If we don’t move—now—we won’t reach her in time.
Chapter 42
The spreadsheet refuses to cooperate, numbers swimming in and out of focus like they’ve decided I’m not worthy of understanding them today. I’m meant to be breaking down the cost of my dress—Tuesday’s class is coming up, the one where we dismantle every showcase piece to decide who actually deserves to win—but my attention keeps snagging on the small cream business card half-hidden beneath my phone.
It sits there like a whisper I’m not ready to hear.
Matt’s voice—steady and certain—echoes through me with that weight I shouldn’t let affect me. I keep touching the card, tracing its edges, putting it down only to pick it up again. The want is sharp and undeniable. But so is the tension. Something about this feels… important, charged. Pulling on thisthread might unravel more than I expect, but excitement races underneath the nerves.
I take a steadying breath. “It’s just a meeting,” I tell myself, forcing my shoulders to relax as I pick up my phone.
I hit call before I can second-guess it, my thumb trembling slightly. The line rings once. Twice. A third time. Each pause stretches, long enough to set my stomach fluttering with nerves. If this goes well—if they were serious—this could be the start of making my dreams a reality. It’s almost too much to even comprehend.
Before I can talk myself out of it and hang up, a voice answers—smooth, measured, practised.
“Good afternoon, you’ve reached the office of Ms. Rossi. How may I help you?”
“Hi,” I say, forcing my voice a little higher than I want, a little steadier than I feel. “This is Lily Davis. I was told to arrange a meeting regarding a potential investment.”
Soft taps follow. “Of course, Ms. Davis. One moment… Ah. Yes. Ms. Rossi had been expecting your call yesterday.”
Expecting. The word presses against me, a thrill in my chest. “Oh. Right. Of course.”
“Luckily, she has an opening this afternoon, in about twenty minutes, if that suits.” The assistant rattles off the address before adding, “Ms. Rossi prefers to meet in her private suite on the top floor. When you arrive, let reception know you’re here to see her and they’ll show you the way.”
Twenty minutes. I tuck the card into my pocket, heart skipping in a way that’s more excitement than fear. “Twenty minutes is fine,” I manage. My voice is steadier than my nerves, and for that I’m thankful.
“We look forward to meeting you, Ms. Davis.”
Click. The line goes dead and I’m left staring at the card again, sunlight catching the gold embossing.
It’s just a meeting. I can do this. And part of me can’t wait.
I stare down at myself—ripped jeans, oversized tee—and a curse slips out before I’m even moving. In seconds, I strip them off, tugging on pale pink fitted trousers and a white blouse that looks far more composed than I feel. Heels, because, apparently, today needs extra height and instability. A quick swipe of lip gloss later, and I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
Grabbing my portfolio, tablet, and coat takes less than a minute and then I’m out the door, adrenaline buzzing lightly through my veins—anticipation rather than fear. My silver heels click against the footpath, echoing along the quiet street, each step pulling me forward.
The taxi ride is short, but unease sits heavy beside me. My fingers keep brushing the card in my pocket, grounding me, though it doesn’t quite soothe the knot in my chest. Investors can be eccentric, demanding, dramatic. This is probably normal. Probably.
The building rises like a statement of intent—glass and gold gleaming, designed to impress without trying too hard. The receptionist greets me with a practised smile and gestures towards a private lift.
Of course, there’s a private lift.
The doors close with a soft thud, and classical music plays overhead—meant to keep people calm, but utterly useless against the tension threading down my spine.
When the lift opens, a blonde woman stands there, her smile measured, her outfit perfectly immaculate. She leads me to a conference room that’s cinematic in its detail—marble accents,velvet furnishings, curated lighting, and a view that reminds me the world outside exists, even if I feel suspended in this bubble.
“Please take a seat,” the assistant says with a warm smile. “Ms. Rossi will be right with you. Feel free to help yourself to a ginger shot while you wait.”
I sink into the chair, hands curling around my portfolio, trying to ground myself in professionalism. But instinct prickles along my spine, a quiet warning I’ve learned never to ignore. I shake it off. Mafia paranoia isn’t often wrong, but now isn’t the time to lose my nerve.
I brush my hands over my knees, lifting my shoulders, straightening my posture into something poised, polished, untouchable—the kind of woman investors take seriously. I’ve been preparing for opportunities like this for years. I can do this. Iwilldo this.
The room is too quiet, too curated, too expectant. A faint floral scent drifts through the air, sweet and deliberate, like a trap hidden in elegance. I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall: calm on the outside, alert and sharp underneath.
I reach for the ginger shot the assistant mentioned, tipping it back in one smooth gulp. Sweet, spicy, almost soothing, until it hits the back of my throat.
A faint metallic tang follows, sharp and wrong.
