Page 9 of Valentino

"I am not spiraling." I cradle the tiny cup between both hands like this much caffeine requires emotional support and glance out the café window at the studio across the street. The Casa Aurelia banner ripples against the gray Milan sky. "I am sitting here, drinking aggressively expensive coffee and living my best life."

"Uh-huh."

"How are things," she asks, like she’s not the reason I have a shadow following me through Milan. I set the cup down. "Speaking of which. Your boy Elio. Care to explain why I’ve got a six-foot escort hovering ten feet behind me every time I leave the hotel? And more importantly, why him?"

There's a pause. Not a long one. But Vittoria doesn't do pauses, so I notice it the way you notice a step that isn't where you expected it.

"I can't tell you much," she says finally. The teasing is gone from her voice. That's new too. "Bruno asked me to look into something. In Milan. And when you told me you were going for the campaign, it made me nervous. So I sent someone I trust."

I trace the rim of the cup with one finger. "Nervous how?"

"Amanda."

"Vittoria."

She exhales, and I can hear her choosing words, which she almost never has to do with me. "I need you to trust me on this one. Keep him close. Don't argue with him just to argue with him because you find it fun—and I know you find it fun."

"I find a lot of things fun. It's part of my charm."

"It's the whole of your charm."

That pulls a real laugh out of me, and for a second, the tightness in my chest eases.

Then the bruise on Nadia’s jaw flashes behind my eyes.

I push it away.

Not my department. Marketing. Strategy. Pretty pictures. I learned a long time ago which questions not to ask, and that’s the deal I made.

"So," Vittoria says, and the lightness is back, deliberate this time. Like she’s reaching for it on purpose. “Have you killed Elio yet?”

“It’s been a real test of my restraint.” I drop my voice. “He picked up my suitcase like I was a damsel in a Disney movie. I almost filed a complaint with management.”

“You two and your history.”

She says it carefully, the way you’d handle something with sharp edges.

History.

That’s a generous word for it.

What we had was a few months of him in my bed and absolutely nowhere else, exactly the way I like it. It would have stayed neat and simple and forgettable if I hadn’t been doing what I always do. Scrolling. Looking. Because I can never not look.

A girl in his comments.

His fiancée, tucked into a separate drawer while he kept seeing me on the side.

"There is no history," I say, and I keep my voice flat and bright at the same time, which is a skill. "There’s a guy who lied. And you know how I feel about liars."

"I know."

"I don’t care what he did with whoever he wanted to do it with. I cared that he kept her in his pocket and pretended I was the only one in the room." I shrug like she can see it. "I told him exactly what would never happen between us. Then I moved on. The end. Riveting story. Should be a Netflix special."

Vittoria goes quiet again, but it’s softer this time.

"You okay?"

"I’m great. I’m in Milan. I closed Casa Aurelia." I make myself smile, hoping it shows in my voice. "I’m thriving so well it’s honestly obnoxious."