“Mr. Rossi,” Elena’s assistant says. Crisp. Late-night professional. “Ms. Moretti asked me to confirm—”
“I need you to add Zoë Barnes to the second slot,” I cut in. “Second interview. Internship track. This week.”
Zoë stops dead beside my door.
The assistant pauses. “That’s not—”
“It is,” I say. Even. Controlled. “If she wants confirmation, this is it. Make it happen.”
Zoë’s voice slices in, low and even. “What the hell are you doing?”
I keep my eyes on the street. On the flashes. On the way people suddenly have opinions about her because she stood next to me. “Fixing what the building already decided.”
“Gio,” the assistant warns, like my first name is collateral.
“Email her the confirmation,” I say. “Tonight.”
Zoë steps closer, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm—hard, deliberate contact. Not grounding. A claim of attention. “I didn’t ask you for that.”
Into the phone, I hear the assistant inhale. “Mr. Rossi, if Ms. Barnes hasn’t consented—”
Zoë’s gaze locks on me. “Hang up.”
I hold the call. I also don’t look away. “I’m handling friction,” I say, voice tight. “I’m clearing her path.”
“You don’t get to decide what friction is for me,” Zoë says. Calm. Surgical. “You don’t get to spend me like a favor.”
My jaw clenches. The flash hits again, and my body goes hot with it—instinct and exposure and the reality that the world is watching us right now.
“Done,” I tell the assistant. “Send it.”
Zoë’s hand lands on my wrist—light, controlled, not a plea.
A stop sign.
And in that small touch, I feel the shift.
Strategy drops away.
Leverage goes quiet.
Ownership arrives in my blood before I ask permission to want it.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 20
Zoë
The email arrives at 7:13 a.m. The subject line is clean, professional, a death sentence in corporate gray. Confirmation: Ms. Moretti, Second Interview. My thumb hovers over the screen, heat from the coffee mug seeping into my palm. I read it twice. The slot. The time. The name. Elena Moretti’s assistant, crisp and final. It’s real.
The door stands open. He didn’t just knock it down. He kicked it in and mailed me the key without asking if I wanted to live here. Anger arrives precise. Not loud. Not messy. A sharp, clean point of pressure under my ribs. This pressure is leverage I didn’t consent to. A win that tastes like someone else’s fingerprints.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Maya.
*Everywhere.*
A link follows. Campus gossip blog. A grainy photo from outside the arena last night shows Gio’s arm around me, my head tilted toward his shoulder, city lights blurring like we were the only thing in focus. The headline reads: ROSSI’S NEW MUSE? I don’t click. There’s no need.
