The joint lecture on corporate finance is exactly as thrilling as watching paint dry.
Alessandro sits beside me in the back row. "Take notes for both of us," he says, sliding his unused notebook across the desk.
"Of course, sir." I keep my voice soft, grateful, perfectly subservient.
Inside, I'm mentally composing a strongly worded letter about labor law violations.
The professor drones on about market equilibrium, and I focus very intently on writing. Partly because that's my job. Mostly because Alessandro is sitting close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
And after yesterday's bedroom incident where I left him desperately unsatisfied, this proximity feels dangerous.
His cologne invades my space—that dark, woodsy scent that should be illegal. I'm trying very hard not to remember his hands in my hair, his voice rough and commanding, the taste of him—
Stop. Focus on corporate finance. Think about supply curves.
Alessandro shifts closer. His thigh brushes mine under the desk, and my pen nearly skids across the page.
"You alright there?" His voice is low, amused. "Seems like you're having trouble concentrating."
"I'm fine." I don't look at him. "Just very invested in this fascinating discussion about fiscal policy."
"Sure you are."
His phone buzzes on the desk between us, vibrating loud enough that several students glance over. The caller ID flashes: Padre.
Alessandro's entire demeanor shifts—relaxed amusement replaced by something harder, more controlled. He stands without a word, grabbing his phone, and leaves the lecture hall.
I wait exactly forty-five seconds—enough to seem unconnected—before silently getting up and leaving the hall.
The hallway outside is empty except for Alessandro at the far end, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is too low to hear clearly, but his posture is tense.
I edge closer, straining to catch fragments.
"—can't do that right now—" Alessandro's voice. "—security concerns—no, I understand—"
Pause.
"—the girl isn't—" He cuts himself off. "Yes. I'll handle it."
The girl. Is he talking about me?
I need to get closer, need to hear—
"Going somewhere, Sofia?"
I freeze. Turn slowly.
Alessandro stands five feet away, phone lowered. How did he—when did he—
Fuck.
"I needed to use the restroom, sir." My voice comes out steady.
"Did you?" He takes a step closer. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you were eavesdropping."
"I wasn't—I just—the restroom is this way, and I didn't want to interrupt—"
"Sofia." His voice drops dangerously low. "Remember what I said about curiosity?"
I nod, throat tight.
"Good." He pockets his phone. "There are consequences for stepping where you don't belong. We'll discuss them later."
He brushes past me, heading back to the lecture hall.
I stand in the empty hallway, heart racing, replaying every word. By the time I make it back to my seat, my hands are shaking.
* * *
After the lecture, Alessandro doesn't let me out of his sight. Not for a second.
"Come on," he says, grabbing his bag. "I need lunch."
I follow him to the cafeteria—three steps behind like always—hyperaware of every eye tracking us. The whispers have gotten louder.
"Is that his maid?"
"Why does he bring her everywhere?"
Alessandro either doesn't hear or doesn't care. He orders lunch for both of us—some overpriced salad—and gestures at a table.
"Sit."
I sit. He sits across from me, and somehow this feels more intimate than it should.
"Eat." He pushes the salad toward me.
"Thank you, sir."
"Stop calling me 'sir' when we're alone." His eyes meet mine. "It's annoying."
Okay, that’s new—and thank god, calling him ‘sir’ in public is embarrassing. "You literally made it a rule—"
"I'm changing the rule. Just for this. Eat your damn salad, Sofia."
I eat, and the whole time I can feel people staring. Judging. Wondering what the hell is going on between the De Luca heir and his personal maid.
After lunch, he drags me to the library. He’s carrying our bags now—although I was sure he’d make me carry both of them—trying to ignore the continued whispers.
"Alessandro's getting too attached to that girl."
"It's embarrassing, honestly."
Then Chiara appears like a designer-clad demon summoned by gossip.
She's with her usual entourage. When she spots us, her perfectly made-up face twists into something ugly.
"Alessandro." Her voice cuts across the library's hushed atmosphere. "Can we talk? Privately?"
"I'm busy."
"It's important." She glances at me with pure venom. "It's about your embarrassing little obsession."
Alessandro sets down his book, and his expression goes cold. "What did you just say?"
"You're embarrassing me." Chiara steps closer, her voice sounds more like cat hissing. "Everyone on campus is talking about how the great Alessandro De Luca is parading his maid around like some kind of—"
"Careful." His voice drops to something dangerous. "Choose your next words very carefully, Chiara."
"I'm just saying—"
"You're saying nothing worth hearing." He turns his back on her, effectively dismissing her existence. "Sofia, come here."
I move to his side, and he hands me three more books.
"We're done here."
"Alessandro!" Chiara's voice cracks with frustration. "This affects me too! You—"
"I don’t fucking care, Chiara." He finally looks at her, and the contempt in his expression makes even me flinch as he gets closer to his sister, towering over her. "I do what I decide needs to be done. I don’t care if this affects you. I don’t care what you think about it. So shut your mouth."
Chiara's face goes red. "You can’t—"
"I can." Alessandro steps closer, and Chiara actually backs up. "Here's the thing about my personal business, Chiara: it's personal. Which means you don't get an opinion. You don't get a say."
The surrounding students have gone completely silent, watching this trainwreck unfold.
Chiara's eyes are bright with angry tears. "I hate you."
"Mutual." Alessandro turns to me. "Let's go."
We leave Chiara standing there, and I'm torn between satisfaction and horror at being the cause of family drama.
Outside the library, I finally speak. "You didn't have to do that. Standing up for me again—"
"No." Alessandro stops walking. "I don’t want to hear it."
"But she's your sister—"
"She's my burden. There's a difference." His hand cups my jaw. "I know I’ve said it already, but you seem to have forgotten. You're my maid, Sofia. Mine. Nobody else gets to make your life miserable. Nobody else gets to touch you or hurt you or make you feel small. That's my job."
He says it like possession, but there's something else underneath. Something that makes my chest tight.
The way he's looking at me isn't just territorial—it's protective. Possessive, yes, but also concerned. Connected.
"Do you understand?" His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Good." He drops his hand, steps back. "Now come on. I have training in an hour, and you're coming with me."
"Of course I am," I mutter, following him.
Because apparently my life now consists of being Alessandro De Luca's shadow, watching him fight, nearly sleeping with him, and trying very hard not to notice that the way he says "my maid" is starting to sound less like objectification and more like something dangerously close to affection.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm definitely not developing feelings for the man whose family I'm supposed to destroy.