“And there we have the snark. Now if there is anything that makesmehappy, that’s it.”
“My apologies,” Aida said, not daring to look at him. “I’m a little tired and shouldn’t have been so rude.”
“I interrupted your work at the chapel. You were right to shoo me away,” Mo said with a laugh.
“I’m about ready to shoo you away now,” Fran said to him. Her voice held a dark warning. Aida was beginning to wonder if Fran or Disa liked Mo. They seemed to barely tolerate him.
Mo cackled. “Fine. Fine.”
“He has a... certain effect on people,” Disa said to Aida. “Please, continue.”
Finally, after nearly two hours of what Aida eventually came to think of as interrogation, they concluded their questions. AsTrista had indicated, she was asked to turn over the notes she had stored in her portfolio. Disa immediately swept them off the table and into a black metal file box.
Fran set a sheet of paper in front of her. “Now then, we need to discuss the continuation of your contract. We are pleased with your work so far and would like to finalize the five-year extension.” She placed a pen on top of the paper.
Aida sucked in a breath. She had spent weeks rehearsing how she would tell MODA she had no intention of renewing the contract.
The weight of the decision pressed against her ribs. She scanned the contract again, but she knew its contents. She’d read it cover to cover when it was first presented to her three months ago, scoffing at the absurd penalties for breaking it. Now, the numbers weren’t just ink on a page, but a noose tightening around her future. If she took the job and later walked away, she wouldn’t just be quitting. She’d be drowning in debt so deep she’d never claw her way out. MODA would come to collect every cent they had invested in her—salary, housing, training, expenses she hadn’t even known were being tallied. With interest and penalties, the total would be staggering, a sum so high it might as well be a life sentence.
A sharp current of panic flickered through her. For an instant, oxygen seemed a scarce commodity, each breath thin and useless against the enormity of what she was about to do. But what did she have to go back to? No home, no job—only an ex-fiancé with disapproving parents she had no desire to face again. Yumi, her one true lifeline to Boston, would support her no matter what, but even that wouldn’t be enough. And the worst part? She wanted this. The job was everything she had ever dreamed of.
A finger jabbed her arm, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts. Mo leaned across the empty chair, watching her with an amused tilt of his head.
“Well?” he asked.
She swallowed hard, then picked up the pen and signed the paper.
“Excellent,” Fran said, handing the contract to Disa, who filed it into the same metal box. “Of course, you’ll need some time off for the wedding. And we’ll need to make plans for Graham to join you here in Italy. Perhaps when the school year is finished?”
The question caught Aida off guard. Her heart thudded painfully. The room felt suddenly smaller, her chair more confining. The image of Graham and Erin resurfaced. Pushing down the surge of emotion, Aida responded with finality. “Actually, I’d like to return to Boston as soon as possible. And I plan on moving all my belongings. Graham will not be joining me.”
Fran hesitated briefly before nodding, her face placid as though this were a minor detail. “Very well. We’ll transfer your bags back to the jet. The driver will be waiting downstairs. Have a good sleep on the plane, and you’ll be there first thing in the morning. Trista will contact you to determine what you need for the move, but you can plan for the movers to arrive in the morning.”
“Leave now?” The idea of it sounded so absurd.
“Yes. That’s no problem.” Fran almost sounded sympathetic, as though she understood Aida’s predicament.
At the thought of confronting Graham in person, Aida’s pulse quickened, her vision narrowing momentarily, the room blurring at the edges like a vignette photo. How on earth could they arrange movers so quickly? It was almost as though they had been prepared for this. None of what had happened to her in the last two hours made any sense.
She tried to focus on the rest of Fran’s words but found her attention beginning to wane. She’d just signed away five years of her life. The suddenness of it all made her head spin. She had pivoted from ending her engagement to plunging into an uncharted future in just a short span. It was hardly believable thata transatlantic flight awaited her, a literal journey toward a new undefined horizon. But what would her life look like in Boston now, stripped of the man she thought she’d share it with? Rome certainly seemed like the better option.
Yet, as she rose from her chair, a wave of vulnerability washed over her. What if she had made the wrong decision? Then she caught Disa’s eye, and there was something in her piercing look and encouraging nod that gave Aida a newfound resilience. She had made her choice. She could do this.One day at a time.
“Before you go, Aida, let’s discuss your publisher folding,” Fran said.
Aida turned, unsure why this was up for discussion. “What about it?”
“Trista will be helping you arrange for a literary agent to represent you,” Fran declared, as if it were the most natural next step.
“An agent?” Aida was shocked. “It’s an academic book. I’m not sure an agent is ne—”
Fran didn’t let her finish. “Have you considered writing fiction?”
Fran’s question hung in the air, almost too casual, but with an edge that suggested this was more than a passing thought. Aida’s chest tightened. “Fiction? I don’t think that’s quite my thing. I’ve always been focused on history and analysis, not creating stories.”
Fran leaned back in her chair, gaze unwavering. “But you’ve been gathering stories your entire career, haven’t you? Cataloging them, interpreting them, and making them resonate with readers. Fiction is just another way of doing that—of exploring truth, just through a different lens.”
Aida’s mind churned. She had once dabbled in fiction—a mystery novel set in the Tuscan countryside, drawing from the rich historical tapestry she knew so well. But she had shelved it years ago. The manuscript still sat in a file on her computer,untouched, a relic of a different time. “I appreciate the suggestion, but I’m not sure I’m suited for it. Writing fiction requires a whole different skill set.”
