Zo did not immediately speak. He walked past her, his long strides effortless, and moved behind his massive mahogany desk. The rain outside lashed the double-paned glass with relentless fury, running in translucent rivers that blurred the glittering lights of the Gold Coast skyline.
“Put the bag on the table, Tessa,” he said softly.
Her fingers tightened on the frayed straps. “Mr. Rossi, please… if you’re going to call the police, just let me call Mrs. Gable first. She’s the neighbor who watches the boys after school. I only paid her until seven-thirty. If nobody is home by eight, she’ll leave them alone in the hall, and the building super—”
“I am not calling the police,” Zo interrupted. His voice was low, deep, and carried an anchor-like weight that cut right through her spiraling panic. “And I am not firing you.”
Tessa froze. Her mouth parted slightly, her breath catching in the center of her throat. She searched his face, terrified that this was merely the prelude to some cruel, elaborate humiliation. Men like Zo Rossi didn’t grant clemency; they protected their ledgers. She had spent two months watching him from the corners of rooms—a figure of quiet terror who commanded multimillion-dollar deals with the flick of a pen and made senior executives sweat through their custom shirts.
“You’re… not?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the patter of sleet on the glass.
“No,” Zo said. He gestured toward the wide leather sofa across from his desk. “Sit down.”
She hesitated, her glance darting to her faded slate uniform, still damp at the hem from the puddle she had kneeled in. “I’ll soil the leather, sir. I can stand.”
“Tessa,” he said, the word not an order, but an immovable request. “Sit.”
She moved slowly, lowering herself onto the edge of the cushions as if the leather were red-hot iron. She sat rigid, her spine straight, her hands trembling in her lap.
Before she could speak again, the side door that connected the study to the private kitchen annex swung open. Chef Marcus entered, his broad face serious, carrying two heavy, insulated black catering bags embroidered with the Rossi crest, along with a polished silver service tray. On the tray sat a steaming white porcelain bowl and a tall glass of fresh orange juice.
Marcus set the tray on the low coffee table directly in front of Tessa. Without meeting her eyes, he placed a silver soup spoon beside the bowl and stepped back, his posture stiff with professional respect.
“The catering bags are loaded, Mr. Rossi,” Marcus said quietly. “Hot compartments are set at one hundred and sixty degrees. Two portions of braised short ribs, buttered mashed Yukon potatoes, roasted winter vegetables, and the sourdough boules. Below that are four quarts of whole milk, fresh berries, sliced roasted turkey, and three chocolate tarts. It will keep until midnight without losing heat.”
“Thank you, Marcus,” Zo said. “Leave the bags by the private elevator. Tell Frank to pull the Maybach around to the courtyard entrance.”
“Right away, sir.” Marcus nodded once and disappeared, the door clicking softly in his wake.
Tessa stared at the silver tray in front of her. The aroma rising from the bowl was intoxicating—rich chicken broth infused with thyme, shredded roasted chicken, tender egg noodles, and sweet carrots. Her stomach let out a violent, audible rumble that echoed through the vast, quiet room.
The color drained from her face, replaced instantly by a scorching blush of embarrassment. She pulled her arms tight against her midsection, squeezing her eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Eat,” Zo said.
“I can’t take this,” she stammered, shaking her head. “I didn’t earn this. I broke the estate rules. I—”
“You have been working ten-hour shifts on cups of black coffee and discarded toast,” Zo said, stepping around the desk and stopping a few feet away from her. The sight of her hollowed cheeks and the sharp lines of her collarbone made a sharp, persistent ache flare in his chest. “You will eat that soup. Every drop of it. Or I will consider it an act of insubordination.”
She looked up at him, her hazel eyes glistening with fresh tears. She realized then that he wasn’t mocking her. There was no mockery in the dark, severe angles of his face—only a grim, unyielding focus that dared her to defy him.
With hands that shook so badly the spoon rattled against the porcelain, Tessa lifted the first spoonful of broth to her lips.
The warmth hit her tongue, exploding with flavors she had forgotten existed in the long, grueling months since her mother’s funeral. For an entire year, food had simply been fuel—cheap, tasteless calories calculated down to the penny to keep her body moving while she scraped together rent and utility payments. But this was warm, nourishing life.
