I understood immediately.
My stomach twisted.
“You want me to publicly humiliate myself and fake a reconciliation with Valentina?” I snapped. “That’s insane.”
André didn’t flinch.
“Maybe. But it might be the only realistic option. You need to think beyond yourself—about Clara, the company, your reputation, everything at stake.” His gaze held mine. “This isn’t the time for pride, Enrico. It’s time for strategy.”
I glared at him, anger burning—not really at André, but at the situation, at the humiliation of it all.
He stood.
“Think about it,” he said. “But think fast.”
He left the room quietly.
I was alone again, staring at a phone that wouldn’t stop vibrating, pressure bearing down until it felt like it might crush me.
Then my personal phone rang.
I looked at the caller ID and felt a cold knot tighten in my chest.
Eloá Ferrara.
I took a breath and answered.
“Nonna.”
Her voice was colder than I’d heard it in years.
“How did you allow this to happen, Enrico?” she fired immediately. “Do you have any idea the damage your negligence is causing—to our reputation? To the Ferrara name? To your legacy?”
“I’m handling it,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice.
“Not fast enough,” she snapped. “The board is already questioning your ability to lead. If you don’t contain this immediately, they’ll remove you. This situation is too serious for mistakes. Do you understand?”
The words hit hard.
My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles went white.
“I’m handling it,” I repeated—this time with cold, deliberate anger. “Tell the board no one needs to threaten me. I know exactly what has to be done.”
“Then do it,” she replied sharply. “And do it now.”
The call ended.
I stood there in silence, the weight of the room pressing in.
I hated it—but the truth was undeniable.
André was right.
Eloá was right.
I’d lost control.
And there was only one way to take it back.
