Two
Ellory
T he second the car drops me off, I head straight upstairs to my office, shrug off my coat, and stash my purse in the cabinet.
My office overlooks Union Square, flooded with natural light and the scent of roses from the massive floral arrangement Antoine insists on replenishing weekly.
Every surface gleams—lacquered wood, brushed brass, leather-bound notebooks arranged like sculpture.
It’s less workspace, more command center.
Lunch cratered faster than I expected. I’d gone in optimistic. This could’ve been the start of something bold, exciting. Instead, I spent half the meal wondering if we needed a second chair for his drama.
It started off strong—Matteo was charming, witty, and somehow, even better looking in person, but then she kept calling. Celeste. Clingy, impatient, clearly spiraling. If that’s his type, I’m definitely not his.
Gross.
Matteo Marino is a walking sculpture—broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, eyes like midnight secrets—and the kind of man who knows exactly what effect he has on people.
He’s been in the gossip columns for years, usually with a different woman hanging off his arm.
And apparently, they’re all the high-drama kind who can’t let him finish a business lunch without blowing up his phone.
Not. My. Problem.
I need him for business. That’s it. Whatever static passed between us—that flicker, that spark—was just a lapse. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to let a pretty face distract me.
My phone buzzes, interrupting the mental lecture.
Papa: Sweetheart, can you please come to the showroom? I need your help.
I sigh, already knowing what this is. We’ve done this dance before.
Papa’s an artist first, businessman second. Every ring is a masterpiece, every setting sacred. He takes it personally when a client wants to swap out a stone. But this isn’t just about vision. It’s a business. What matters is what the buyer wants…and what they can afford.
The showroom is packed. Gold and platinum sparkle under glass as customers drift between displays like magpies chasing light.
A faint chill clings to the air despite the flood of warm-toned lighting.
Spotless glass cases reflect tiny diamonds in their own miniature galaxies.
A man easily in his mid-twenties—tall, earnest, sweating through his collar—hovers near my father, eyes darting between rings like they’re traps.
I paste on my best professional smile and walk over.
“Ah, here she is,” Papa says, beaming. “Stephen, this is my daughter, Ellory. One of our lead diamond buyers. She might have some ideas for you.”
I slide behind the counter and take one glance at the ring—platinum setting, cathedral mount, flawless two-and-a-half carat diamond perched like a crown. Retail? Just over twenty grand.
“You’ve picked a stunning setting for your proposal,” I say gently.
“Thanks.” He gives me a sheepish smile. “I read that you’re supposed to spend three months’ salary on a ring…”
I nod. “That’s the old rule. But honestly? The only thing that matters is what you’re comfortable spending. A proposal shouldn’t be a financial stretch. And you can always upgrade later—anniversary, milestone, whatever feels right.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can practically feel Papa’s blood pressure rising. But I’m not about to guilt someone into overspending, especially with our no-return policy. The last thing this guy needs is a ring he can’t afford and a breakup.
“So,” I ask gently, “what’s your budget?”
He hesitates. “She said this was her dream setting.”
“It’s exquisite,” I agree. “But we can still work within your budget. We could reduce the carat size, lower the clarity or color, small tweaks that still keep the look intact.”
“Could we… reduce both?”
I smile. I like him. He’s trying to give her the best he can.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Let me show you some options.”
In the back, I grab a tray of loose stones and return, laying them out on black velvet beneath the lights.
I point to the first. “Same size, lower clarity. Fifteen thousand. No visible flaws to the naked eye.”
Then the second. “More yellow in tone, not quite as crisp, but only five thousand.”
And finally, the third. “Three-quarters of a carat. Same clarity and color as the original, but a shallower cut. Still sparkles. And she gets the setting she loves.”
Papa slips away, probably too frustrated to stay.
I slide the third stone onto my finger and hold it up, not saying a word. Either he wants an Olivier diamond, or he doesn’t. No pressure.
Stephen studies the options, silent.
“Would it be okay if I went with the cheaper one?” he finally asks.
“Of course,” I say. “There’s no rulebook. And upgrades are always an option.”
He exhales, shoulders relaxing, and hands me his credit card. “I’ll take the setting with that one.”
“Great choice,” I say, gathering the others and nodding to the sales associate. “Good luck, Stephen. She’s going to love it.”
“Thanks again. You’ve been really helpful.”
I return to my office and brace for impact.
Papa is pacing when I arrive, arms crossed tight. His hands are balled into fists, tucked under his arms like he’s physically holding himself back. His jaw works like he’s chewing over everything he wants to say and deciding how much will sting.
“I can’t believe you let him put that cheap stone in my setting,” he says, voice sharp.
I drop into my chair. “Papa, the one you showed him was twenty grand, and he was already nervous spending ten. That’s a lot for someone just starting out. He can upgrade later. And the setting is beautiful, but I’m not going to strong-arm someone into a ring they’ll regret.”
He exhales, frustration simmering. “I just worry, Ellory. After I retire…I’m not sure you’ll keep this business going the way it should be.”
I’ve heard this one before.
I have an MBA from Columbia. But more than that, I’ve lived this business.
I grew up on the showroom floor, in the workshop, in the back office doing inventory at age nine.
I’ve cleaned cabinets, sorted diamonds, even filed tax paperwork when the accountant bailed.
I know every inch of this place. And I’m not going to let it fail.
“How was lunch today?” he asks, already doubting my answer.
“It went well,” I say evenly. “They seem open to a collaboration. They’ll have to see the designs first.”
He grunts. “I still can’t believe you spent that much on a dress. I know it’s your money, but that’s a one-time wear.”
“It’s also a marketing centerpiece,” I remind him. “With Felicity Ford’s name on it, we’ll get press. Visibility. That’s worth more than a million-dollar ad campaign.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “And this rough diamond obsession… Don’t even get me started. Flawed stones? No glamour. I won’t let the Olivier name be dragged down by bad quality.”
“I get it,” I say, steady. “But that’s the point. Each stone is one of a kind. Unique. The haute couture crowd went crazy for them in Paris. I’ve sourced more, but to make the line work, I need Dante Marino working with Antoine.”
I remember the way the rough diamond caught the light in Paris—craggy edges, unpolished face, yet somehow it pulsed with life. It wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense. It was real.
His expression darkens. “You’re a fool to trust the Marinos. I knew their father. He always danced on the edge of the law. Rumor has it he won that mine in a poker game. Getting in bed with them means getting in bed with the mob.”
That grudge has lived in his bones for decades. I’ve heard this story a hundred times, and I still don’t buy it.
“That was twenty years ago,” I say calmly. “What matters now is what they bring to the table today.”
He scowls. “The board voted with you, so I won’t stop it. But don’t come crying to me when it blows up in your face.”
I don’t flinch.
Because it won’t.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say with a smirk.
There’s nothing more to add. It’s a gamble, but one I believe in.
The buzz in Paris was electric. Every major fashion editor had something to say about the rough stones—raw, earthy, unapologetically organic. I want to take Olivier into the next generation, and that means pushing boundaries.
Papa just shakes his head and walks out, hands on hips like I’ve personally offended him.
I lean back in my chair. My shoulders ache from holding tension for so long. The silence in the room swells, heavy with the echo of everything he didn’t say.
The dress is waiting at home. I tried it on after the show, and it’s breathtaking. Maybe Papa’s right, and I’m playing with fire.
But I don’t think so.
I think I’m ahead of the curve.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur—inventory reports, supplier updates, messages from regional directors across our two hundred plus stores.
It’s easy to get tunnel vision here in the San Francisco flagship.
Maybe it’s time for a change of scenery.
Hawaii could use a visit. A little sun wouldn’t kill me.
A girl can dream.
Patrice Wolfe, works with me at Olivier and is good friend, pokes her head into my office. “Sophie and I are meeting for drinks in less than an hour. We want to hear all about your lunch today.”
I hesitate. Honestly, I’d rather go home and curl up with my book.
Patrice narrows her eyes. “I know that look. Just tell your team we’re going to Bubbles. They’ll drop you off and pick you up in two hours.”
I can’t help but grin. “You know me too well.”
“We’re leaving in five,” she says firmly.
I let Duane Stephens, my bodyguard and driver, know the plan, then glance around my office. It’s a disaster. I really should stay and tidy up. But Patrice is already halfway through the door.
“Let’s go,” she urges.
I shove a few papers into my briefcase, pretending I might look at financials later, though we both know I won’t, and loop my arm through hers as we head out together.
The ride to Bubbles crawls through evening traffic, but Patrice fills the lull with memories.
She laughs, reminding me how the three of us bonded when we were only twenty-two—fresh out of school, hustling as Brand Ambassadors, also known as sales associates—for Olivier.
She’d just wrapped up her Geology degree, Sophie had her degree in Journalism in hand, and somehow, we clicked on that very first day.
The bond was instant, the kind that makes the years blur and every reunion feel like coming home.
At Bubbles, the three of us squeeze into a corner booth, a chilled bottle of sparkling wine already waiting. Patrice raises her glass first. “To surviving another week without quitting our jobs.”
We clink, bubbles fizzing on our tongues, and Sophie wastes no time. “So?” she demands, eyes wide with anticipation. “How was lunch? Is he as dreamy in person as he looks online?” Her voice bursts out like a cork—bubbly, effervescent, exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
I laugh. “Matteo Marino is dangerously attractive. Definitely the most lethal of the brothers, and that’s saying something.”
“I knew it,” Sophie swoons audibly. “They’re all hot as sin, but Matteo? He’s the fantasy. Brooding, mysterious, rich… Tell me everything.”
I swirl my glass. “He was charming, funny, razor-sharp. But his phone lit up every fifteen minutes with someone named Celeste.”
Sophie gasps. “Ugh. No.”
Patrice smirks. “Let me guess. You noticed every single time.”
“Yep,” I admit. “She called over and over. He didn’t answer, but come on. It wasn’t his assistant.”
“Probably some clingy psycho ex,” Sophie says. “Or worse—current.”
Patrice tilts her head. “And yet here you are, talking about him like you’ve already cast him as your next book boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “He flirted. A lot. But I’m not biting. I don’t need that kind of complication. He might be a perfect partner professionally…but personally? Hard pass.”
Patrice grins over her glass. “Uh-huh. That little sparkle in your eyes says otherwise.”
“You need to stop collecting work boyfriends,” Sophie cuts in. “You need someone to play hide the salami with, not a man who flirts at lunch and saves the action for someone else.”
I snort into my drink. “Thank you for the mental image I can never unsee.”
They laugh, and Patrice nudges me under the table. “Your problem isn’t that he flirted. Your problem is that you liked it.”
I shake my head a little too quickly. “Romance is a minefield. Every guy I mention ends up ghosting, and the last thing I need is to add Matteo Marino to the list if our companies are going to work together.”
“Then why are we still talking about him?” Patrice shoots back, grinning.
“Because,” I say firmly, “right now, the new line is everything. And the only rough stones beautiful enough for what I want are owned by Luster. That means dealing with the Marinos. Matteo included.”
“Just don’t let flirty Matteo mess with your head,” Sophie warns.
Patrice lifts a brow. “Too late. He’s already in there, rent-free.”
“I won’t,” I insist, even though the words feel like armor. “I know what I’m doing. I just hope I’m right.” God, please don’t let me be wrong.
By the time the bottle runs dry, our laughter has turned a few heads. Patrice slides into her coat and stands. “Enough talk. I don’t know about you two, but I could kill for pho.”
“Across the street?” Sophie asks.
“Perfect,” I say, hooking my arm through Patrice’s. Out loud, I’m breezy and sure. Inside, though, her teasing digs in deeper than I want to admit. Perfect on paper, impossible in real life. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.