Page 19 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

I watched as it all sank in. Cleo’s expression shifted from defensive to thoughtful.

“She might not have the bandwidth for a major brand expansion,” I continued. “Or she might want to do it differently than you’re envisioning. But you won’t know unless you stop preemptively solving all her problems.”

Cleo was quiet, staring into her prosecco. “That sounds reasonable.”

I gave her an earnest smile that I didn’t have to force, a rare thing for me. Genuine smiles didn’t come naturally. They were usually calculated, deployed for strategic effect. But this one was real. “See? I can be useful.”

She looked up at me, and something flickered in her dark eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. Then she extended her champagne glass toward me, eyebrows raised. “Speaking of which, make with the pouring.”

I laughed and topped her off, then refilled my own glass. We were both getting pleasantly buzzed by then, the edges of the world softening into something warmer and easier.

“Can I ask you something?” Cleo said.

“You’re going to whether I give you permission or not.”

“True.” She grinned. “Are you living your best life? Does working for the Bancroft empire fill your cup?”

I actually laughed at that. “Full cups is marketing mumbo-jumbo from social media influencers looking to sell something.”

Cleo slow-blinked at me, and I realized my mistake a second too late.

“My bread and butter is social media influencers selling something.”

“Shit. Sorry.” But then I saw the amusement dancing in her eyes, and I chuckled. “That doesn’t change the fact that I’m right. I don’t derive value from worrying about how full or empty my figurative cup is. Who gives a fuck? Money talks. Numbers matter. No one gives a shit if my cup is full.”

She shrugged, taking another sip. “Sounds like something an unfulfilled person would say.”

“You’re a nightmare,” I told her, but I was laughing.

She gave me a beautiful smile that transformed her entire face. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, really. Most people try to tame me. Make me smaller. More palatable. Or just run away.” She gestured at me with her glass, some of the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “You lean into the chaos. It’s refreshing.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it leaning in. More like strategic acceptance of inevitable disruption. Like bracing myself in a doorframe during an earthquake or hiding in a bathtub during a tornado. It’s the only way to survive Cyclone Cleo.”

She giggled. “Cyclone Cleo. I like it.”

We fell into easy banter after that, trading barbs and observations. She told me about a disastrous photoshoot where the photographer kept trying to make Melody pose in ways that looked “thin” instead of celebrating her body. I told her about a shareholder meeting where a seventy-year-old board member had asked if we’d considered “making our logo bigger” as a growth strategy.

The prosecco disappeared steadily, and with it, whatever remaining walls had existed between us.

“Okay, but seriously,” Cleo said. “What do you want? Like, for yourself. Not for Bancroft Holdings or Armand or your brothers. What does Cash Bancroft want?”

It was a simple question. Should have been easy to answer. But I found myself staring at her, unable to form words.

Because I didn’t know. When was the last time I had asked myself that question? When was the last time I’d wanted something that wasn’t tied to business objectives or family expectations?

“I don’t know,” I admitted quietly.

She nodded like this made perfect sense. “That’s okay. You can figure it out. One decision at a time, right? That’s what you told me.”

“Right.”

“I should go,” Cleo said, but she didn’t move to stand up. “It’s late. We have a spa day tomorrow. Today? What time is it?”

“Almost two.”