“Should I reschedule your evening appointments, or?—”
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. I catch myself, moderate my tone. “We’ll finish tonight. The work takes priority.”
She nods. Returns to her desk.
The work takes priority.
That’s what I tell myself. But the gala is tomorrow. Vincenzo expects me there. If I don’t show, Nico will be representing the family. Making decisions. Speaking for the Contis.
Nico. Representing the family.
A week ago, that thought would have sent me out the door immediately, damage control protocols spinning through my head. Plans to contain whatever mess he’d inevitably make.
Now I’m choosing to stay late. With her.
Lorenzo’s words echo:Whatever’s got you distracted.
I know the answer. I’ve known it for days, maybe longer. I’ve just been refusing to look at it directly, as if avoiding acknowledgment might make it less true.
It doesn’t.
I turn back to the Hartwell briefs. Force myself to focus on the words, the clauses, the carefully constructed legal architecture that keeps this organization running.
The work takes priority. It always has.
But for the first time in fifteen years, I’m not sure that’s true anymore.
The evening drags.
Bea works at her desk while I go through documents, the space between us filled with the quiet rhythm of keys, paper, and pen. Controlled. Routine.
On the surface, nothing’s different.
That’s the problem.
I catch myself watching her when she isn’t paying attention. I notice small things. The way her focus sharpens when she’s working. The absent motion of pushing her hair back. The steady pace of her hands across the keyboard.
Unnecessary details. Noted anyway.
At ten, she stands, stretches, and starts gathering her things.
I keep my attention on the file in front of me. I haven’t read a word of it in twenty minutes.
“The Hartwell files are ready for signature,” she says. “I’ll leave them on your desk.”
“Fine.”
She pauses near the door.
I don’t look up.
“Anything else, Raffaele?”
There is.
I don’t say it.
“No.”
