Élise woke to the soft hum of Milan outside her window.
Scooters murmured down the narrow street below, a vendor laughed somewhere, and the city smelled faintly of coffee and morning bread. For a brief moment, she stayed still, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling above her bed, letting the sounds remind her where she was.
Italy.
Not Paris.
Not home.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Mama.
Élise smiled before answering. "Bonjour."
"You sound tired," her mother said immediately, warmth and concern wrapped into one sentence. "Are you eating well?"
Élise laughed softly. "Of course you'd ask that first."
Her mother filled the silence with questionsabout the apartment, the job, whether Milan was kind to her yet. Élise answered carefully, choosing reassurance over truth. She didn't mention the strange tension at work, or the way her name seemed to travel faster than she did through the office halls.
"And the company?" her mother asked. "The Moretti Group… it's big, yes?"
"Yes," Élise said, glancing at the neat clothes folded on her chair. "Very big."
"Just remember," her mother said gently, "you don't have to impress anyone. Just be yourself."
Élise closed her eyes for a moment after the call ended.
If only it were that simple.
---
Work greeted her with its usual polished calm but something underneath had shifted.
She felt it the moment she stepped onto her floor. Conversations paused, then resumed in quieter tones. Someone smiled at her a second too long. Someone else avoided her eyes entirely.
At her desk, a file lay waiting.
She frowned. She hadn't left anything unfinished the night before.
A yellow sticky note was attached.
Revise section three. Clarify figures.
No name.
No signature.
Her supervisor looked genuinely puzzled when she asked. "That didn't come from me," he said. "Just… handle it."
Handle it.
She did. Carefully. Perfectly.
By lunchtime, the file was gone.
---
"You're being watched."
Zara said it casually, stirring her drink, as if she were commenting on the weather.
Élise nearly choked. "What?"
Zara raised an eyebrow. "Relax. I didn't say hunted. Just… noticed."
They sat near the office café window, sunlight catching the gold rim of Zara's glass. Zara had grown up in Italy she understood the rhythms, the unspoken rules.
"When people here are curious," Zara continued, "they don't ask questions. They observe."
Élise felt a chill. "By who?"
Zara hesitated, then shrugged. "Does it matter?"
It did.
She just didn't know why yet.
---
High above them, Adriano Moretti stood with his back to the glass, Milan spread beneath him like a map he had memorized years ago.
He rarely concerned himself with interns.
But Élise Dupont had disrupted a pattern.
She worked quietly.
She didn't seek validation.
She corrected mistakes without excuses.
That alone wasn't unusual.
What was unusual was how others reacted to her presence how the office recalibrated around someone who wasn't trying to lead or dominate.
He reviewed her file again.
France.
Transferred on merit.
No influential sponsors.
Clean.
Too clean.
"Giulia," he said calmly into the phone, "how often does she speak?"
Giulia paused. "Enough to answer. Not enough to invite attention."
Adriano's gaze sharpened.
"People like that," he said, "are either hiding something… or protecting something."
---
The email arrived mid-afternoon.
Requesting your presence. 10:30 a.m. Tomorrow. A.M.
Élise read it twice.
No greeting.
No explanation.
Her heartbeat didn't slow until she reached home that evening, keys shaking slightly as she unlocked the door. She leaned against it once inside, exhaling.
Why me?
The question followed her into sleep.
---
The next morning, Milan felt unusually quiet.
The elevator ride was worse.
When the doors opened, Adriano Moretti was already waiting, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable.
"You're punctual," he said.
"I try to be," Élise replied.
He gestured toward a chair. "Sit."
She did.
"You've adapted quickly," he said, voice even. "Why Italy?"
She chose honesty. "Because staying would have been easier."
That earned his attention.
He studied her not her face alone, but the way she held herself, the restraint in her movements.
"You don't behave like someone chasing opportunity," he said. "Yet opportunity seems to find you."
"I don't control that," Élise said quietly.
"No," Adriano agreed. "But I do."
The silence that followed was heavy, deliberate.
"You may go," he said at last.
As Élise left, she didn't see the faint crease between his brows or the thought that lingered long after the door closed.
Some people passed through companies unnoticed.
Others disrupted them without trying.
And Adriano Moretti intended to find out which one she was.
.
.
An email came less than an hour after Élise returned to her desk.
Not from Human Resources.
Not from her supervisor.
From the executive office.
Subject: Temporary Reassignment
From: Office of the CEO
She stared at the screen, rereading the words until they settled into something real.
You will assist directly with select documentation for the executive floor this week. This is a trial assignment.
No congratulations.
No explanation.
Just fact.
Zara leaned over the divider, lowering her voice. "That's not normal."
Élise swallowed. "Is it… bad?"
Zara's lips pressed together thoughtfully. "It's powerful."
That didn't make her feel better.
The change was immediate. Her access permissions expanded. Her desk location shifted closer to the core offices. People began addressing her more carefully, watching her reactions, as if she had become something fragile or dangerous.
And through it all, Adriano Moretti said nothing.
Not a glance.
Not a word.
Which somehow felt worse.
---
That evening, Milan glowed with soft gold light as Adriano stepped into his family's villa, the familiar weight of tradition settling on his shoulders the moment the doors closed behind him.
The Moretti dinners were never casual.
His mother sat at the head of the table, elegant as ever, her gaze sharp despite her smile. His father observed quietly, glass of wine untouched. And Pedro relaxed, charming, infuriating leaned back in his chair as if this were just another meal.
"You're late," Pedro remarked lightly.
"I'm busy," Adriano replied, taking his seat.
His mother waved a hand. "You're always busy. That's the problem."
The first course arrived. Conversation drifted politely business, politics, Milan's endless traffic until his mother set her fork down with intention.
"You're not getting younger," she said.
Pedro grinned. "Here we go."
Adriano sighed. "We've had this discussion."
"And we'll keep having it," his mother said calmly. "You need a wife. Stability. An heir."
"I have a company," Adriano replied coolly. "That's enough responsibility."
His mother smiled as if he'd said something naïve. "No. It isn't."
She gestured to her phone. "We've met a wonderful young woman. Educated. Well-mannered. From a respectable family."
Pedro raised an eyebrow. "You already picked her?"
"A mother prepares," she said simply.
Adriano leaned back, expression unreadable. "I'm not interested."
His mother's gaze sharpened. "Because of work?"
"No," he said.
Pedro watched him carefully now.
"Then why?" his brother asked.
Adriano's mind flickered not to the woman being proposed, but to a quiet French intern who didn't try to impress him and somehow did anyway.
"I won't marry someone who wants the position," Adriano said finally. "I want someone who doesn't care about it."
The table fell silent.
Pedro's smile faded just slightly.
---
Back at her apartment, Élise sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone.
Another message had arrived.
Meeting tomorrow. 8:00 a.m. Executive floor.
Too early.
Too deliberate.
She wondered what she had done to deserve this attention and why it felt less like punishment and more like evaluation.
Somewhere across the city, Adriano Moretti stood at his window once again, phone in hand, thoughts divided between expectation and instinct.
He had crossed a line.
Not openly.
Not recklessly.
But enough to test something.
Professional interest could always be explained.
Personal curiosity was harder to justify.
And yet, as he set the phone down, Adriano knew one thing with absolute clarity:
Élise Dupont was no longer just an intern.
She was a variable.
And the most dangerous ones were always underestimated first.