The elevator dings. The doors open to a corridor that smells like leather and perfume and something sterile underneath it—control.
We step into a waiting area with two chairs that cost more than my truck. A woman in black—assistant, gatekeeper, weapon—stands.
“Mr. Rossi,” she says, and then her gaze moves to Zoë like Zoë is the actual appointment. “Ms. Moretti will see you now.”
Inside the office, everything is glass and clean lines and a desk that looks like it’s never had a coffee spill. Elena Moretti stands behind it, not sitting. She doesn’t give anyone the power of looking down. She’s smaller than I expected.
Still dangerous.
Her eyes cut to me first—fast, practiced—then to Zoë and stop there.
“So,” Elena says, voice like velvet over steel. “This is the girl.”
Zoë’s chin lifts one fraction. “This is the work.”
Elena’s mouth twitches. Not warmth. Interest. “Gio,” Elena says, like we’re acquaintances and not a favor I’m cashing in. “Why is she here?”
I open my mouth.
Zoë speaks first. “Because my name doesn’t open doors. His does. Mine keeps them from slamming once I’m inside.”
Silence hits like a held breath.
Elena’s gaze sharpens. “That’s a bold assumption.”
“It’s not an assumption,” Zoë says. “It’s a pattern.”
My pulse kicks. Not because she’s brave.
Because she’s correct—and she said it without asking anyone’s permission.
Elena takes one step closer to Zoë. “Show me.”
Zoë sets her portfolio case on the low table without rushing. Hands steady. Movements exact. Competence as a statement. She opens it and pulls out the first board like she’s laying down evidence. Elena doesn’t touch it right away. She watches Zoë’s hands instead.
“You brought everything?” Elena asks.
“Yes,” Zoë says. “Including what you’ll hate.”
Elena’s brows lift. “You think you know what I hate.”
“I know what you dismiss,” Zoë corrects.
That lands harder than a compliment.
Elena finally takes the board, studies it for one long, brutal beat. Then another. Her face doesn’t change. Her eyes do—tiny movements, tracking seams, choices, decisions that weren’t made to please anyone.
“And this?” Elena asks, tapping a detail. “Why would you do that?”
Zoë doesn’t rush to defend it. She lets the question hang until it turns into pressure instead of a test.
“Because bodies move,” she says. “And clothes should respect that without apologizing for it.”
Elena’s gaze snaps up. “You’re designing for who?”
Zoë’s throat moves once. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t look away either. “For women who are tired of being managed,” she says.
I feel it in my teeth.
