Page 35 of Valentino

He doesn't look at me. His gaze stays on several men near the other bar.

"Six minutes," he says.

I pull back to stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"You have six minutes." His voice stays low and even, the same tone someone uses to tell you the soup of the day. "Then you come back here."

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, sharp and disbelieving. "Are you—are you timing my pee?"

"Six minutes, Amanda."

"Okay, first of all, that's a deeply unhinged thing to say to a grown woman." I set my glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, who doesn't break stride. "Second of all, why? What happens at minute seven? Do I turn into a pumpkin? Does the building explode?"

His jaw tightens. Just a fraction.

"I want you back soon," he says. "That's all."

"That's not an answer."

"Amanda." He finally looks at me, and the full weight of those dark eyes hit me in the chest like a fist. "Six minutes."

I want to keep arguing. To dig my heels in and demand he tell me what's actually going on, because I am not stupid. A man does not appear at a fashion gala armed—and yes, I know he's armed, I felt it when he steadied me on the steps—and station Vittoria's ex-bodyguard-slash-my-ex-something by the bar like a sentry, all for a campaign launch. Something is wrong in this exquisite room full of beautiful people, and everyone keeps telling me to stay in my lane. In so many words, of course. And I don't like being handled.

But I really do have to pee. And the look on his face tells me arguing won't get me a single answer more than he's given. Which is zero.

"Fine," I say. "But when we get out of here, you and I are having a conversation. A real one. With words. Lots of them. I'm going to ask you questions, and will answer them like a normal, reasonable human being."

"Five minutes, fifty seconds."

"Oh my God." I turn on my heel, the silk of my dress whispering against my legs, and weave toward the corridor I came out of earlier.

The noise of the party drops to a muffled hum behind me.

I find the powder room halfway down. It's all gilt mirrors and a marble counter. I do what I came to do, then stand at the sink longer than I need to, running cold water over my wrists the way Vittoria taught me to do when my heart races.

In the mirror, I look exactly the way I'm supposed to look. Hair pinned. Lipstick perfect. I tilt my head.

I turn off the water.

The door opens before I reach for it, and Francesca is standing there in the corridor like she's been waiting for me.

"Hello, Amanda," she says, smiling. "I've been looking for you in a while."

"Sorry." I gesture vaguely back at the powder room. "Just needed to fix my face. A girl can only be photographed so many times before the shine wins."

"You look perfect." She says it the way she says everything, like a fact she's confirming rather than a compliment she's offering. Then she touches my elbow, light and cool. "Come with me. There's someone you need to meet."

"Oh—now?" I glance over my shoulder toward the main room, where the music and the laughter and Valentino are. "I should probably get back. My… escort gets weird if I wander off too long."

"It will take two minutes." She's already walking, pulling me along by the elbow. "This is the kind of introduction you don't say no to, Amanda. Trust me. After tonight you'll thank me."

My entire life I have been raised, trained, and rewarded for not saying no to people like Francesca Renaud. Especially professionally. People with influence, who can make or break two years of work with a single phone call to a board, I have never told no. My entire career runs on a current of yes, of course, I'd love to, how wonderful.

So I don't argue or pull away.

I think about my phone, tucked in the tiny clutch under my arm. I think about Valentino's voice, low and flat. Find me if anyone tries to lead me away. I should text him. Three words. Francesca, two minutes. He wouldn't even have to do anything. He'd just know.

But Francesca is right beside me, watching me with those bright, unblinking eyes, and pulling out my phone now would look like exactly what it is. A woman reporting her location to a man like a child checking in. It would look rude.