Page 19 of His Ruthless Vow

Itap my manicured nails against my keyboard, staring at the email that's been sitting in my drafts for twenty minutes. The client wants changes to the campaign—again. For the third time this week. I've rewritten this response four different ways, each version getting progressively more direct while still maintaining that veneer of professionalism.

My phone buzzes against my desk, and I glance down to see Enzo's name on the screen.

Don't forget about tonight. I'll be there at 8.

No question mark. No "if that works for you." Just a statement, an expectation that I'll comply. And the most infuriating part? I will.

I pick up my phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This has become our dance over the past two weeks. He gives an order disguised as a casual comment, and I push back just enough to remind him I'm not one of his soldiers.

I'll check my schedule, I type back, even though we both know damn well I'm free tonight.

Three dots appear immediately.Don't bother. You're free.

Heat crawls up my spine—not anger, something more complicated. The way he says it, so certain. Like he knows my movements, my patterns. Maybe he does.

Pretty presumptuous of you.I send before I can stop myself.

Is it presumptuous if I'm right?

I set my phone down without responding, returning to my email with renewed focus. I'll make him wait for a reply. Let him wonder if he pushed too far.

Two hours later, my assistant pokes her head into my office.

"The Morton account called. They love the new direction."

I look up from my computer and smile. "Good. Tell Jamie to start on the visuals—I want mock-ups by Friday."

She nods and disappears, and I lean back in my chair, satisfaction warming my chest. I'm good at what I do. Damn good. I know how to read people, how to package exactly what they want before they even know they want it.

So why can't I figure out Enzo Rossi?

I pick up my phone again. He hasn't followed up, hasn't pushed for a response. That's not how most men operate in my experience. They demand attention, validation, confirmation.

But Enzo just... waits.

It's maddening. And effective.

Because by six, I'm standing in my closet, towel wrapped around me, staring at my options. "Something nice," he said. Deliberately vague. Another move in our game.

I run my fingers over a red dress that hugs every curve, the neckline low enough to be interesting without veering into desperate. I pull it out, hold it against me, considering.

This is dangerous. Every time I see him, I step closer to the flame. Every text, every loaded silence between us, every time those steel-gray eyes lock on mine—I'm playing with fire. And I know it.

But I don't stop.

Maybe it's the way he looks at me—like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls. Maybe it's how different he is from the men I usually encounter, men who mistake arrogance for confidence, volume for power.

I hang the red dress back up and pull out a black one instead. More subtle. Sophisticated. Less like I'm trying to prove something.

As I apply my makeup, I recognize the pattern that's emerged between us. Enzo never pushes first. He creates the space, extends the invitation, but waits for me to step into it. He lets me hover at the edge of admitting what I want—what I really want—and then pulls back just when I'm about to fall.

I apply a final coat of lipstick, the rich burgundy catching the light as I press my lips together. Perfect. Not too much, not too little. Just like everything else about tonight's look—calculated, deliberate. The black dress skims my curves without clinging, the neckline modest but the back dipping just low enough to be interesting. My curls fall in defined waves around my shoulders, and gold hoops catch the light when I turn my head.

I look good. I know I look good. And I hate that I care so much about looking good for him.

When the doorbell rings precisely at eight, I wait an extra thirty seconds before answering.

Enzo stands in my doorway, one hand in the pocket of tailored black slacks, the other holding his phone. His button-down is a deep navy, no tie, the top buttons undone just enough to make my eyes linger a second too long on his throat. His dark hair is styled in that perfectly imperfect way that probably took him all of two minutes to achieve.

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