Now Roberto is smooth-talking, exactly what we practiced. Caterina is tapping her tablet, laying out governance lanes and escalation paths like a pro with a spreadsheet. They’re good. They’re better than good. They’re the reason this deal makes sense.
And I’m sitting here trying not to look at the woman who could kill it with a single sentence.
I’m supposed to be here to charm them, to lure them over to us and tell them, beyond the numbers and plans, why they would want to work with us personally.
But I angle myself toward Malcolm and David, like Elsa isn’t there. Like I don’t feel her across the table. Like my attention isn’t catching on the smallest things—the way she grips her pen a touch too tight, the way her posture is perfectly composed, the way she doesn’t glance at me at all, even for a second.
It’s a mirror of Saturday night, and the realization hurts, even though I know the good reasoning.
She’s trying not to give herself away.
So am I.
My chest feels too tight in my suit. I breathe shallowly and keep my expression blank while Roberto says the word “compliance” and Caterina talks about implementation timelines as if the future is guaranteed.
I don’t know if there’s even a point.
I don’t know if Nilsson walked in today with her mind already made up—deal dead, Bellandi lurking, my family exposed because I couldn’t keep my hands to myself.
I don’t know if she’s sitting there listening because she has to, or because she’s still weighing us.
But the meeting wasn’t canceled.
They showed up. On time. Prepared. Stone-faced.
And that—pathetic as it is—gives me hope.
Because if she’d decided to burn us down completely, she could have done it before the weekend was even over. She could have sent one email and walked away, and Monday would’ve been empty chairs and a loss.
Instead, she’s here.
She’s taking notes.
She’s pretending I’m furniture.
And I’m pretending I can survive being this close to her without cracking.
I keep my eyes on Roberto while he talks, and I force myself to be present, to listen, to look useful. To be the man my family needs this morning, not the one who keeps replaying the taste of her and the look on her face when she walked out.
Roberto finishes his high-level. Caterina’s tablet reflects faintly in the light as she scrolls. Malcolm nods, satisfied. David’s pen moves. Eleanor watches like a hawk.
My turn is next.
Roberto will hand it off with a glance, and I’m supposed to do what I do—make it human, make them want us as people, not just names and numbers on a document.
But when Roberto’s gaze shifts toward me, my focus snags—just for a moment—on Elsa’s hands. On the way her knuckles go faintly white around that pen like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to the chair.
Roberto finishes and turns, smooth as ever. “Antonio can speak to client continuity and relationship management.”
All eyes shift to me.
Including hers.
Not warm. Not inviting. Just steady, assessing.
I draw one slow breath and straighten in my chair, forcing my voice into something calm and charming.
“Of course,” I say, and I keep my gaze on Malcolm instead of her, because if I look at Elsa for too long, I’m going to forget every word in the English language.
