MIA
What I agreed to do with Romolo was reckless. Plain and simple. The second I'd said yes, a weight had settled on my shoulders, and it hadn’t lifted in the two days since he'd walked out my door.
I wasn’t a risk-taker. Years ago, when I set up an online investment account, I'd taken a survey that had labeled my risk tolerance as low. That had always felt like an accurate description of me. Low risk. Low drama. Low chance of doing anything that might implode my life.
And yet here I was risking everything.
I couldn’t let myself dwell on what would happen if we were caught—because whenever I did, panic coiled tightly around my throat.
My dad would be gutted. The campaign would have a PR nightmare on their hands. My friends would question my sanity. And with good reason, because despite everything I was gambling, I still couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
I'd relished our night together. And I wanted more.
More rough kisses. More mind-shattering sex. Morehim.
More. More. More.
It was an incessant chant inside my head, and I was well aware that this wasn’t mere curiosity anymore. It wasn’t even me chasing a dark thrill after a lifetime of denying myself anything of the sort.
This was about how he made me feel. A little braver. A little bolder. A little more selfish.
I never thought I’d like being selfish. It went against everything I believed. But maybe I only liked it when I was being selfish with him.
We had a narrow window of time to enjoy each other before reality caught up with us.
After my dad won—and at this point, his victory was all but assured—everything would end. Romolo wouldn’t want anything to do with me once my father and the DA launched their investigation into his family. And I wouldn’t be able to stand by and watch his world get torn apart by someone I loved.
The buzz of a phone inside my purse chased off the hollowness that accompanied that thought.
It was the burner.
Be ready outside your building at 6:30 p.m. I’m picking you up.
Giddiness fizzed and popped inside my chest as I hurried back home. I’d decided to walk back from my last meeting instead of taking a cab. It was just before six, which meant by the time I got there, I’d have just enough time to shower and change into something I hoped Romolo would appreciate for a bit before he tore it off me.
Just as I reached my block, my purse vibrated again—my normal phone this time.
“Hey, Mia, can you talk?” Eliza sounded frazzled.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I’m freaking out. We’re supposed to have a shoot for my new collection tomorrow, and the stylist just disappeared on us.”
I frowned. “Disappeared?”
“She’s not answering her calls, not replying to emails—nothing. Either something happened, or she took our deposit and ghosted. But we have to get these photos done, Mia. If we can’t shoot tomorrow, I’ll have to reschedule everything—photographer, models, hair, makeup. And that could take weeks.”
I could practically hear her pacing. She’d told me about this collection at the ball—it was the biggest launch for her sunglasses brand yet.
“I’m desperate,” she admitted. “I know you don’t usually style for brands, but I trust your eye. Would you do it? I know you’d kill it.”
I bit my lip. I’d have to cancel on Romolo if I agreed to help her. “How many looks?”
“At least ten. I’ll send over the styling deck. We have most of the wardrobe, but the stylist was still pulling some pieces.”
“Okay, let me take a look.” I sat on my building steps, opened my laptop, and connected to my hotspot.
The deck loaded—a seventies-inspired aesthetic. Big frames, flared silhouettes, earth tones, bold textures. The base pieces were solid: silky blouses, structured blazers, vintage denim, and a few crocheted details. But the statement pieces were missing—the items that would tie the whole vision together and really sell the collection.
