Coach steps out without another word.
I stand there alone and realize the worst part isn’t that I wasn’t corrected.
It’s that I was trusted.
And trust comes with weight I didn’t consent to—and will still be expected to carry.
It’s eight at night. Elena Moretti’s building doesn’t have a sign. It doesn’t need one. The lobby is marble and money and silence that costs more than my tuition ever did. The guard at the front desk looks up, clocks me, clocks her, then recalibrates in real time—like the last name changes the rules and the woman beside it changes the temperature.
Zoë stands next to me with a portfolio case strapped across her shoulder like a weapon she’s earned the right to carry. No flinch. No smallness. She’s dressed like she took my “optics” note and turned it into a threat—sharp lines, clean color, hair controlled. Not trying to be rich. Refusing to be dismissed.
My phone buzzes again. I leave it alone.
A receptionist behind glass lifts her chin. “Mr. Rossi.”
Not Gio. Not sir. Mr. Rossi. Formal enough to create distance. Familiar enough to open a door.
“Evening,” I say.
Her smile is professional, but her eyes flick to Zoë. “And this is…?”
“Zoë Barnes,” I answer. I don’t introduce her like an accessory. I don’t soften it. “She’s here for Ms. Moretti.”
Zoë doesn’t say hi. She doesn’t fill the air. She stands there like she’s already been invited.
The receptionist’s gaze shifts back to me. “Ms. Moretti is very busy.”
“I know,” I say.
A beat.
She picks up the phone anyway.
I watch the second the name does its job. The way her posture changes—less skeptical, more careful. The world giving me what it gives me.
I hate it. I hate that I’m using it.
Zoë’s shoulder brushes mine—accidental, barely there—and my body clocks it like contact is information. Grounding. The kind of stupid detail I would’ve mocked yesterday.
She hangs up. “She’ll see you. Ten minutes.”
“That’s generous,” Zoë says, voice flat.
The receptionist blinks like she wasn’t expecting her to speak. “This way.”
We ride up in an elevator that doesn’t mirror. Even the walls are private. I can feel the building watching without being seen, like this place trained everyone inside it to keep their mouths shut after hours.
Zoë stares straight ahead.
“You good?” I ask, low.
She doesn’t look at me. “I’m steady.”
“I didn’t ask that.”
Her eyes flick to mine for half a second. A warning. An anchor. “Don’t start trying to read me, Rossi.”
“I planned to keep my eyes to myself,” I lie.
