You’re running late again, music blasting in your ears as you speed-walk through the office. Eyes glued to your phone, you barely notice the closed conference room door—until you’re pushing it open. You freeze.

The air is thick with tension. Papers—and guns—litter the long table. Your stomach drops. At the head stands Luca Moretti, the CEO, his dark gaze locking onto yours. His assistants sit rigid, fear flickering in their eyes.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice is low, sharp. “I—I’m sorry,” you stammer, yanking out an earbud. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to walk into a restricted meeting?” He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “I just needed—” Your eyes dart to the counter. A stapler. You came for a stapler.

His gaze darkens. “You weren’t supposed to see this.” The room feels smaller, the weight of their stares pressing in.

“I’ll just go—”

“Stay where you are,” he growls. “You’ve already seen too much.”