Page 1 of His Obsession
1
VALENTINA
The bar line is backed up, the champagne needs more ice, and a girl with six million followers is about thirty seconds away from having a meltdown in the middle of the venue. As far as I’m concerned, the night is off to a perfect start.
I stand just outside the private elevator bank at the top of the hotel, phone in one hand, earpiece in, and my eyes sweeping the rooftop in quick, practiced passes. The venue is stunning, overlooking the ocean. One thing I’ll give LA is that the views blow Manhattan’s out of the water. The décor I’ve selected for tonight only adds to the ambience. Candlelight flickers across glass tables and white orchids hang over the main bar in soft, dramatic clusters. The skyline stretches beyond the low glass wall, glittering against a dark velvet sky.
“Valentina,” a voice calls.
I turn toward the service corridor just as one of the catering servers comes out carrying the wrong tray. He’s young, nervous, and moving too fast, which means he’s about to make a mistake.
I step into his path before he hits the floor. “Hold on.”
He stops so abruptly the tray rattles. “What?”
I glance down at the tuna cones on his platter. “These aren’t for the first pass. These go out after the founder speech.”
His face goes blank. “Chef told me these were up.”
“Chef is wrong,” I tell him, keeping my smile in place. “First pass is burrata crostini and truffle tartlets. Take these back and tell Mario I said if he pulls this again, I’m keying his car.”
The server blinks, then laughs nervously. “Okay.”
“You’re not in trouble. Just move.”
He nods and disappears back through the doors. I peer through the glass into the prep area and catch Mario’s eye immediately. He puts a hand over his heart like I’ve wounded him. I point two fingers at him. He grins.
I swear under my breath, then cut across the terrace to head off the next problem.
An influencer in silver sequins is leaning over the east bar, giving one of the bartenders hell because she wants into the roped-off lounge. The bartender looks about one second away from telling her off, which would inevitably end up all over TikTok.
I slide in beside her.
“You look stunning, Melissa,” I say warmly, like we’re old friends and she’s not currently terrorizing my staff. “I’m so glad you made it.”
She turns, ready to fight, then hesitates. People like being greeted by someone who looks like she’s in charge. I learned that a long time ago.
“Someone’s fucked up the VIP room,” she snaps.
“I’m so sorry you feel that way,” I tell her gently. “The front lounge is reserved for press during the first hour, and then we’ll be rotating guests through after remarks. You’re at the top of the list.”
Her mouth tightens. “I don’t wait in lines.”
“Neither do I.” I lean in like I’m about to do her a favor. “That’s why I’d hit the west photo wall right now, before the actresses get here. The lighting is better on that side, and once the bigger names start posting, the line is going to be impossible.”
That gets her attention. She glances toward the west side, already calculating her own face from every angle.
“Perfect,” she says, a gleam in her eye, and stalks toward the west wall.
A launch party like this is controlled chaos. The clients think they’re paying for beauty and exclusivity. What they’re actually paying for is the woman sprinting in heels behind the scenes so no one realizes the ice delivery was late, the logo plaque on the flower wall shifted half an inch, and one of the assistants nearly cried.
I catch a hostess near the private lounge and straighten the angle of her name badge without breaking stride.
“Relax your shoulders,” I murmur to her.
She straightens. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” I tell her kindly. “Just breathe. It’s a catering job, not World War III.”
