Page 41 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

“Are you calling me for a reason, or just to puff up your chest and act like a big boy for your girl?”

“You’re an asshole.”

I hung up. I was an asshole, but so was he. He was looking at Cleo as an accessory. They had history. Obviously, they got over it, but Cleo did not accept Austin as Melody’s true love right away. It was hard won.

In fact…

I quickly typed his name into the search bar and grinned when I saw the account was still up. It was Cleo’s ode to Austin. The worst pictures of Austin. Bad paparazzi photos and some she added herself. Austin blowing his nose. Austin mid-sneeze. Austin running face first into a glass door.

Now, I felt better.

I walked to the windows and looked down at the city. Rome was nothing like New York. Eight floors up, and I could see nearly everything. The burnt orange terracotta rooftops contrasted with the cobblestone streets. No skyline. No vertical ambition. Just history sprawling in every direction. It was beautiful.

In another context, I might have appreciated it.

I put my phone in my pocket and returned to my seat at the table. Carson, our head of PR and the person Dad had assigned to accompany me on this trip, was making notes on his tablet and looking professionally composed. He was good at his job. I sometimes wondered if he was a robot. He seemed incapable of being rattled by anything. He’d been with Bancroft Holdings for eleven years and had navigated everything from hostile press cycles to shareholder rebellions without visibly breaking a sweat.

But he wasn’t Cleo. Cleo breathed life into the most basic picture. I was confident it was Cleo that made Melody so successful.

“Rossi’s team is two minutes out,” he said without looking up.

“Good.” I poured water from the carafe and arranged the folders in front of me.

The door opened. Federico Rossi walked in ahead of three board members and two people I didn’t recognize but who had the look of legal counsel about them. He was in his late sixties, silver-haired, immaculately suited. The look was meant to intimidate. He was going to have to try a lot harder than that.

We shook hands. He squeezed hard but I squeezed harder.

“Mr. Bancroft.” He settled into his chair. “I appreciate you making the journey. Truly. It’s a long way to come for a conversation I’m afraid will disappoint you.”

“Then let’s have it,” I said pleasantly.

“Our decision to exit the contract has been made. It is final. My board has reviewed all relevant considerations, and we are confident in our position.” He spread his hands in an almost apologetic gesture that contained no actual apology. “I regret sending you back to your father empty-handed. I hope it will not reflect poorly on you.”

The last part was deliberate. He’d heard enough about my relationship with Armand to know where to apply pressure. I gave him nothing in response. I was the master of the poker face. I could be dying from pain and no one would ever know. I could be furious. Ecstatic. Brokenhearted and no one would know.

Carson opened a folder. “Mr. Rossi, before we discuss the contract, I’d like to raise another matter. Your foundation’s annual fundraiser gala is in four days.”

Rossi’s composure didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes did. “What about it?”

“Our research team compiled the current RSVP list.” Carson slid a document across the table. “I wonder if you’d share your thoughts on attendance levels.”

The silence that followed told me everything. Rossi glanced at the document and then away from it, which revealed everything I needed to know.

He could pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was, but it was a total flop. I’d seen the list this morning, three pages that should have been eight. There were some notable absences. The absences would be the headline. A guest count that would make a fundraiser of this scale look like an afterthought. A poorly attended gala wasn’t just embarrassing. It was a statement. It told every potential partner and investor how much standing he currently had. Or in his case, how much he didn’t have.

“These things fluctuate,” Rossi said, his tone calm.

“They do,” Carson agreed. “They also recover. With the right kind of attention.” He paused. “A Bancroft presence at the event would generate significant coverage. International coverage. The kind that attracts attendees hoping to talk with a Bancroft.”

Was it arrogance? No. Not really. It was just a fact. People wanted to be in tight with us. We had money. We invested. We made people rich.

Rossi looked at me with the skepticism of a man who’d been sold bullshit before. “A playboy in a nice suit?” The contempt was unmistakable. “That might work for you Americans. Here, we expect class and integrity. This sort of celebrity attendance isn’t important.”

“He’ll have his fiancée on his arm,” Carson said. “Their first public appearance.”

I looked at him, poker face still firmly in place. He didn’t look back. His expression was the portrait of smooth professional confidence. I recognized the move for what it was. He’d found a pressure point and he was pressing it. I probably would have admired it if it didn’t involve him getting me engaged to a fictional woman.

I said nothing. Let him work.