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“It was the best pie I’ve ever had,” she continues. Did you buy it somewhere?”

I take a slow breath, pushing away the unease.Who Marco chooses to share his breakfast with isn’t my concern. Instead, I focus on the compliment,

“Nope,” I say, finally managing a real smile. “Made it myself.”

Her eyes widen. “Youbaked that?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I like to play around in the kitchen sometimes. Nothing serious.”

“Well, it wasincredible,” Clara gushes. “After work that day, I even went to a bakery to get pie, but it wasn’t the same.” She grins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Before I can fully absorb the compliment, my eyes catch on something—a faint mark on her neck.

I stare for half a second before it clicks.

Nota full hickey yet. Just the early sign of one—a mark that shows her skin was recently sucked on. In a few hours, it’ll darken.

My brain does the math.

Sharing a breakfast basket. A hickey.And now she’s suddenly calling him ‘Marco’ instead of ‘Mr. Rossi’.

Marco and Clara?

I quickly tear my gaze away before she catches me staring and clear my throat. “I’ll go in now.”

She nods, still shuffling through her papers. “Good luck.”

As I step into Marco’s office, he looks up from his phone. His expression is unreadable at first, then it slowly hardens into a scowl.

With a sharp exhale, he drops his phone onto the desk and leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the armrest.

“If you’re here to embarrass me like your husband did, don’t bother.”

His words hang heavy in the air. I stare at him for a beat, irritation simmering beneath my skin.He’spouting. Over what? That Nicolas let me speak at the meeting?

I inhale slowly, pushing past the annoyance, and drop into the chair across from him. “I’m actually here to give you something.”

Reach into my coat, I pull out my phone and swipe to the pictures I took from Nicolas’s office. Without a word, I slide it across the desk.

Marco hesitates, flicking his gaze between me, and then looks at the phone before finally picking it up. His frown deepens as he scrolls.

“These are shipment records,” he mutters, sounding uninterested.

I nod. “Not just shipment records.Locations. Dates.Even some of the men overseeing the shipments.”

He swipes again—then suddenly jerks in his chair, zooming in on one of the notes. His eyes snap to mine, then back to the phone.

“These… these are real?”

I exhale. “Yes, Marco. They’re real.”

His eyes search mine, probably looking for any sign of deception, but I hold his gaze, steady and unflinching.

Slowly, he nods. He studies the pictures again, scrolling through them over and over. His frown fades, replaced by something I don’t see often—a small smile.

“You did good,” he says.

For once, it actually soundsgenuine. Or at least, I think it does.