My brain flashes to yesterday morning. Our first breakfast date, the autograph. The way he never let go of my hand. Someone in the courtyard must have taken one when we weren't looking.
"I told you not to sleep with the client," Carey says evenly.
"It’s not what it looks like," I say.
"It looks exactly like what it is," Carey replies. "I think you’d better forget whatever fantasy you’ve built in your head and come home. Maybe Gabriella will give you an extension and assign you a safer client, because this isn’t working. And the longer you’re out there smooching a client, the more you make Legacy look like we provide after-hourspersonalcare."
I close my eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of my nose as if that will keep my temper in check.
"Just give me more time. Stall for me? Luka just admitted to me that VELVT lied about the medals being cleared by the Olympics. They made it up to get Luka to pose."
"Wait…hold on. You’re telling me that VELVT lied to Luka about prior consent and you haven’t told me about this? That’s a slam dunk. We’re done. You just won the game."
"No, you don't understand. We can’t use it, I promised Luka, and now he’s cooperating," I say evenly. "And the Olympic Committee is open to mediation."
That wasn’t the response she expected.
"You’re being serious? He won’t let us use the email to help save his career? You must be joking."
"I’m not and I swore to him that I wouldn’t use it. I just need you to buy me time. I can get this done."
"So you’d rather wait for the Olympics to decide your client’s fate?"
"I’d rather bring them to the table."
"And what if they don’t move fast enough?"
"They’re moving."
"They’re offering a meeting," she corrects. "That’s not a win."
"It’s the first step."
Her tone cools further.
"You’re getting emotionally involved."
"I’m getting results."
"You need something now," she says. "The timeline is closing in. Gabriella is watching this file closely."
I steady myself.
"Just stall Gabriella," I say. "Give me forty-eight hours. I can fix this."
"And what do you think you get if you do?"
"My job," I say. "And your promotion."
Silence again.
Then, quietly: "I shouldn’t have trusted you with this account."
The words sting more than I expected.
"You have forty-eight hours," she says finally.
The line goes dead.
