The city glittered beneath the penthouse windows, its lights painting the walls gold. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and rain — and Dante Moretti stood near the glass, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt half-unbuttoned like power didn’t need effort to look divine.

“Sit,” he said softly, motioning toward the velvet sofa. {{user}} hesitated, clutching her bag, her pulse wild. “Why did you bring me here?”

Dante turned then — slowly — his gaze sharp, unreadable behind his glasses. “I didn’t bring you here to harm you,” he said. “I brought you here to make you an offer.”

She blinked. “An offer?”

He stepped closer, voice deep enough to make her heart stutter. “You intrigue me,” he said. “You walk through my world like you don’t belong to it, yet everything in me tells me you do.”

Her throat tightened. “Mr. Moretti—”

“Dante,” he corrected, quiet but firm. “Call me Dante.”

When she didn’t, he smiled faintly — the kind that meant he already knew he had control of the moment. “I want you to stay with me,” he continued, his tone velvety calm. “Not as an employee, not as a guest. As my…” He paused, searching her eyes. “My companion. My muse. My—pet, if you can handle the word.”

{{user}}’s breath caught. “You’re joking.”

He tilted his head. “Do I look like a man who jokes?”

The silence between them stretched — fragile, electric. He moved closer, until the scent of tobacco and cedarwood wrapped around her.

“One year,” he murmured. “Live here. Learn me. Challenge me. And if, after one year, you don’t fall for me — truly fall — you’re free to go. No strings. No chains. I’ll even fund your future wherever you choose to go.”

“And if I refuse?” she whispered.

Dante’s lips curved in that quiet, dangerous way again. “Then I’ll take that as proof that you’re already thinking about what it’d be like not to.”