Mila
Gilmore glares at me as he settles into his seat, leaning back against the headrest. It's barely six minutes since Damian Visconti left the building, yet the tension hangs in the air like smoke after a fire. I clear my throat, attempting to look anywhere but at Gilmore. His stare is enough to burn down this whole office.
It doesn't help that Visconti's cologne still lingers, an expensive, woodsy scent with an edge of leather. It gives me the impression he's still here, watching, waiting to pass judgment alongside Gilmore.
Our gazes meet, his narrows with anger. Or dissatisfaction. Maybe both.
"You had just one job, Mila. One job." He pushes out of his chair and paces back and forth. At least he's making an effort to release some steam.
"Do you have any idea what your absence could have cost us?" He slumps back in his chair, palming his face. "Visconti would have pulled out. Our reputation would have been ruined."
I press my hand to my throat, trying to steady my breathing. "I'm sorry, okay? Neither of us knew he would come before the scheduled time. And the hospital..."
"You think I care about your hospital drama?" Gilmore straightens quickly in his seat, passing me another icy stare. His sharp retort sends shivers down my spine. I jerk back.
"Next time, keep your family drama outside of work. L'Etoile Noir is made for the spotlight. For glory. For fame. Not for your personal crises."
"But on the bright side, he gave us another chance... right?" I say with false cheer, trying to lighten the tension filling his office.
He clenches his jaw, then stands.
"Mr. Gilmore." The door squeaks open. I turn. Felicia, Gilmore's secretary, stands in the doorway holding an iPad. She looks prim and proper, blonde hair in a neat bun, shirt crisply ironed, a sharp contrast to my wrinkled disaster of an outfit.
"Yes," Gilmore snaps. Felicia's face registers brief shock before she smooths it away.
I give her a sympathetic smile.
She clears her throat before continuing. "Mr. Visconti has scheduled an 8 PM meeting at his penthouse residence."
"Good, good." Gilmore reaches for a coffee mug and sips, leaning back against his desk. "We'll prepare for it as soon as possi..."
"Sir, Mr. Visconti has requested Ms. Thorne's presence. Yours is not mentioned."
My eyes widen.
Gilmore nearly chokes. I rush to him, patting his back. He bats my hand away.
"What?"
Felicia continues, unfazed, as though workplace meltdowns are part of her job description. "It clearly states that only Ms. Thorne is allowed entry."
Gilmore waves her away dismissively. His nose flares as he sucks in a harsh breath.
I'm lost for words. Terrified. Why would Visconti want only me?
I've always been Gilmore's shadow, the designer whose work gets presented, never the one presenting it. And now Damian Visconti, the most powerful man in Manhattan, wants me alone?
It doesn't make sense.
Gilmore finally turns to look at me, eyes cold and calculating, as if measuring exactly how much damage I could do to his career, and what he'd do to prevent it.
"What are you waiting for?" he yells, his veins protruding from his neck. I stagger back.
"Go home and fix your face. Wear something impressive, not that..." His gaze roams over my wrinkled shirt, his brows knotting tight. "...disaster you're wearing."
He groans, burying his face in his palms for a few seconds.
"This is an opportunity of a lifetime, Mila. Don't ruin it. Stop by Felicia's desk on your way out. She'll brief you on what to discuss with Visconti."
"Partnership?" I say, still stuck in a daze.
"Yes. Maybe investment if we're lucky. Mila, don't mess this up. 8 PM sharp. Now leave."
Worry etches between his brows as he turns away, slamming the coffee mug on the desk.
I take my leave, my heart thumping fast. Is this Visconti's strategy? Cut out Gilmore to see if L'Etoile Noir falls apart without him? Does he think I'll crumble without someone there to speak for me?
No. I'll prove I'm more than capable. I'll show him what I can do, what I've been doing all along, until he has no choice but to partner with us.
---
The cab ride home is a blur. I barely register the driver, the hum of the engine, the music streaming from the radio. My mind is spinning with questions I can't answer.
Why does Damian Visconti want me alone?
By the time I climb the four flights of stairs to my apartment, my legs are shaking, though whether from exertion or nerves, I can't tell.
---
It's almost 7 PM. I check myself in the mirror for the umpteenth time.
The black silk gown hugs my torso before flowing freely from the waist down. Elegant. Sophisticated. Expensive. The last time I'd worn this dress was for my father's fiftieth birthday gala, back when I was still his daughter, still welcome in his world.
Tonight will be the first time I've worn the same dress twice. I don't mind.
Arthur Thorne would have been appalled. In his words, "A Thorne never wears the same thing twice."
But it doesn't matter now. My decisions are no longer his business. He disowned me anyway.
I sigh. Thinking of my father always sends a familiar shot of pain through my chest. This time is no different.
There was a time when he seemed like the best father in the world. When Mum and I were the center of his universe. But that was before we discovered the truth, we were only his other family.
My stepmother Florencia and my stepsister Sophia are his priorities now. The ones he chose first.
My phone beeps on my bedside table. I reach for it. Gilmore's message lights up the screen.
8 PM. Don't let me down.
I roll my eyes. As if I could forget.
Checking myself one last time, I slide on my heels and grab my purse and leather portfolio. Gilmore will be furious when he finds out I didn't take the company's portfolio as instructed. Instead, I'm bringing mine. As much as I respect L'Etoile Noir's policies, the company's portfolios are only watered-down versions of my designs. And Damian Visconti is no idiot. I know enough about businessmen like him to know I need to be two steps ahead.
I shut my apartment door behind me and inhale deeply.
You've got this, Mila.
I've done this before. I used to sit in on my father's investor meetings, back when he still wanted me to learn the business. Felicia has given me all the details I need. I've done my research. If luck's on my side, everything will go well.
My mother's comatose face flashes in my mind.
I shut my eyes briefly as I start down the stairs.
Please. Let it go well.
---
My apartment, unlike the penthouse I grew up in, is a fourth-floor walk-up. The elevator's been broken for months, which means four flights of stairs every time I come or go. I pull out my phone as I descend, searching "Damian Visconti" again. I've already read dozens of articles, but maybe I missed something, some clue to why he wants to meet me alone.
The results are the same. Business magazines call him "The King of Manhattan." Forbes estimates his net worth at over $8 billion. There are photos from charity galas, always the same: Damian in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, face impassive, standing alone or with business associates. Never smiling. Never with a date.
One article from three months ago catches my eye:
"Visconti's Hostile Takeover of Meridian Corp: A Masterclass in Ruthlessness"
I click on it, skimming as I reach the third-floor landing.
"Damian Visconti doesn't negotiate. He dominates. When Meridian Corp refused his initial buyout offer, Visconti systematically dismantled their investor base, poached their top talent, and bought them out at half the original asking price. Former Meridian CEO Richard Chen called it 'business warfare.' Visconti called it 'Another Tuesday.'"
My stomach tightens.
This is the man I'm about to meet. Alone. In his penthouse.
Another headline flashes across my screen:
Visconti Imperium: Built on the Ruins of Competitors
I'm at the ground floor now. No time to read more.
I shove my phone in my purse and push through the building's front door. The evening air is cool against my skin, a welcome relief from the stuffiness of my apartment. I raise my hand for a taxi.
This is it.
In less than an hour, I'll be face-to-face with Damian Visconti.
And I have no idea what he really wants from me.
---
A black town car pulls up to the curb. The tinted window rolls down.
The driver's face is familiar. Where have I...
My breath catches.
Marcus. Damian Visconti's assistant.
I freeze. Felicia never mentioned Visconti sending a car. I was planning to take a taxi to his office building.
Marcus steps out of the car and walks toward me, his movements precise and professional.
"Good evening, Ms. Thorne. Mr. Visconti asked that I pick you up."
He opens the back door, waiting.
I stare at him blankly. How does Damian Visconti know my address? I never gave it to anyone at L'Etoile Noir. Felicia certainly didn't have it.
Marcus stands perfectly still beside the open door, impeccable in a tailored two-piece suit. His face is perfectly neutral, giving nothing away. Knots tighten in my stomach. My head spins with questions I can't voice.
"Ms. Thorne."
I startle at his voice. Something about his tone, calm, professional, but with an undertone I can't quite place, sends a chill down my spine.
I force myself to focus.
"Oh... yes." My hand flies to my throat in a nervous gesture, fingers finding the delicate chain of my necklace. "Mr. Visconti is very kind," I manage to say.
I walk forward on unsteady legs, my heart pounding with each step. The interior smells of new leather and something expensive: cologne, maybe, or wood polish. I slide into the car before I can second-guess myself.
As Marcus shuts the door, I swear I catch a flicker of something in his expression when I say "kind." A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost like... amusement?
I'm no fool. Visconti and "kind" don't belong in the same sentence. But it doesn't stop me from wondering why Visconti would go this far, sending his personal assistant to pick me up at my apartment. Is this how he treats all his business clients?
Or is there something else going on?
Marcus slides into the driver's seat and starts the engine. The car pulls away from the curb smoothly, too smoothly, like we're gliding rather than driving.
Something tells me Visconti doesn't extend this kind of treatment to just anyone.
I drum my fingers against my lap, trying to calm my nerves. The portfolio shifts in my grip as I adjust in the seat. I catch Marcus's eyes flicking to me in the rearview mirror. He doesn't say anything.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out, breaking our gaze.
A text from an unknown number.
I'm looking forward to our conversation, Ms. Thorne. Don't be nervous.
My blood runs cold.
Damian Visconti.
How did he get my number?