Page 100 of Broken Crown

Sebastian had personally told me to hire whoever I wanted.

This meeting was strictly professional. Nothing more.

Straightening my shoulders, I crossed to my desk, and the leather of the chair creaked softly beneath me.

Mark patted the seat next to him. "Don't sit there. You'll make me nervous."

I took the seat near him and crossed and uncrossed my legs before taking another sip, the porcelain warm against my lips.

The whole time Mark just watched me, his photographer's eyes missing nothing. He shook his head. "Damn, Sabrina. I mean, I knew you were talented, but holy shit. Running a campaign for the freaking House of Diamanti!"

I stiffened. "I earned this position, Mark."

His hand stopped with the biscotti lifted halfway to his mouth.

Frowning, he put it down and brushed his hands then leaned forward. "Who has implied otherwise?"

My cheeks warmed under his scrutiny.

I shrugged, playing with the rings on my fingers, twisting the rose-gold bands around and around. "I have a…"

What the fuck do I call it?

Relationship?

Understanding?

Stockholm syndrome?

Love? No, I’m still not ready to truly believe it's love. Not yet…

At least not on his part.

I cleared my throat and started again, the words sticking like black sludge in my throat. "I have a close…understanding…with Sebastian Diamanti and⁠—"

"I've heard the rumors." He leaned back in his chair.

I stood and paced. "Rumors? There are rumors?"

He rose and followed me, his boots making softer thuds against the floor.

Standing behind me as I gazed out the window to the piazza below, where tourists huddled under umbrellas and locals hurried with collars turned up against the persistent drizzle, he placed his hands on my shoulders, the touch fraternal and grounding.

"It's just small-minded people gossiping. What do you care?"

My eyes teared up.

I swiped under my left eye, careful not to ruin my black eyeliner. "I care. I don't want people thinking I slept my way to the top. It's the worst thing you can say about a female professional."

"And what's wrong with that?"

I turned my head to look up at him. "Mark! That's a terrible thing to say."

He scoffed. "Please, you know how much cock half the male designers sucked across Europe to get where they are? It's the fashion industry, Sabrina. Everyone is either fucking someone or fucking them over."

"You're very cynical."

He turned me to face him, keeping his hands on my shoulders. "And you're naive if you think there is anything pretty about fashion."