I'd been stupid enough to think the boy next door might ever look at someone like me with anything but contempt. "This is priority one, Ms. Rivera. Surely the Communications Director understands the importance of prioritization."

The subtle emphasis on my title made it clear he remembered everything. The girl who'd tutored other kids in her living room. The scholarship student who'd worn the same three outfits on rotation. The pathetic teenager who'd slipped a Valentine into his family's mailbox and suffered two months of creative torture for her audacity.

"Of course, Mr. Moretti." I met his stare, refusing to be the first to look away. "Two o'clock in your office?"

"Actually, I haven't been assigned an office yet." His smile had teeth in it. "Let's make it yours. I'd like to see how Communications operates."

He wanted to invade my space, mark his territory, make me feel unsafe in the one place I'd carved out as mine. Classic Dante.

"Perfect," I lied. "Twenty-seventh floor, northeast corner. I'll have coffee ready."

"I remember how you take yours," he said quietly, so only I could hear. "Three sugars, excessive cream. You used to drink it on your front steps in the morning before school. You'd wrap your hands around the mug like you were trying to absorb the warmth."

My blood went cold. He'd been watching me even when I hadn't known he was watching. The thought made my skin crawl and something else, something I refused to examine.

"People change their coffee preferences, Mr. Moretti." I stepped back, establishing distance. "I take it black now."

"Do you." It wasn't a question. His gaze dropped to my mouth again, lingering. "I wonder what else has changed."

Everything, I wanted to scream. I changed everything about myself to erase the girl you tormented. I rebuilt myself from ruins you created.

"I'm sure you'll be disappointed to find me much less interesting than you remember," I said instead. "I'm quite boring these days. Just another corporate drone focused on quarterly projections and media placements."

"Somehow I doubt that." He reached past me to open the door, his arm briefly creating a cage around my body without touching me. "Two o'clock, Ms. Rivera. Don't be late."

Then he was gone, striding down the hallway toward where Giovanni and Marcus waited, falling into conversation with the ease of someone who'd been groomed for this his entire life.

I made it to the bathroom before my hands started shaking.

The executive washroom on twenty-seven was all marble and soft lighting, designed to make you look flawless even when you were falling apart. I gripped the edge of the counter, staring at my reflection:professional, pulled-together, nothing like the girl who'd cried in a bathroom stall when Dante had told the entire junior class that she'd offered to sleep with him if he'd take her to prom.

It had been a lie. I'd never said anything like that. But the rumor had stuck, mutating into worse variations as rumors did, until I'd been labeled desperate, pathetic, delusional.

My phone buzzed. A calendar invitation from Dante Moretti: "Communications Review Meeting - 2:00 PM - Your Office."

I stared at the notification until my vision blurred.

Then I straightened my spine, reapplied my lipstick, and walked out of that bathroom like I was heading into battle.

Because I was.

The hours between the morning meeting and two o'clock passed in a haze of anxiety and attempted productivity. I canceled my actual two o'clock(a routine check-in with our social media coordinator that could easily be rescheduled). I reviewed the Castellano merger materials until the words stopped making sense. I considered faking a sudden illness, a family emergency, a burst appendix.

But I'd spent seven years refusing to run from my past. I wasn't starting now.

At 1:55, I straightened my office. It wasn't much but I'd made it mine. Framed examples of successful campaigns on the walls. A small succulent collection on the windowsill because something green and living made the fluorescent monotony bearable. My degrees from NYU mounted in simple frames: Bachelor's in Communications, Master's in Corporate Strategy, both earned on scholarships and student loans I'd be paying off until I was forty.

Evidence that I'd become someone. That the girl he'd tormented had won.

At exactly 2:00, Dante knocked.

"Come in." I stood behind my desk, using it as a barrier and power statement simultaneously.

He entered, and my office immediately felt smaller. He'd removed his suit jacket, and his white shirt fit him like a personal tailor had measurements of his body in a database somewhere. He probably did. He carried a leather portfolio that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"Nice space." His gaze swept the room, cataloging details the way predators memorize terrain. "Cozy."

"It serves its purpose." I gestured to the chair across from my desk. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee-"

"Nothing, thank you." But he didn't sit in the chair I'd indicated. Instead, he prowled to my window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. "You can see Central Park from here. Corner office, impressive for someone who's only been here six months."

How did he know my tenure? Had he looked me up already?

"I've been fortunate," I said carefully. "The previous Communications Director left suddenly, and I was already managing several key accounts. The promotion made sense."

"Fortunate," he repeated, still not looking at me. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"What else would you call it?"

He turned then, and the expression on his face made my breath catch. It wasn't the cruel amusement I remembered. It was something more complex-hunger and regret and something almost like pain, all fighting for dominance.

"Sloane Rivera from Brooklyn Heights," he said quietly. "47th Street, the brownstone with the blue door and the window boxes your mother planted every spring. You had a bedroom on the third floor that faced our house. You kept your light on late every night, studying. Sometimes I could see you at your desk, your hair up in a ponytail, completely absorbed in whatever book you were reading."

My stomach dropped. "I don't know what-"

"Don't." His voice cut through my denial. "Don't insult both of us by pretending. I knew who you were the moment you said your name. I just needed a moment to understand why you were here. Why you'd joined this company."

"I joined because I earned a position here," I said, finding my spine. "Because I'm qualified and talented and I've worked my ass off to be in this room. Not everything is about you, Dante."

His name on my lips made him flinch. Good. Let him be uncomfortable.

"You're right," he said, surprising me. "I'm sure your career choices had nothing to do with me. Just like my father's company having an opening in Communications exactly when you were looking had nothing to do with you."

I stared at him. "What are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything." He moved closer to my desk, and I forced myself not to retreat. "I'm stating facts. You've been working here for six months. I've been planning my return for eight months. During that time, three positions opened in departments you were qualified for. You applied to all three. You were offered all three. You chose Communications because it's the most visible role, the one that would give you the most access to executive leadership."

"That's standard career strategy," I said, but my voice wavered. How did he know all of this? Who had he been talking to?

"It is," he agreed. "It's also convenient. Tell me, Sloane did you know I was coming back? Did someone tip you off that Giovanni's son would be returning from Europe, taking a position of significant power? Did you think this was your chance?"

"My chance for what?" I demanded, anger finally overtaking fear. "To what, seduce you? Blackmail you? Get revenge for high school bullshit that happened seven years ago? I hate to shatter your ego, Dante, but you're not that important to me. You stopped being important the day you got on a plane to Milan and I finally got to breathe without wondering what fresh hell you'd devise next."

Silence filled the room like water rising.

Then Dante smiled, and it was nothing like the cruel smirks from our past. This was real, almost admiring. "There she is. I was wondering when the girl with claws would come out."

"I'm not a girl anymore." I stepped around my desk, eliminating his height advantage by moving into his space rather than cowering from it. "I'm a woman who's very good at her job, who's earned everything she has, and who doesn't appreciate being interrogated in her own office by someone who made my teenage years a living hell."

"I know." His voice dropped lower. "Believe me, Sloane, I know exactly what I did to you."

Something in his tone made me pause. There was no amusement there, no satisfaction. Just something that sounded suspiciously like regret.

"Then why are you here?" I asked, suddenly exhausted. "What do you want from me?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his dark eyes searching mine. Then: "I don't know yet."

The honesty of it shocked me more than any manipulation could have.

"I should hate you," I whispered. "I should march into your father's office and tell him everything. The rumors you spread, the way you made me a joke, how you had your friends corner me after the Valentine incident and-"

"And what?" His jaw tightened. "What did they do, Sloane?"

I looked away. I'd never told anyone about that day, about being surrounded in an empty hallway, about hands grabbing and voices laughing and the certainty that something terrible was about to happen before a teacher had rounded the corner and it had all dissolved into nervous jokes.

"Nothing happened," I said, the same lie I'd told myself for years. "They just scared me. Made sure I knew how pathetic I was for thinking someone like you could ever want someone like me."

"Jesus Christ." Dante's hand came up like he meant to touch me, then stopped. "Sloane, I never-I didn't tell them to-"

"You didn't have to tell them anything," I cut him off. "You created the environment. You spread the story. You made me a target and then acted surprised when other predators circled. That's on you, Dante. All of it."

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling. For the first time since entering my office, he looked genuinely rattled. "You're right. You're absolutely right. There's no excuse for what I did, for what I allowed to happen."

"Then why did you?" The question I'd carried for seven years finally found voice. "Why did you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you besides exist in your proximity and make the mistake of thinking you were something you weren't?"

"I didn't hate you." The words came out raw. "That was never what it was."

"Then what was it?"

He looked at me like he was deciding whether to jump or step back from a ledge. "Obsession," he said finally. "Sick, twisted, adolescent obsession that I had no idea how to handle. You were sixteen and brilliant and so impossibly good, and I was nineteen and fucked up and terrified by how much I wanted you. Terrified of what my father would do if he noticed. Terrified of what I might do if I let myself get close to you."

I laughed, bitter and sharp. "So you destroyed me instead. Very healthy coping mechanism."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Believe me, I know. I spent seven years in Europe trying to become someone who deserved to come back here and make this right. Someone who could look at you without wanting to-"

He stopped himself.

"Without wanting to know what?" I challenged.

His eyes met mine, and what I saw there made my breath catch. Heat and hunger and something darker, more possessive. "Without wanting to keep you," he finished quietly. "Lock you away somewhere only I can find you. Make sure no one else ever gets close enough to see what I saw in you back then-all that fire and brilliance you tried so hard to hide."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't the conversation I'd expected. I'd prepared for mockery, for dismissal, for corporate power plays. Not for raw confession that sounded too sincere to be manipulated but too convenient to be fully trusted.

"You don't get to do this," I said, my voice shaking. "You don't get to walk back into my life after seven years and rewrite history. You weren't obsessed with me-you were cruel. You made me hate myself. Do you understand that? You made me look in the mirror and see something worthless."

Pain flashed across his face. "I know. And I will spend however long it takes making that right."

"You can't make it right," I snapped. "Some things don't get fixed, Dante. They just survived."

"Then let me help you survive." He moved closer, and I should have stepped back but I was frozen, caught in the gravity of whatever this moment was becoming. "Let me prove that I'm not that fucked-up kid anymore. That I can be-"

"My boss?" I interrupted, forcing reality back into the room. "Because that's what you are now. My boss. Which makes this entire conversation inappropriate and potentially illegal, depending on what exactly you're proposing."

That stopped him. Professional consideration flickered through his expression, warring with whatever else he was feeling. "You're right. I'm sorry. That wasn't-I shouldn't have made this personal."

"It was always personal," I said tiredly. "That's the problem."