“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
Then it’s just me and Marco. Alone in the conference room.
He’s gathering papers. Not looking at me. “You did well today.”
“I made a spreadsheet and said no to lobster. Bar’s pretty low.”
“The bar is exactly where it should be.” He finally looks up. Those dark eyes pin me in place. “You’re building something sustainable. That matters.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Well. I’ve seen what happens when you don’t. When you just chase growth for growth’s sake. It’s not pretty.”
“You’re not that personanymore.”
The words land like a gift. Like he sees past the failure... past the algorithm that chewed me up and spit me out.
“I’m trying not to be,” I admit quietly.
He takes a step closer. Not too close. Just enough that I can smell him.
Mmm... God.
“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I think you’re doing more than trying. I think you’re succeeding.”
My throat goes tight. “Thanks.”
We stand there for a beat. The air between us thick with everything we’re not saying.
Then Marco steps back. Professional distance restored. “I should get back. Valentina has me blocked for calls.”
“Right. Yeah. Go.”
He leaves. I watch him go and try not to think about how broad his shoulders look in that stupid Henley.
I fail spectacularly.
When I finally pack up my laptop, I catch my reflection in the darkened screen. Flushed. Wide-eyed. Looking like someone who just got emotionally validated by her boss and is trying very hard not to read into it.
When you realize you’re not just building a business. You’re building a life that actually matters. And maybe falling for someone who sees you for who you are and not just what you can produce.
I shake it off. Grab my bag. Head toward the exit.
But the feeling stays. That weird mix of pride and terror and something that might be hope.
I’m doing this. Actually doing it. Buildingsomething real without needing proof it happened. Without chasing validation from strangers.
Just showing up. Doing the work. Letting it matter.
And somehow, against all odds, it’s working.
20
Marco
Gideon King’s office looks more and more like a fucking museum these days. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking lower Manhattan. Artwork everywhere. Everything precise and cold and perfect.
Just like the man himself.
I’m sitting across from him at a glass table that could double as an operating theater. He’s reviewing my pitch for the new coastal concept. Numbers on a tablet. Face unreadable.
