There it is again—one-night stand—and the sickness is immediate, rolling low in my gut.
Because if that’s all this has become, I’m going to regret it in a way I don’t have language for.
I open my eyes and stare toward the hallway, like I’m going to see her there. Like she’s going to walk back into my life and make this simple again.
It won’t be simple.
But it also can’t be over.
Not like that.
“Fuck,” I mutter to the empty room.
Then: “I have to fix this.”
And the words feel like a vow. Like a threat.
Because I don’t know whether I’m trying to save the deal, or save her, or save myself from the fact that I’m already too far gone.
But I know one thing with absolute clarity as I start pacing again, faster, purpose edging out panic—
I’m not letting Bellandi into our backyard.
And I’m not letting Elsa walk away as if she were nothing.
Not when she never was.
Chapter Eighteen
Elsa
The conference room at The Regent Club Casino is already set—water, notepads, a screen on the wall that’s dark for now. Everything arranged for a conversation centered around business.
I sit, and my stomach churns like it didn’t get the memo.
David is next to me, already squared to the table with his portfolio open, pen in hand, posture neat and unreadable. Eleanor sits across, composed in the way she always is—legs crossed, chin lifted, eyes sharp. Malcolm has the foot of the table, between us, phone facedown, fingers steepled.
And me—I'm the problem in the room, even if no one knows it.
I keep my hands on the table, palms flat for a second, then curl them around my pen because if I don’t hold something, I’ll start picking myself apart. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. The kind of loud that makes you wonder if everyone else can hear it.
I feelsick.
Not nerves like a presentation. Not nerves like a difficult negotiation. This is different—hot and sour and physical, like my body is trying to reject the moment before it happens. I swallow, and my throat tightens.
For one ugly second, I’m sure I’m going to puke right here in front of them, in front of the clean table and the calm faces and the polished neutrality.
I breathe in through my nose, slowly. Out through my mouth, slower.
Hold it together.
My gaze drops to the agenda on my tablet. It’s the same outline I’ve stared at for two days, as if repetition could turn dread into readiness. Due diligence. Timeline. Governance. Risk. Process.
And then there’s the part that isn’t on the agenda.
Antonio.
The thought sits on my chest like a weight. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can sit across from him and keep my face smooth and my voice even and my hands still.
