Rihanna arrived at the executive floor ten minutes early, her heart thudding against her ribs like it wanted to escape. The air was different up here. Quieter. Heavier. Every footstep felt like it echoed through marble and secrets.
The receptionist looked up with a clipped smile. "Miss Thompson?"
"Yes," Rihanna said, smoothing her coat, suddenly hyper-aware of her reflection in the glass wall to her left. Her black slacks. The white blouse. The subtle trembling of her fingers.
"He's waiting. End of the corridor. Last door on the right."
She nodded, offered a polite smile, and turned.
The hallway was lined with towering glass offices. Every single door was shut. The people inside moved with precision — gestures sharp, clipped, like they were always being watched. Every heel sounded like a countdown on the polished floor.
Last door on the right.
She paused before it. The glass was tinted slightly darker than the others. The plaque read only one name:
LORENZO MORETTIChief Strategic Architect
Her hand hovered before the handle for a beat too long.
Then she knocked once.
"Avanti," came the voice from inside — smooth, low, and devastatingly calm.
She pushed the door open.
He was seated behind a wide mahogany desk, a tablet in one hand, pen in the other. The floor-to-ceiling window behind him bathed the room in soft daylight, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones and tailored black suit.
For a moment, he didn't look up.
And then he did.
Lorenzo Moretti's eyes were a kind of storm — unreadable, unrelenting, the kind of gaze that searched straight past your clothes and skin and into your choices.
He said nothing. Just stared.
Rihanna stepped in carefully, clearing her throat. "Miss Rihanna Thompson. You asked for me?"
He didn't smile.
"Sit."
She did.
Silence filled the room like smoke.
"I've read your file," he said, finally, voice like crushed velvet. "Interesting background. Small-town. Good academic standing. Obsessed with detail."
She blinked. "I—well, I do like structure. Patterns."
"I wasn't complimenting," he said. Still no smile.
Her fingers tightened in her lap.
Then suddenly, he stood. Tall. Imposing. The tailored lines of his jacket moving like a blade sliding from its sheath.
He walked slowly to her side of the desk, and leaned against it, arms crossed, watching her like a question with no answer.
"Why do you think I picked you?"
Rihanna's lips parted. "I... I assumed someone in HR—"
"HR does what I tell them to."
A pause.
"I picked you because you intrigued me. You have the look of someone who doesn't know how much danger they're in. That's fascinating."
She froze.
Was that a joke?
He stared at her like he was bored with everyone else and just now found someone vaguely tolerable. "Do you know what we do here in this division, Miss Thompson?"
"Not exactly."
"We design risk. We create opportunity out of volatility. We find pressure points and squeeze them until something valuable spills out."
His voice was low, controlled, but behind it was something feral.
Rihanna nodded slowly, heart hammering.
"You'll shadow me. Take notes. Learn quickly. I have no patience for slowness or weakness. If you disappoint me, you won't hear it in words. You'll feel it in silence."
"I... understand," she said.
He stepped closer. The cologne he wore was faint but intoxicating — something dark, woodsy, expensive. He leaned in, lowering his voice near her ear.
"You will call me Signore Moretti while in this office. Outside, you will speak only when spoken to. And inside..." His lips barely curved. "Inside, you will learn when to obey without being told."
Her breath caught.
Then he stepped back, just like that — composure returned, his storm locked behind control.
"Orientation starts tomorrow. You'll meet me in the archives, 7 a.m. sharp. Don't be late, Miss Thompson."
"Yes, Signore Moretti."
He turned away, already walking back to his desk. "Dismissed."
She stood too quickly, nodded again, and slipped out the door.
Once it shut behind her, Rihanna leaned back against the wall, chest rising and falling too fast.
She had just met him.
And yet, somehow, it already felt like she belonged to something she didn't understand.