A rough exhale leaves him—almost a laugh, killed in his throat. “Okay.”
He reaches up, tugs at the lace at his collar like it’s choking him, then stills when his fingers brush his own skin and he remembers what hands do when they’re free.
“Elena Moretti,” he says.
The name hits hard. Business. Ambition. Transaction. The kind of name that stays guarded.
I don’t blink. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Eight.” His gaze cuts past my shoulder, already mapping sightlines and timing. “Her office.”
“That’s a time,” I say. “A door is what I need.”
“It’s a door,” he replies, “because I’m walking you through it.”
A beat.
“You bring your portfolio.”
Something tightens low in my chest. Focus. Pure focus. “Of course I do.”
His jaw works once. “Everything. The work you’d defend. What you’d defend.”
“She’ll tear it apart,” I say.
“Yes,” he agrees immediately. “If she doesn’t, it wasn’t worth bringing.”
Pressure flares hot and clean through me, and I keep my face flat anyway. “You’re spending your name for this.”
“I’m using it,” he says. “For you.”
That lands harder than anything else he could’ve offered.
I tilt my head. “And what does that buy me?”
“A real look,” he says. “A serious meeting. A decision.” His eyes lock on mine. “She listens because I’m standing there. She decides because of what you put on the table.”
“Meaning,” I say.
“You stand by your work,” he continues. “Keep its edges. You let her questions set the pace.”
“I keep it tight.”
“I know,” he says, precise. “You also let the work impress her.”
My brow lifts. “You think I’m going to perform.”
“I think you’re going to want to win,” he says. “Tomorrow, you don’t.”
That hits—not as a challenge. As a boundary. “So what am I doing?”
“Standing there,” he says. “Letting her see what you built without permission. Letting her hear me say the recommendation is mine and the talent isn’t.”
“Your recommendation,” I repeat.
“My choice,” he says. “My accountability.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. A trainer rounds the corner and freezes when he clocks us.
