Malcolm’s phone lights up briefly on the table, then goes dark again. He ignores it.
“All right,” he says, turning the meeting back into structure. “Next steps. We have two interested parties with different angles. We have Bellandi pushing expansion and speed. We have the Contis pushing integration and polish.”
Eleanor’s gaze stays on me. “And we have you.”
I hold her stare without flinching. “You do.”
Malcolm nods once, decisive. “Then we proceed the way we always do. Documents. Disclosures. Process. Due diligence.”
“We have a meeting with them Monday morning,” Eleanor says. “Since you couldn’t make the gala last night, we thought we’d set one up as soon as possible. It’ll be in one of their conference rooms, their turf, unfortunately, but that’s the way it has to be.”
“We can manage that,” I say, continuing this meeting on autopilot while my mind races a mile a minute.
David nods once. “You’ll take point.”
“I will,” I agree.
“Good,” Malcolm says. “No improvising. We go in, we get answers, we leave.”
My pen moves across the page in a clean little line that means nothing. A decoy. If my hands look busy, no one watches my face as closely.
Monday. Their conference room. Their turf.
And in my head, the night rewinds in brutal flashes—his smile, his voice, the way he stepped into my space so confidently, so charming and sure, the way he looked at me the first time our eyes met.
Not curious. Not interested.
Certain.
Like he wasn’t meeting me.
Like he was confirming.
A cold pulse of anger runs under my skin, sharp enough to sober me in an instant. Because if he knew—if he knew exactly who I was before I ever gave him my first name—then every second of that night shifts.
The jokes weren’t just flirting. They were positioning.
The attention wasn’t just attraction. It was strategy.
And I let him close.
I let him touch me.
My stomach turns with something that feels like betrayal. I can’t show it. I can’t even let my eyes tighten, because Eleanor will see it, and Malcolm will ask questions, and David will start connecting dots.
So I keep my face smooth and my posture perfect, and I nod and answer questions.
But inside, something hard clicks into place.
If Antonio Conti knew who I was before we ever met, then he didn’t win me.
He targeted me.
And he’s going to pay for that.
I’m going to make him pay for that, and I know exactly how.
Chapter Eleven
