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SOPHIE

My heels click against the marble floor as I hurry down the corridor, heart pounding like I’m marching into battle.

Trying to conquer my comeback story.

I cue the Rocky montage in my head, except instead of gloves and a punching bag, it’s me versus an inbox full of PR nightmares.

“Sophie!”

A junior associate nearly stumbles into my path, tablet clutched to his chest like a shield.

“Your father’s in Conference Room B. He’s been asking where you’ve been.”

I don’t break stride. “I’m on my way.”

He hesitates, eyes darting like he's about to say more, but the sharp tilt of my head and the look I shoot his way stop him cold.

I smooth my hair, set my jaw, and keep walking. Fast. Focused.

Let him wait.

I suck in a deep breath and adjust my blazer, fingers trembling slightly.

The hallway is intimidating, every step echoing like a warning.

I swear I can feel it, the judgment, the doubt, the expectation, rising up from the floor and pressing into my spine.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin as I look at the doors ahead of me.

I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve been humiliated. Blacklisted. Cast out by the very industry I used to own. And now I’m walking into the lion’s den, not just to prove I belong, but to take my seat at the damn head of the table.

This is it. My shot.

My redemption.

My name, back on top.

All eyes swing toward me as I step into the room, the door clicking shut behind me like a gavel.

A dozen power players, executives in sharp suits and sharper smiles, pause mid-discussion, their gazes narrowing with interest and skepticism.

Some recognize me. Most remember the headlines.

A woman near the end of the table arches a manicured brow. A man leans back in his chair, lips twisting into something between amusement and curiosity. The youngest intern fumbles with her notepad like she’s just been caught eavesdropping.

Valentino Marchetti, tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of expensive suit that hugs his body like it was tailored by God himself, leans back in his chair, arms folded, eyes cool and assessing. He looks like a man used to getting what he wants.

As of a year ago, he earned the title of CEO for Valentina's Vineyard, the most renowned winery in Tuscany. And today, he plans on merging with his once rivaled competitor, the Salvatore Wine Group.

My father doesn’t look up right away. When he does, it’s with that tight, barely-there smirk I’ve hated since I was twelve. “Glad you finally decided to show up.”

I don’t flinch, but it lands. Not just the words, but the condescension wrapped in them. The way he doesn’t even try to hide the disappointment. It’s like I’m sixteen again, and he’s telling me the B plus I got in precalculus is disappointing because I should be able to get an A.

The room watches our exchange like it’s a spectator sport.

And me?

I smile. Tight. Controlled. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack. Not today.

"It's nice to see everyone here today. Sorry I'm late. Turns out stilettos and marble floors make for a terrible sprinting combo."

Tough crowd.

I quickly set up at the podium at the front of the room, watching my color-coded presentation glow back at me from my laptop screen.

Every bullet point is precise. Every transition flawless. It should calm me.

It doesn’t.

The bitter scent of burnt espresso curls from the desk, where my untouched cup sits like a forgotten offering.

I meant to drink it. Hell, I meant to breathe at some point. But here I am, staring down twenty meticulously crafted slides as today could be the most important day of my life.

I never thought I’d end up back here. Not in this office. Not at this firm.

Not under my father's roof, fighting for a legacy I never asked for but can’t seem to escape.

His PR firm, Prestige & Associates gleams like a monument to control.

Every polished surface, every quiet click of keyboard keys, every overachieving employee fueled by caffeine and fear.

I tug my blazer straight, trying to shake the chill crawling up my spine.

The merger of the century between Valentina Vineyards and the Salvatore Wine Group is about to dominate every headline, and I’m the one tasked with managing the PR storm before it hits.

I should be proud. Grateful. Triumphant, even.

But all I can feel is the pressure of James Henderson’s name on the walls. My father.

The weight of years we never talk about pressing against my lungs.

We haven’t had a real conversation in nearly three years. And now, I’m working for him. Again.

Worse, he asked me to take lead on the merger, and I agreed.

This is what desperation looks like.

I clawed my way up once before. I had power. Respect. Clients who trusted me to handle scandals like a surgeon. Until one didn’t.

Just the thought of him makes me want to grind my teeth.

A country music superstar with a God complex and a devil’s grin.

Something happened between us. Something I never fully understood and still can't quite name.

And I was the one left holding the fallout.

But I can’t think about that. About him . Because now, here I am. Back where it started. Under my father’s banner, playing nice with people who used to whisper behind my back, all because I refuse to let my story end in disgrace.

But this merger will be my reset. My chance to prove that I’m not just back. I’m better.

And this time, I play by my rules.

I take a beat to find my footing, then step toward the front of the room.

“Thank you all for being here.” My voice comes out steady, thank God.

“As you know, this merger represents not only the union of two of the most iconic winemaking families in Italy, but also a billion-dollar opportunity to reshape the luxury wine market on a global scale.”

A few heads nod. One man scribbles something in a notebook. Another sips his espresso without looking up.

I click to the first slide. “Today, I’ll be walking you through the key phases of our rollout strategy with an emphasis on brand alignment, investor confidence, and…”

A sharp ping breaks the silence.

My laptop screen flashes with a new email. Subject line, "CONFIDENTIAL: URGENT - Possible Bratva Link."

My stomach knots as I freeze, laser focused on the screen in front of me. “One second, please.”

The sender is E, one of the few people from my past life I still trust, an editor at Clive & Associates, my old firm. We’ve kept in touch through careful, coded messages.

Loyalty in this industry is rare. E is the exception.

I click it open, my pulse accelerating. The attachment loads slowly. Too slowly.

Inside, a file. A leak. Not yet public. The kind of thing that gets buried by powerful families. Or ignites media firestorms. Or wars.

A scandal involving Alessio Marchetti.

My breath catches.

Alessio Marchetti. My brother’s best friend. Valentino Marchetti's younger brother. My teenage crush turned grown-up nightmare. Maddening. Charismatic. Always two steps ahead of the rules and three steps outside the lines.

According to the document, he was seen leaving a private club in New York with none other than the daughter of Mikhail Orlov, a notorious Bratva boss. The document continues to mention sources revealing that she left his apartment the next morning.

I grip the edge of the desk as the room tilts.

This isn’t just juicy gossip. This is dangerous.

If this story breaks before the merger, it’ll detonate everything.

E’s message is short. A single line:

"Not running this until it’s confirmed, but you needed to see it."

I swallow hard.

My mind spins into crisis-mode. Damage control, mitigation, preemptive spin.

If the Marchetti name is publicly tied to the Bratva, investors will scatter.

No amount of PR spin can survive that. Worse, if the Bratva feels exposed, retaliation isn't off the table.

Alessio could be in danger. And by extension, so could we.

This isn't just a scandal. It's a loaded weapon aimed at the heart of this deal.

But beneath all that training and instinct, there’s something else twisting low in my gut.

Of all people…

Why him?

Realizing I must look like a deer in headlights for what feels like the past ten minutes, I quickly address the room.

"Sorry, everyone. We are having some technical difficulties, let's take fifteen."

As the room files out, I stay seated, my father and Valentino taking a seat beside me, and I slide the laptop slightly toward them.

"You need to see this," I say, voice low, tight.

My father and Valentino both inch closer, eyes narrowing as the screen lights up with the email.

They read it in silence.

Valentino’s jaw tightens. His reaction is immediate. Subtle but lethal. A twitch of his fingers, his shoulders square like he's bracing for a blow.

My father, on the other hand, remains frustratingly unreadable, brows drawn slightly, mouth a thin line.

The email hangs in the air like a loaded gun.

Valentino stands up and starts to pace, breaking the silence first.

"Fuck. What is he thinking? If this is true, this merger cannot survive a scandal like this."

My father folds his hands on the table, calm as ever. "We don’t know if it’s confirmed."

Valentino's jaw tightens. "We don’t need confirmation. We need distance. Immediately. We—"

"If we get ahead of it, control the narrative before it breaks, we might be able to contain the damage. I have a few trusted media contacts." My voice is ragged because of

Valentino turns to me slowly, eyes unreadable. "Do it. We need to protect the Valentina brand. And bury this mess."

My father doesn’t look at me. He just nods at Valentino. "She’s the best at what she does. Let her handle it."

The implication is clear. If the merger implodes, it’ll all fall on us. On me.

Valentino stops pacing, his Italian leather shoes whispering against the floor as he turns with calculated precision. His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, like he’s already dissecting the damage and building a fortress around it.

“We need to get ahead of this,” he says, voice low and commanding. “If even a whisper of this leak hits the press, it’s over. Sophie you should lead on damage control ASAP and take the reins on the narrative before the vultures do.”

His gaze flicks toward me, unreadable but weighted. He’s not offering a suggestion.

He wants to control the story. And to keep Alessio safe.

Screwing around with Mikhail Orlov’s daughter comes with consequences. Dangerous ones.

My father leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Agreed.”

No hesitation. No discussion.

And just like that, I’m handed a bomb with a ticking clock. And a fuse that looks suspiciously like the man I swore I’d never deal with again.

My breath catches in my throat.

Of all the people I might have to clean up after…

My stomach twists, and my pulse skitters, a hot flush climbing up my neck. Just the thought of his name sends a jolt through me. Sharp, unwanted, electric.

I can still feel the weight of that night pressing against my skin. The heat of his breath near my ear, the press of his hand against my lower back.

One night, one mistake, and an unspoken agreement to never speak of it again.

I steady my breath, forcing down the memories that want to claw their way to the surface.

This isn’t the time. I’m a professional. I have to be.

But panic blooms fast and fierce in my chest.

Why did it have to be him?