Neither of them stand to greet me. I’m welcomed with silence coiled in tension as Raffael’s gaze meets mine.
I refuse to wither under the weight of it.
Whatever this is, I’m not going to flounder.
“Gentlemen.” I keep my voice calm and crisp, chin high, expression hopefully unimpressed and maybe a little condescending.
“Ms. Cross.” Raffael’s attention rakes over me, lazy in its assessment. “You look… decisive today.”
I ignore the veiled provocation and focus on my father, who hasn’t bothered to face me.
“Congratulations on your first press briefing,” Raffael continues. “It was quite the performance.”
I grit my teeth, take a breath, and meet his stare. “Thank you. Integrity doesn’t always attract a crowd. But it does filter it. I was happy to lose some dead weight to make space for more ethical clients.”
A flicker of tension twitches along his jaw. I count it as a win.
And still, my father won’t look at me.
From where I stand, he seems entranced, staring at the corner of the desk, his hands gripping the armrests like he’s hoping the upholstery will split open and swallow him whole.
“I guess it’s safe to assume this nautical flex is yours.” I make a theatrical show of taking in the yacht’s opulence. “Can I ask why I’m on it?”
Raffael’s brows raise. “Straight to the point. I respect that.”
No, he doesn’t.
He has no respect for me. He never did. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have kissed me, then thrown me out of his boardroom like garbage.
“I thought you might appreciate the luxury.” He stands and walks for the drink cart.
“I’m more concerned about the lack of escape route,” I counter.
“That’s understandable.” He grabs a bottle of Dalmore. The reminiscence hurts. “Especially given your attempts to wreak havoc.” His tone is deceptively casual as he approaches with two thick crystal tumblers and offers me a glass.
I ignore the barb and focus on the drink. “No, thanks.”
He keeps the tumbler poised midair, his commanding proximity saturating the space between us. “Trust me. You’re going to need it.”
A shiver prickles along my arms, birthing goose bumps.
I glance at my father. Still silent. Still motionless.
I steel myself and lift my chin. “Why am I here, Mr. Cavallo?”
Raffael strolls back to the desk, placing the drink he offered on the polished wood in front of the empty chair next to my father’s. “Take a seat.”
“I’m perfectly fine where I am. At least until you turn this boat around and deliver me back to the marina.” I want to cross my arms over my chest. To glare. But I know better than to fall into a performative stance that will only expose just how far he’s slipped under my skin.
He sinks into his throne, the picture of ruthless control, and takes a long sip of scotch. “I’m afraid you won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
I don’t flinch.
Don’t bite.
Don’t let the intimidation land despite how hard it tries to.
“As you might recall, I attempted to convey the inconvenience of your—” He pauses, feigning contemplation. “—policy shiftlast week. And apparently, your father reiterated that message this morning. Isn’t that right, Philip?”
