Page 12

SOPHIE

I sit cross-legged on the bed, still in my gala dress, the satin cool against my overheated skin. My heels are abandoned somewhere across the room, I kicked them off the second the door shut behind me, shedding a night I want to forget but can’t stop reliving.

Alessio's been holed up in his room since we got back, quiet. No cocky remarks, no flirtatious smirks echoing down the hall. Just silence.

It’s unnerving. He’s different, wound tight in a way I don’t know how to read.

And the worst part? I keep listening for him.

My phone won’t stop buzzing. Notifications, press alerts, team updates. Everyone has something to say. Everyone but him.

And that silence? It’s louder than anything else. It’s not like him to disappear into himself. Not like this. Not when everything’s falling apart. And the fact that he hasn’t said a word, not even to me, crawls under my skin, makes my heart twist in ways I wish I could ignore.

But it’s that woman's voice from the gala I can’t silence, sharp, smug, slicing through my skull like glass. She’s just the next flavor.

My chest tightens. Shame burns low in my stomach, hot and ugly.

I thought I saw something real in Alessio’s eyes last night. A flicker of something raw. Human. A truth that didn’t need translation.

God, maybe I imagined it. Maybe I wanted it so badly, I made it up just to feel something other than jaded.

My chest aches at the thought, a hollow kind of hurt that lodges beneath my ribs and won't let go. Because if I misread him, if I let myself believe in something that was never there, then maybe I’m not as unshakable as I thought.

Maybe I was wrong.

The morning light creeps through the curtains like an uninvited guest, and I haven’t slept. Not really.

My eyes are raw, my brain on a relentless loop, rewinding, replaying. The dance. His hand sliding into mine. The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t just someone filling space on his arm.

And then the voices.

The socialites’ laughter still echoes in my ears. “She’s just his latest flavor.”

I should’ve brushed it off, God knows I’ve heard worse. But it burrowed deep, cracking open something I’ve fought hard to bury.

Because I know the type. Charismatic. Untouchable.

Dangerous in all the ways that make you crave what you can’t have.

My father. The charming clients who crossed lines with a wink and a checkbook.

My last client at Clive and Associates, who smiled pretty for cameras and lied through his teeth. And completely fucked me over.

And Alessio’s cut from the same cloth… isn’t he?

My phone buzzes, and I grab it, needing a distraction. A text from Denver.

Denver:

I heard about the gala.

I fire off a quick text to him.

How are the optics looking? Any fallout from last night? Investor temp check?

I don’t ask if he's spoken to Alessio, if he’s okay.

But I want to.

Because underneath the flash and arrogance, something in him shifted last night. I saw it. Felt it.

And now, all I can think about is that look in his eyes right before he pulled away from the crowd. The one that said he wasn’t just pretending.

Denver:

Optics are solid for now. Social media loved the donation twist. Most investors are holding steady.

I stare at the message for a second before typing back.

Most?

Denver:

Two are waiting to see what you do next. They want reassurance. Stability. He’s still a risk in their eyes. I'll get more on their temperature and get back to you.

Got it.

Denver:

You okay?

I hesitate. Then type,

I don’t know.

Because how do I say I’m unraveling without sounding like a cliché? Like every carefully stitched part of me is coming undone, thread by thread, breath by breath, while I sit here pretending I’m still whole.

How do I explain that I watched a man who terrifies me, who infuriates me, make me feel like the only person in the room that matters?

I don’t hit send. I just let the screen dim in my hand, the weight of everything pressing down harder than I expected.

A knock rattles the frame of my home office door twenty minutes later.

I glance up from my screen, already on edge, and there he is. Alessio.

No swagger. No smug half-grin. Just him, standing in the doorway with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and something unreadable in his eyes.

“You look like you’re either about to murder someone… or pitch a million-dollar campaign. Should I be scared or impressed?”

I arch a brow, trying not to smile. "Depends. Are you planning to behave today, or are you going to make me work for it?"

There're a few beats of silence, until he breaks.

“I didn’t know they’d say those things. At the gala.”

I set my pen down slowly, folding my arms.

“They weren’t wrong.” My voice is low but sharp, each word laced with defiance I don’t quite feel.

My heart clenches in spite of myself.

He nods once, jaw tight. “Maybe. But with you, it wasn’t for show. I held your hand because I didn’t want you to feel alone.”

That lands harder than I want it to. Because I did feel alone, until his fingers found mine. Until that dance, that moment.

I study him, searching for the man I keep trying not to see. The one who looks at me like I’m more than a PR problem solver or a challenge to conquer. “You’ve got a reputation, Alessio.”

“Right or wrong, I earned it. But I never faked what happened with you.”

Our eyes lock, and it hits me all over again, how badly I want to believe him.

Which is exactly why I can’t.

My phone buzzes again, breaking the spell.

I glance at the screen. Denver.

Denver:

We’ve got a problem.

That gets my attention fast. I swipe to call him.

He answers on the first ring. “I’m here.”

“Talk to me.”

“I’ve been fielding calls all morning. As I said before, the gala did help, but it wasn’t a knockout win to those two investors. And those two are the biggest hitters with the most to lose if the Marchetti and Salvatore merger flops.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What do they want?”

“Something real. Public. Controlled. A moment that says this guy isn’t just a pretty face with a PR team. They want proof he’s not a risk.”

“And if we can’t give them that?”

There’s a pause.

“We could lose them, Soph. And the merger will most likely fail.”

The words hit like ice water. My stomach knots.

I’ve been in this position before, reputation hanging by a thread, future dependent on the narrative I can sell.

But this time? It’s not just about optics.

It’s about him.

I’m already opening a fresh document. “Alright. Let’s give them something real.”

I stay glued to the screen for a moment, rereading my notes while tension coils low in my spine.

There’s only one move left if we want to salvage this. A tightly controlled interview. One that hits every beat investors are desperate for. Reliability, remorse, transformation.

The real problem? Getting Alessio to agree to it.

Before I can fully flesh out the strategy, there’s another knock at my office door, softer this time.

He peeks his head in again, brows raised like he’s expecting me to throw something.

“Still mad?”

“Undecided.” I motion him in.

He walks in cautiously, then eyes the open doc on my screen. “What’s that?”

“A lifeline. We need to do an investor-focused interview. Controlled. Safe. If we want to stabilize the narrative, this is it.”

I pause, the words hanging in the air longer than they should.

My voice sounds calm, decisive, but inside, doubt simmers.

What if this is the wrong move? What if asking him to bare himself for cameras only exposes the cracks we’re barely holding together?

He nods slowly, settling into the armchair across from me. “Fine. But I’ve got one condition.”

“Of course, you do.” I lean back. “Let’s hear it.”

“I want you to be the one to interview me.”

I blink. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head. “I trust you. You already know what the public needs to hear. And you’ll know when I’m full of shit.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“That’s not a no.” He smirks.

I exhale hard, watching him.

There’s no cockiness behind his grin this time. Just challenge. And trust.

“If this backfires—”

“Then we burn together.” He shrugs.

It shouldn’t make me smile.

But it does, because part of me wants to believe that maybe this version of Alessio, the one showing up, lowering his walls, offering his trust, is real.

After Alessio leaves, the silence in my office presses in.

I stare at the blank screen in front of me, my fingers hovering over the keys.

This isn’t just another crisis brief. It’s not some clever pitch to spin a scandal or distract the board with a shiny PR campaign.

This one’s personal.

If we get it right, maybe he proves he’s more than his past. Maybe I prove I’m more than the woman who keeps getting burned.

But if we get it wrong?

The merger collapses. My career implodes. Who knows how the Bratva will retaliate. And whatever fragile thing is starting to form between us, this pull, this spark, this whatever it is, goes up in smoke.

I grip the pen tighter, heart thudding loud in my ears.

Then, I start to write, slow, deliberate.

My pulse ticks in my ears, fingers hovering for a beat too long before they press into the keys. Each word I type feels like a dare. One wrong question, and we’re both done.

But if there’s even a sliver of truth to what I saw in his eyes, then we’ve got a shot at rewriting the ending.

“Alessio Marchetti, who are you when the cameras stop rolling?”

And I realize I’m not just asking for them.

I’m asking for me.