"The panel was impressed."
"I noticed," she says. Then, catching herself: "That's not arrogance. I just…I'm a compliance strategist. Reading a room is literally the job."
"I know."
"Right." She presses her lips together.
"I'm aware of who your father is,” I state plainly.
She goes very still.
"Then you're also aware that my father and I have no professional relationship." Her voice is even when she speaks. "No financial ties. Limited personal contact. I have not worked for or with De Luca Global in any capacity, and I have no intention of doing so."
"That wasn't a question."
She pauses and breathes out. "I know. I'm answering it anyway."
I look at her for a moment. She looks back without flinching, which most people do not manage.
Her dark hair is trying and failing to stay in its professional twist, a few strands clinging to the curve of her neck where her pulse beats visibly.
She is also, I notice with some irritation, doing the same thing she did when I checked her résumé earlier: staring at my hands.
“You’re either very confident or very desperate, Ms. De Luca,” I say finally. “You know your father is my competitor.”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “I’d call it prepared. You don’t hire people to flatter you, Mr. Ferretti. You hire them to protect what you’ve built. And right now, your compliance architecture has holes big enough for someone like my father to drive a truck through.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Bold.”
“Accurate,” she counters. Her gaze flicks to my hand again before snapping back to my face.
This is starting to bother me.
I stand and circle the table slowly, stopping beside her chair. I catch the faint scent of coconut lotion.
“Stand up,” I say.
She hesitates for only a beat, brows pinching together, but then rises.
She’s taller than I expect in those heels, though still forced to tilt her head to meet my eyes. The blouse clings where the coffee dried, outlining the soft swell of her breast.
I keep my gaze on her face, but the image is
burned in already.
“You’re shaking,” I observe quietly.
“Adrenaline,” she replies. “And these heels are trying to kill me.”
“Take them off.”
Her brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“We’re past the performance portion of this interview. Take them off so you can think clearly instead of balancing on stilts. Then tell me why I should trust you with the Aurelius contract when your last name alone could cost me everything if your father decides to use you as leverage.”
She stares at me for a long second, then kicks off the heels with more force than necessary.
Her eyes basically shoot daggers at me now. Barefoot, she looks smaller, vulnerable. Her red-painted toes curl against the cool marble floor.
