One #2
Her burger arrives stacked high, cheese oozing at the edges and a soft sheen of truffle oil coating the fries.
My trout looks too dainty by comparison—glistening skin, a whisper of lemon.
Our conversation shifts naturally to the people we knew in high school—where they landed, who stayed.
Not many did. San Francisco’s too expensive unless you’ve got old money or tech stock options.
Most of their parents have relocated to Palm Springs, Hawaii, wherever the sun shines and taxes are kinder.
Ellory polishes off her entire burger and three-quarters of the fries before sliding the rest toward me. “There’s just something about truffle oil,” she says, licking a bit of salt from her finger. “It makes fries…stupid good.”
I spear one with my fork, still watching her. “They’re dangerous.”
She dabs her lips with her napkin, and I decide it’s time to shift gears.
“So, where are you sourcing your stones these days?” I ask, flashing my most practiced, easygoing smile.
She matches it. “I’m the main buyer, but we have a diamond specific buyer. He’s retiring soon.”
My pulse ticks up. Olivier doesn’t just dabble in diamonds. They move serious weight. Not accent pieces. Centerpieces.
“Are you planning to replace him?”
“It’s on the table,” she says, letting the words hang just long enough to make me lean in. “But we’re also reconsidering the entire approach to sourcing.”
That’s the door I’ve been hoping for.
“We could offer a fresh angle,” I say, keeping my tone light but intentional. “Our team would love the opportunity to present a selection tailored for Olivier’s next chapter.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe we’ll see how these frosted diamonds work out.”
I like how she’s thinking.
With the pitch made, I relax. I didn’t expect to enjoy this lunch as much as I am.
It’s rare to feel this kind of ease—and attraction—with someone who also happens to be smart, sharp, and impossible to rattle.
She’s a rare mix of polished and unpretentious.
Beautiful without even trying. A dangerous combination.
My phone buzzes again. Another call from my building. I glance down. Missed calls, new voicemails, a string of texts. All from the door man, Miguel.
The server drops off the check, and I slide my card into the leather folder before he can speak.
“I think this is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” I say, meaning it. “We didn’t even get to the jewelry you’re designing around Night to Remember . Sounds like a perfect excuse to meet again.”
Ellory smiles, smooth and professional. “Reach out to Jasmine in my office. She’ll find us time. I’ll bring the dress, and we can walk through design ideas and fabrication.”
I nod, keeping my own smile polite, even though I’d been hoping for something a little more…off-book. Most women I meet don’t hesitate to take things beyond the boardroom. But Ellory? She’s holding the line.
Challenge accepted.
I walk with her to the curb, watching as she slides into the backseat of a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. She gives a small wave as the car merges into traffic like a queen in her carriage.
The valet pulls up with my car. I climb in, phone still buzzing. I finally listen to one of the voicemails.
“Mr. Marino, it’s Miguel. You didn’t mention going out of town…There’s an emergency at the Celeste. We need you to come immediately.”
I roll my eyes. As if I wouldn’t recognize his voice. Or need reminding which building I own a condo in. But that one word—emergency—sticks.
I call back. It goes straight to voicemail.
“I’m not out of town, Miguel. I’ll head home shortly. Call a plumber or whatever needs to be done. I’ll get home as soon as I can.”
I look across downtown toward Nob Hill, and there’s no smoke in the air. No sirens. Hopefully, not another burst pipe. The last one affected three floors and a small fortune.
My phone buzzes again. Miguel.
This time, I answer. “Hey, Miguel. What’s going on?”
There’s noise in the background. Raised voices, maybe kids? Definitely not the normal quiet hum of the Celeste’s lobby.
Mrs. Powell in 5D is going to love this.
“Mr. Marino, this is important,” Miguel repeats, breathless. “You need to come home. Right now.”
“What kind of emergency?”
He hesitates. “Ms. Bancroft is here. I have to go. Just—please, hurry.”
Ms. Bancroft?
I mentally scroll through every Bancroft I’ve ever met—corporate, social, personal—but come up blank.
Still, Miguel sounds rattled. And I’m officially intrigued.
Before I pull out into traffic, I fire off a quick text to my brothers.
Me: Just had a fantastic meeting with Ellory Matisse. They’re losing their diamond buyer. And she was the one who bought Night to Remember . Wants to build a jewelry line around it. Huge potential. Emergency at the Celeste. Heading home now. Will update.
Luca: No way about the dress! Dante’s going to lose his mind. Keep us posted. Let’s brainstorm before your next meeting.
Dante: Aryanna can suck it!
I slide into traffic and take off toward Nob Hill, heart ticking faster than I’d like.
Emergency or not, I’m dying to know what the hell’s waiting for me at home.
When I pull up in front of the Celeste, Miguel spots me instantly. He practically deflates with relief and rushes to open my door.
“Oh, thank God,” he says, wringing his hands.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping into the lobby. There’s a wail followed by an ear-piercing scream. “What’s with all the noise?”
Somewhere nearby, I hear the unmistakable noise of a baby—soft, high-pitched, possibly fussing—but there’s no child in sight. Just Miguel, looking like he’s aged ten years in an hour.
“That,” he says grimly, motioning toward the noise, “that is the emergency.”
My brow furrows. “What are you talking about?”
Without another word, he disappears around the corner and rolls back a baby stroller.
The stroller is sleek and black, clearly expensive, but it feels wildly out of place in the marble-and-glass lobby.
A tiny hand flails from the cocoon of blankets.
Then I see her—round cheeks, pink face, impossibly alert eyes.
Staring straight at me like she’s sizing me up.
Inside the stroller is, in fact, a baby.
A real, live, wide-eyed, chubby-cheeked baby.
Miguel gestures helplessly at the stroller. “A woman dropped her off. Said you were expecting this. Left a diaper bag, bottles, formula, clothes. The whole kit.”
He glances around like he’s hoping someone else will magically appear to handle it. “Then she just…vanished. I didn’t know what to do.”
I stare at the baby.
She hiccups.
One sock-covered foot kicks lazily in the air.
I take a slow step forward, my brain struggling to compute.
I’m Matteo Marino. I sell diamonds. I drive a Bugatti.
Where did the baby come from and who does it belong to?