Page 68 of Brutal Heir

Setting the phone on the floor as I continued to listen to my mother’s tirade with only half an ear, I buckled the straps.

“You shouldn’t even be in Europe. It’s too dangerous. I think you should come home.”

At least my outfit would appear more stylistically intentional than sloppy casual. “I’m not coming home. I’m doing this for my career.”

I cursed my stubborn pride for not choosing the Armani sheath dress and matching strap heels from the selection Sebastian had provided.

Picking up the phone, I rolled my eyes while my mother continued to rant.

“You can have a career in New York, where it’s safe.”

I leaned my head against my phone as I balanced it on my shoulder, rummaging through several designer purses loaned to Édouard for the collection showcase. “France is perfectly safe.”

At least I hadn’t been stupid enough to give her all the details about my interaction with Sebastian Diamanti.

Knowing she followed the papers and would see a photo of me wearing the Yellow Persian diamond pendant and ask questions, I’d told her I’d been selected to wear it for the party, and that was how I’d met Sebastian.

It was just a small lie.

I’d then told her that after chatting with me about my career aspirations and complimenting the work I was doing for Édouard Sauvage-Lafleur, he had offered me a job at House of Diamanti.

Again, just a tiny lie.

She was freaking out even at the idea of me going to Rome.

Imagine what she would do if she found out I’d slept with one of the most powerful men in all of Italy?

She would lose her mind. She’d be on the next plane to Paris for sure. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Mom. I’m perfectly safe. I’ve already told you. I turned the job down. I’m not going to Italy.”

I selected several pairs of shoes and moved over to look through the belts. At least it was easier to organize these shoots without the chaos and noise of the pending fashion show.

As my mother continued to rage, I examined a foundation stain on the dress I’d wanted to highlight in today’s shoot.

After moving over to my worktable, I dipped a cloth into a bowl of lukewarm water with half a lemon and a dash of white vinegar and carefully blotted the stain.

A hazard of working with post-show fashions was dealing with inevitable tears and makeup stains. I scrubbed the stain harder than necessary, coming dangerously close to ruining the fabric.

For the hundredth time, I glanced at the doorway, expecting to see Sebastian’s formidable presence.

Instead it was Yelena who appeared. She caught my eye and motioned for me to wrap up.

“Mom—”

“All that I’ve done for you⁠—”

“Mom, I⁠—”

“And you can’t do this one simple thing for⁠—”

“Mom!”

“What?”

“I have to go. My boss is coming, and we’re not allowed personal calls.”

“Is that why you’re not calling me? Is it your boss’s fault?”