I don’t know if I can listen to him speak as if Friday night never happened, as if Saturday night didn’t crack something open and then shatter it.
Yesterday was a blank, useless stretch of hours where I didn’t have to be anything for anyone. No calls. No meetings. No performance. I let myself exist in the aftermathbecause I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t handle the world. I couldn’t handle my own head.
But today isn’t optional.
Today is the day I have to walk into the room and be the version of myself that never breaks—doesn’t blush, doesn’t shake, doesn’t flinch when a man looks at her like he knows how she sounds when she comes apart under him.
I lift my chin and keep my expression neutral, because Eleanor will notice if I don’t. David will notice. Malcolm definitely will.
The door is still closed.
As per my habit, we’re early. I curse the damn thing because now we’re waiting for the Contis to arrive.
My stomach rolls again, sharp and warning, and I force my breath steady—because whatever happens when that door opens, I’m going to be composed.
I have to be.
The seconds stretch.
David flips one page in his portfolio, the sound too loud in my head, then stills again. Eleanor checks her watch once—subtle, elegant—like impatience is beneath her. Malcolm’s gaze lifts to the door, then back to his notes, calm in a way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
I keep my eyes on my tablet even though I’m not reading it.
Footsteps hit the corridor outside—unhurried, more than one set. My spine locks.
The handle turns.
I don’t look up right away. I refuse to. I make myself count one breath in, one breath out, like I’m in control of my own body.
The door opens. Voices—low, familiar to everyone here but me.
Except one.
I lift my head, and the world tilts.
It’s him.
Antonio Conti. In a dark suit that fits him so well it looks like an extension of him. No tie this morning. Collar open at the throat, just enough to be unbothered and in charge.
His hair is neat, the jawline clean, the eyes… God, the eyes. They find me across the room before I have a chance to brace for it. No warmth. No recognition. Just cool, assessing, and then he looks away as if I’m just a piece of the furniture. As if I could be anyone.
My pulse hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat, but my face stays still. My hands are steady around my pen. I learned control a long time ago. He doesn’t get to take it fromme now.
The other two who walk in are obviously family, as the physical similarities are too obvious for them not to be. Roberto and Caterina Conti.
The man who must be Roberto Conti steps to me first. He’s in a suit that’s obviously expensive without screaming for attention, jacket buttoned, posture straight, expression charming. He has the kind of face that would make me thinklawyereven if I didn’t know beforehand.
Beside him, Caterina Conti moves with a different kind of authority—sharper, younger, more energy. Her blazer is fitted, her hair sleek, her eyes alert in a way that makes it clear she’s already scanned the room and clocked everyone and everything in it. She carries a tablet like it’s an extension of her arm.
David stands first. Then Malcolm. Eleanor follows. I stand with them, smooth and on time, chair sliding back without a squeak. My stomach rolls again, but I keep my shoulders relaxed.
Roberto’s gaze lands on me with the same measured assessment he gave the rest of the room. No hint that he knows anything about what happened between his brother and me—good. I keep my face neutral and step forward.
“Ms. Nilsson,” he says.
“Mr. Conti,” I answer, and offer my hand.
His grip is firm but not crushing. A handshake that says: I’m respectful, and I’m watching. His eyes hold mine for a beatlonger than protocol requires, like he’s taking my measure the way I’m taking his.
