AN: This story is so far out of my comfort zone, I think I'm in another galaxy! But it's been floating around in bits and pieces in Google Docs and Word for the longest time, and I'm ready to press publish, lol. M-Rated to the umpteenth degree + cocky Edward = potential disaster, but let's see!

Edward (and, basically everyone else besides Bella) is Italian in this story and regretfully, I am not, so I've relied on Google to push me through my fantasies and I truly, truly hope I don't offend any Italian speakers with badly translated words. I tried really hard to be as accurate as someone who's never learned Italian can be, but the language itself is very beautiful, and I've always wanted to incorporate it into a narrative!

I'll be adding words/phrases at the end of each chapter with (hopefully!) proper translations if not addressed in the story.

Also, Catalyst Rising is finished, I just have an issue with only focusing on one story at a time. It's an actual disease, and I'll be updating the next chapter soon :)

Now, without further adieu, let's dive into my perverted mind...

The first time I see Edward Cullen, I know—without a shred of doubt—that he is a man built for sin.

The kind of man whose presence commands attention, who moves through a room with quiet, self-assured arrogance, the air bending around him like even the universe knows he is something other. Untouchable. Irrefutable.

I see him before I even realize who he is.

A dark suit, perfectly cut to the lean, powerful lines of his body. The flicker of a silver watch at his wrist. The sharp edge of his jaw, dusted with the kind of stubble that looks intentional. His hair is dark copper, the color of autumn leaves caught in candlelight, tousled in a way that makes me think of hands gripping, fingers threading—

I catch myself.

I blink, refocusing through the camera lens.

This isn't why I came to Milan.

I came for a fresh start. For the art, for the work, for the chance to make something out of myself in a city that thrives on passion. Not for men like him.

Not for a man who can set my skin alight with a single look.

And yet, when he turns—when those eyes find me—I feel it.

Raw. Sudden. Uncompromising.

A pull so visceral it knocks the air from my lungs.

I don't even realize I've stopped taking photos until the creative director snaps his fingers in front of my face.

"Isabella. Concentrati." Focus.

I swallow hard and force my attention back to the models in front of me, the sleek lines of the dresses, the play of light against the silk. The entire Cullen Moda team is here for this shoot—it's the debut of their summer collection, and it has to be perfect.

I remind myself that I belong here. That I worked my ass off for this opportunity. That my talent got me here—not luck. Not fate.

But fate has never looked at me the way Edward Cullen does.

The air shifts, a prickle running down my spine, and suddenly, I feel him behind me.

Not touching. Not speaking. But there.

I keep my hands steady on the camera, forcing my body to stay still as the scent of something dark and masculine curls around me—sandalwood, bergamot, something richer underneath.

A voice. Deep. Slow. Inflected withsomething deliciously foreign.

"Are you distracted, dolcezza?"

The way the accented words rolls off his tongue—lazy, knowing—makes my stomach tighten.

I exhale sharply, lower the camera, and turn.

Edward Cullen stands close, much closer than I expected, and his expression is unreadable—but his eyes. His eyes are doing something dangerous to me. They drag down my body like he's cataloging every inch of me, taking his time, a leisurely, unapologetic perusal.

I should be offended.

I should say something sharp, put him in his place.

Instead, my breath catches in my throat, and I can feel the heat climbing my skin.

"I don't get distracted," I say, my voice even.

One of his brows lifts, just slightly. His lips curve into something resembling amusement, but there's a sharpness in it, too.

"No?" he muses. "Then tell me—why did you stop shooting?"

Shit.

I feel my cheeks flush, and I hate that he's caught me. That he knows, without a doubt, that he's the reason.

I lift my chin, ignoring the way my pulse is hammering against my ribs. "Maybe I was unimpressed."

A lie.

A blatant one.

And the way his smirk deepens tells me he knows it.

"Ah," he hums, tilting his head slightly. "I see. You're not impressed by power, then?"

Wowza. I narrow my eyes.

"Not easily."

His gaze darkens. Something flickers in those irises—something wicked.

"Good," he murmurs. "I prefer a challenge."

And then, before I can think of a response—before I can tell him that I am not a challenge, that I don't play games with men like him—he steps even closer, his voice a velvet command.

"Dimmi, tesoro," he says, soft, smooth."Sai chi sono?" Spending summers in Italy with my mom as a kid allowed me to be mildly fluent in Italian, though lapses in use has rendered me less than proficient at times.

But I know exactly what Edward was saying.

Tell me, darling. Do you know who I am?

His breath is warm against my skin, and I realize now that I'm holding mine.

I force my lips to move, my voice steady. "Edward Cullen. CEO of Cullen Moda."

His smile is slow as it spreads across his face. "Brava."

A brief pause, then—

"And yet, you still think you can hold your own against me."

I just stare.

Did he just—

What the—

No one has ever spoken to me like that before. So blatant. So arrogant. Like it was already decided, like he had already won.

My mouth opens, maybe to argue, maybe to knee him in the balls and lose my job all in one go, but before I can fully recover, Edward grins. And fuck me, it's not just any grin—it's a knowing one. One that says he knows exactly what he did, how off-kilter I feel, and fully takes pleasure in it.

"I'd love to continue this conversation, Isabella," he says smoothly, like we're discussing something as mundane as the weather. "But I have a meeting."

And then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, stunned into silence, my brain still buffering, my heart still racing.

I'm left wondering two things—

One, Edward Cullen knew my name.

And two…

What the actual fuck?

The creative director is an asshole.

That's the first thing I decide after ten minutes of dealing with him—though, to be fair, I suspected it after two.

Laurent something-or-other moves through the set like an emperor in exile, dripping disdain with every step, flicking his hands in grand, unnecessary gestures as if the models are puppets and the assistants exist solely to absorb his tantrums.

He's the kind of man who feeds on the anxiety of others, who mistakes cruelty for power, who's built an entire career on making people smaller than him flinch.

Unfortunately for him, I don't flinch for anyone.

"I said tilt the chin, not drop it! Dio! Must I do everything myself?" he exclaims, his voice sharp as glass, slicing through the controlled chaos of the studio. He continues his tirade in a string of unkind, rapid-firing Italian words.

The model—a statuesque woman with the kind of face that belongs in Renaissance paintings—wilts under his scrutiny, her already too-thin frame tightening like she's bracing for a blow.

My fingers clench around my camera.

I should keep my mouth shut.

I really, really should.

Especially considering almost an hour ago, I seriously considered kneeing the CEO in his dick.

But then Laurent stomps over to me, peers at the back of my camera with a dramatic sigh, and before I can move—

He slaps his palm against my lens.

"The lighting is all wrong!"

I inhale sharply.

And then—before I can stop myself—I let out a sharp, unamused laugh.

"It's literally not," I say flatly. "Unless you've discovered a new branch of physics, I can assure you—light doesn't move because you're having a tantrum."

A stunned silence follows.

An assistant gasps. Someone coughs.

Laurent's face darkens, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, and I brace for impact.

But before he can eviscerate me, a voice cuts through the air like a slow-moving blade—low, edged with something lethal.

"Leave her."

The room stills.

The shift in power is instantaneous, the way an entire battlefield goes silent when the king arrives.

I don't have to turn to know who it is.

I feel him.

Heavy. Commanding. Dangerous.

Laurent visibly swallows. "I was only saying—"

"You were saying too much," the voice murmurs, deceptively light.

I finally turn my head to look at Edward Cullen.

The first thing I notice is the way he doesn't look at Laurent. He doesn't even acknowledge him beyond that single dismissive sentence, like he's already decided he isn't worth the energy.

No, his gaze is locked on me.

Unwavering. Calculating.

He studies me the way some people study art—his head tilted slightly, eyes flicking over my face, my shoulders, the way I'm gripping my camera a little too tightly.

Something in me tightens, something instinctive and uneasy.

Because this man?

This man doesn't just look at you.

He assesses you.

And he does it without a single ounce of shame.

Laurent gapes, still standing there, until Edward slowly turns his head, just the barest flick of his gaze.

It's dismissal without words, and somehow, that's worse than anything he could've said.

Laurent scuttles off, muttering under his breath, barking at an assistant to get him an espresso, subito!

I exhale, pulse a little too fast, my hands gripping the camera like a lifeline.

I shouldn't care that Edward just put Laurent in his place.

I should be annoyed.

I don't need a knight in shining armor.

And yet—when I turn back to Edward, expecting him to have already disappeared—

He hasn't moved.

He's still watching me.

Not with concern.

Not with curiosity.

No, this is something else entirely.

Something predatory.

I square my shoulders, forcing my breath to even out, forcing myself not to shrink beneath the weight of that gaze.

His eyes drag lower, slow and unhurried, like he's cataloging every detail, lingering in ways that make my skin feel too tight.

I feel stripped, but not in a way that suggests vulnerability.

In a way that suggests he's deciding something.

Then—a smirk.

The kind that warns.

"You've got a mouth on you, dolcezza," he murmurs, his voice a quiet wrecking ball. "I like that."

My stomach tightens, twists, confusion and something else curling inside me, and again I have to think—what the fuck?

I don't even know this man, and he doesn't know a single thing about me.

And yet, the two times we've spoken—or, rather, he spoke—he's talking like he's already claimed something.

Claimed me—and that shit was not flying.

I lift my chin. "What can I say? I have a low tolerance for bullshit."

"And for authority?"

I arch a brow. Is he serious? "That depends on who's in charge."

His gaze sharpens, his pupils swallowing green as he takes a step closer—too close.

My breath catches.

The air between us is suddenly thick, heated, as if the very atmosphere has decided it wants in on whatever this is.

I feel his breath when he speaks. "You'd do well to be careful with that answer, tesoro."

Something in me bristles, a flicker of irritation curling beneath the attraction.

"You do realize," I say, voice dry, "that I don't actually know you? That we aren't even remotely familiar enough for you to be speaking to me like this?"

His smirk widens, something wicked and entertained flickering in his expression.

"I disagree."

I huff out a laugh. "Oh, do you?"

"I know enough about you, Isabella Swan," he says, tilting his head, watching me like he's trying to see through me. "I know you've been working in New York and Rosalie recruited you because you're amazing at what you do. I know you don't like being told what to do. I know you'd rather challenge than submit. And I know—"

His voice drops just slightly.

Just enough.

"—that you like this more than you're willing to admit."

Heat.

Everywhere.

I open my mouth, ready to fire back, to tell him exactly where he can shove his assumptions—

But before I can, he leans in, his voice dropping into a low, deliberate rasp against my ear.

"Ti voglio in ginocchio per me. Voglio sentirti pregare per il mio tocco."

I freeze.

My pulse slams into my throat, a sharp, breathless ache that spreads through my entire body. I don't know every word, but I know enough.

I know voglio—I want.
I know ginocchio—knees.
And I know pregare—to beg.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly too dry, my brain scrambling to make sense of this.

What kind of man says something like that to a woman he just met? What kind of man looks at someone with that level of certainty, like he already knows what she'll sound like when she gives in?

He's not normal.
This isn't normal.
And yet—

The heat in my stomach spreads lower, a traitorous shiver rolling down my spine. I should be angry. I should be disgusted.

Instead, I tilt my chin up, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "My Italian's a little rusty," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Care to translate?"

I don't know if I ask just to make sure I'm not hallucinating, or to see if he actually means what he says.

His smirk is slow, his eyes igniting like he's just been given permission to play with his favorite toy.

And then, in English—low, sinful, wrecking—

"I want to see you on your knees for me, Bella. I want to hear you beg for my touch."

A sharp breath escapes me.
My fingers curl at my sides.
I swear I can feel his words in my bloodstream, thick and heavy, dragging me under.

It's this moment that I realize two things:

Edward Cullen is going to be the most dangerous thing that's ever happened to me…

… but I want it anyway.

Dolcezza: figurative sweetness (as in a kind or tender personality). It can also be used as a term of endearment, similar to "sweetheart" or "darling" in English.