“It concerns me professionally.”
“Mhm.”
Sofia walks further in and sets the tablet down on my desk. “I reviewed her old case files after HR flagged the De Luca connection.”
I look up sharply. “And?”
“She’s clean.” Sofia shrugs. “Actually, cleaner than most of the executives in this building. No suspicious transfers. No unusual contact with Dante’s companies. Her financial records are a mess, but in the normal single-parent way. Late rent. Medical debt. Childcare expenses.”
Something cold twists low in my chest at that.
Medical debt.
“She’s struggling,” Sofia says quietly. “Real struggling.”
I hate that the knowledge affects me immediately.
I hate that my first instinct is not strategic caution but the sudden irrational urge to make sure she never has to look worried again.
Dangerous, that instinct.
Sofia heads for the door and when she leaves, the office feels quieter than before.
I print the invitation and walk to conference room B. Livia looks up from her laptop when I enter. She has made more revisions. The pages are spread across the table in careful order.
"We received this." I place the invitation in front of her. "Finalists attend a ten-day retreat next month. Hudson Valley estate. You will be required there."
She scans the document. Her shoulders tighten visibly. "Ten days. That's a long time."
"It is non-negotiable. Every firm brings their top people. We present live scenarios. No remote option."
Livia sets the paper down slowly. "I can't do ten days away. I have responsibilities at home."
"Arrangements can be made. Childcare. Travel. Whatever you need. Ferretti Global will cover it."
She looks at me then and something in her eyes hardens. "Powerful men always think arrangements solve everything. Throw enough money at the problem and the woman falls in line. I’m sure you believe that works."
The words hit harder than they should. I step closer to the table. "This is business. Not personal power. The contract is worth more than any single person's comfort. Including mine."
She stands up. We face each other across the narrow space. Her cheeks have gone slightly pink.
"My son is four years old. He does not understand contracts. He understands that his mother comes home at night. I won’t disappear for ten days because you snapped your fingers and made arrangements."
Her mouth is right there. The way she speaks when she’s angry makes me want to close the distance and stop the flow of words with my own. I want to know the taste of her morning coffee on her tongue. I want to see how she looks when I pull back, lipstick smeared across her mouth like a bruise.
I take one careful step back and breathe.
"Consider the options,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse. “We leave in three weeks. I expect you to find a way."
Livia reaches for her folder to gather the revised profiles. Her hands move quickly. One folder slips. A small photograph slides out and flutters to the floor between us.
I bend down and pick it up before she can.
The image shows a young boy. Maybe four. He sits on a park bench holding a bright red toy car in both hands.
It feels like he stares directly into my eyes through the photo and I wonder where I get this vague sense of familiarity.
No, not vague. It's strong. A strong familiarity.
