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Vera arches a brow in his direction. “How do you knowthatbut not about Cartier?”

“I don’t have those answers for you,” Nate tosses back.

I blow out a steady breath, ignoring my coworkers and their back-and-forth. Usually, I’m more than happy to sit back and watch their weird mating ritual, but today I’m all nerves, which isn’t me.

“Okay,” I say, interrupting some argument about meditative breathing. “I’m going in.”

Nate shoots me a thumbs-up. “Good luck. Tell her I’m available if she comes around to the boy toy idea.”

“I doubt she has enough room to house your big head,” Vera scoffs.

Nate grins. “How many square feet is your place again?”

I grab my portfolio and my notes before I leave them behind in my office to make quick steps down the hallway, my heart thudding in perfect time with each click of my heels against the sleek black tile. The conference room door is closed as I approach, and I linger outside of it for a moment, smoothing my hands over my gray pencil skirt and straightening my red silk blouse as I take another fortifying breath.

“You’ve got this, Dani,” I mutter, reaching for the brass handle.

Mrs. Casiraghi sits on the opposite side of the long conference table in the center of the room, her back straight in the leather chair as she gingerly sips her coffee. Her graying hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her clothes neat and pressed and screaming subtle wealth. She turns to look at me when I enter, her lips pressing into a faint line and her brow arching.

“Mrs. Casiraghi,” I greet her as I close the door behind me. “Sorryto keep you waiting.” I move to settle in a chair opposite her. “I’m Dani.” I reach across the table to offer her my hand. “Dani Pierce.”

Her steely blue eyes assess me, traveling down the front of me before climbing back to my face. “You don’t look like a Dani.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dani is a child’s name,” she goes on, her accent giving her voice a slight edge. “Are you a child?”

“I…” Part of me is bristling, but another part notices that she doesn’t look as if she’s mocking me when she says this. It’s more like she’s sizing me up. “My full name is Danica.”

Her red lips part in a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, yes. Much better. Danica sounds like a powerful woman.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “I like powerful women.”

This entire exchange is bizarre, but my mouth is still turning up at the corners. I decide, for whatever reason, I like Mrs. Casiraghi. “You strike me as someone who knows how to spot one from experience.”

“Iusedto think I was a powerful woman,” she muses quietly. “These days…I’m not so sure.”

“That’s where I come in,” I tell her with confidence. “Manuel told me a little about your situation, and of course I’ve had time this week to research you, but I was hoping to hear things straight from you, if I can.”

“Well, that is why I’m here,” she says. She eyes me again. “Are you married, Danica?”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am. Never took the plunge.”

“Pity.” She nods idly. “You are a pretty young woman.”

“And powerful,” I say with a grin.

Her lips twitch. “Yes, and that.”

I doubt that Mrs. Casiraghi has any interest in hearing all the things that ensure I will most likelynevertake the plunge—my parents’ farce of a marriage, Grant walking out of my life, my cynicism of the construct in general—so I keep the conversation focused on her.

“I’m surprised you would think it is a pity, given your situation,” I offer. “No offense intended.”

She waves me off. “No offense. It is not marriage I am angry at. Marriage is beautiful. It is my husband that betrayed me.”

“Of course.” I flip open my portfolio to the legal pad inside, grabbing a pen and unclicking it. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“There is another woman,” she tells me.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”