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“They stopped filming an hour ago. Someone decided it might be inflaming the situation.”
Jensen’s blood ran cold. They never stopped filming.Ever. Drama was great TV.
She frowned. “What do you mean, destroying her reputation? What is she doing?”
“Apparently, she’s had a lot to drink on top of the lack or excess of medication. She told Umberto Riccetti he is a misogynistic pig who never knew how to pick his actresses. Riccetti then told everyone she never had any talent and blacklisted her from his events. It’s like she’s blazing a trail of destruction through the entire party.”
Oh God. Jensen wiped a palm over her brow. She could not let her mother disintegrate in front of half of the French Riviera. She would never recover from it. Nor would it aid her efforts to get her mother back on her own two feet.
She didn’t have a choice. She had to get her mother out of there. She glanced at her watch. She was early for her flight. With luck, she could make it to the party, retrieve her mother and still get to the airport on time. The key thing was to remove her from the situation before she did any more damage.
“Okay,” she murmured. “I’m on my way. Where’s the party?”
Cristiano exited his last media interview, the business reporter having peppered him with hard-edged questions that had flayed an inch off his skin by the time she’d concluded. Which had not been unfounded. Francesco Vitale had lost ground to its competitors in the lead-up to Pascal’s launch, and his deal with Nicholas Zhang, which would have shored up skepticism about the company’s ability to compete on a global scale, was still mired in red tape. Everything, it seemed, was dependent on how Pascal Ferrari’s debut collection for FV was received tonight.
Key to which was Jensen, who would wear the most dazzling creations of the evening. Out with Nicholas Zhang and his family for dinner the previous night, he’d missed her call to tell him she had altered her plans because of an issue with the shoot, and would travel back to Milan with Giselle, her client, the following morning. Which had been infuriating enough, given her promises. Then had come the photos of her partying it up on the Riviera with her friends, blowing up his stack of daily clips this morning, which had sent his blood pressure soaring.
He never should have given in to her demands to do that shoot. Should have listened to his instincts, given everything that could go wrong. Given this was the night that could make or break his company.Santo cielo.
Lengthening his stride, he strode from the media center to the tent that housed the models and designers as they prepared for the show in the historic Piazza del Duomo, a legendary Fashion Week setting. Featuring the stunning, sparkling Gothic Duomo di Milano cathedral as a backdrop on a perfect Milanese night, the tent was buzzing with activity. Sofia, his assistant, materialized the moment he walked in, the look on her face sending a wave of foreboding through him.
“Where is she?” he bit out.
“She was grounded in Nice until twenty minutes ago, because of the weather. She left you a voice mail.”
A dark curl of fury unfurled inside him, twisting itself around his insides, along with a soul-deep, bitter disappointment, because he’d believed in her. He’d truly thought she wouldn’t let him down. That she would prioritize him over everything else, particularly given the bond they had created—one he’d thought was special and real. Instead, she had gone out partying the night before, to hell with the responsibilities that lay ahead, hadliedto him about what she was doing, and now she was going to miss the show.
He listened to the voice mail, heat blanketing his skin. Jensen’s voice was husky and halting,
“Cristiano... I’m so sorry. We’ve been grounded all afternoon. I don’t think I’m going to make it. I will call you as soon as I land.” Another drawn-out silence, then she whispered, “I don’t know what to say.”
He didn’t either, to be honest. The fury pulsing through him threatened to make his head explode. His twenty-million-dollar bet, the bet he’d fought Francesco tooth and nail for, the bet he’d staked his reputation on, the face of his brand, was MIA. For the biggest show in FV’s history. He wanted to lose his shit. But now was not the time, with forty-five minutes left to the show. They had to replace her.
Pascal and his assistant were up to their ears in models and last-minute fittings in the frenetic dressing area, when Cristiano pulled the designer aside with a curt nod of his head. “Jensen’s flight just got out,” he relayed tersely. “The storms lasted all afternoon. You need to replace her.”
Pascal whitened beneath his deep olive skin. “You are sure? There is no chance she’ll make it?”
“It’s doubtful. You have a contingency plan?”
The designer nodded, his dark eyes troubled. “Si. I was holding on for her with the last couple of dresses. I’ll make those alterations now. Serafina Bianchi can take her place.”
Cristiano nodded. “Do it.”
Jensen arrived at the Piazza del Duomo as the FV after-party shifted into full swing. Sick to her stomach about everything that had happened, concerned about her mother, who was still out of it and with a doctor, not to mention the couple of hours’ sleep she’d had, curled in a chair by her mother’s bed while she watched over her, she felt like a zombie. She wound her way past security and checked in with Pascal. He looked so bitterly disappointed in her, she followed his instructions to don a backless bronze sequined gown he’d designed for the party, without uttering another word.
She peered in the mirror as Stella, her makeup artist, did a superhumanly quick application of color. Registered her unhealthy pallor. She looked downright haggard. It wasn’t something Stella could fix, however magical her work, though she did her best as she filled Jensen in on the rumor mill working itself into a frenzy about her absence tonight.
Photos were circulating from the Riviera party the night before, as she’d attempted to blend in and extract her mother while drawing the least attention of the crowd. A photo of her sitting on a not-so-gentlemanly man’s knee, his status as a friend of her client’s necessitating a polite if firm response from a sharp-toed stiletto, particularly damning. And another from this morning as she’d left the hotel, shattered, a baseball cap pulled down over her eyes.
Oh my God. A buzzing sound filled Jensen’s ears. What must Cristiano think? Pascal? She hadn’t been able to physically talk to Cristiano to explain anything, and she could only imagine how it looked. Even Stella was eyeing her speculatively, a curiosity she couldn’t satisfy. Her mother needed help, but it needed to be private, discreet assistance, not headlines that would ruin her career.
On what might be the only positive note, Stella informed her the response to Pascal’s collection had been fantastic, thunderous applause following the designer down the runway, an American fashion guru who ran one of the industry’s most prestigious magazines, calling the collection “pure modern genius.” Which seemed to be the prevailing opinion.
After Stella pronounced her “as good as it gets,” she left the tent and joined the buzzing crowd of glitterati, winding her way through the throngs of people to the VIP group Cristiano stood at the center of, which consisted of Nicholas Zhang, his wife, Claudia, and Ming Li, as well as Marcella, Ilaria and the director of Milan Fashion Week.
Cristiano, his sapphire eyes piercing, stood back as she arrived and held out his arm. Not one physical signal gave away his current frame of mind, except the fury glittering in his eyes. And she knew, as he pressed a kiss to both of her cheeks, that he was going to pretend that everything was fine in an effort to salvage something from the evening, and she couldn’t say she minded because she’d never seen him so furious.
She did her job, despite the ice-cold reception from Marcella and Ilaria’s clear confusion over her actions, and spent the night attempting to dazzle the Zhang women and make up for her botched promise. The evening seemed to drag on for an eternity as the attendees toasted Pascal’s success, one she had always known was predetermined. Her nerves built with every moment Cristiano stayed silent in that supremely controlled, utterly furious way of his that sank into her bones and raised goose bumps on her skin.
