Chapter 6
SEBASTIAN
Isit at the head of the conference table in one of the smaller downtown meeting rooms, three pages of revised gala notes in front of me and a hospitality report open on my laptop.
Two separate managers have spent the better part of my day explaining staffing problems that should have been solved before they reached me.
Bellissimo’s audit is still turning up irritating little inconsistencies in places I don’t enjoy finding them, and Matteo texted an hour ago to say the black sedan has shown up again.
In theory, I have more important things to think about than Valentina. In practice, none of them hold my attention for long.
I sign off on one report, close the file, and call Matteo.
He answers on the second ring. “You miss me already?”
“Is it still there?”
“Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Matteo…”
He lets out a quiet chuckle. “It’s gone now. Parked too long to be random, but not long enough for anyone to pull plates.”
“That’s not accidental.”
“No.”
“What about video footage?”
“I’ve got our exterior feeds. I’m pulling street coverage from a pharmacy across from Bellissimo and a jewelry store half a block from Dolce. Their cameras are better. The hotel garage near the Beverly property too, just in case someone got curious over there.”
“Have we seen a driver?”
“Not yet,” Matteo says. “Could still be nothing.”
I’m quiet for a beat.
“You don’t actually believe that.”
“Not really,” he admits.
“Neither do I.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts slightly.
“Do you want extra security on the girls at Bellissimo?”
Matteo can always read my mind. I don’t know if this sedan means anything, or if it has any ties to the Marchettis. After the fight a few days ago, though, I’m not taking chances on my staff being harassed again.
“Yes,” I say. “Quietly.”
“Done.”
“And I want names on anybody from Marchetti’s crew who’s been out in West Hollywood this week.”
I end the call and sit with my phone still in my hand a second longer than necessary.
Valentina’s last email came in at 6:14 a.m. with revised vendor notes, a cleanly organized run-of-show update, and three questions that demonstrated her impeccable attention to detail.
Starting my day with an email from her shouldn’t be as thrilling as it is.
I tell myself the interest is practical. She’s running the gala. She’s good at it. Good work gets my attention.
Even I don’t believe that lie.
She’s intriguing. She pushes back when I expect her to bend. She’s sharper than most people. She doesn’t flood a room with chatter or false charm. When she looks at me, she looks directly at me, and she doesn’t back down.
The fact that she’s my best friend’s sister should kill the attraction. It doesn’t. If anything, the forbidden just makes it worse. It’s a fruit I need to have.
I leave the conference room and head back to my office. By five, I have another stack of paperwork waiting and a message from my assistant reminding me Valentina is due in twenty minutes for the venue sequencing review.
I spend the next few minutes pretending to read two pages of donor notes while mentally preparing to see Val again. By the time my assistant shows her in, I’ve composed myself well enough that only Matteo would know I’m anticipating anything.
Valentina walks in with a leather folio tucked under one arm and a phone in her hand.
Polished, as usual. Cream blouse, dark trousers, hair smoothed and pinned back at the nape of her neck.
Apart from the gold hoops that catch against her bare skin, she wears minimal jewelry.
She looks effortless, though I suspect she put in real work to appear that way.
Something’s off. I know it immediately, though I can’t place it at first. She isn’t acting differently or moving differently, at least not to the naked eye.
But I’ve spent an entire dinner and a two-hour planning meeting memorizing her.
There’s tension in her shoulders, and her attention is pulled somewhere else.
She sets her phone facedown on the table, then flips it over again before she’s even sat down.
“Afternoon,” she says.
“Hello, Valentina.”
She takes the chair across from me and opens her folio. “I reviewed the ballroom sequence, and I want to change the donor holding pattern before first remarks.”
I study her for a second longer than necessary before looking at the papers she slides toward me. “Why?”
“I want greeters here, a secondary champagne point here, and a staggered soft open on the ballroom doors so guests feel like they’re being invited in instead of herded.”
Another effortless correction. Another detail she spotted that no one else even considered.
“You’re right,” I say.
She glances up, almost suspicious of how quickly I answered.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
That almost gets a smile out of me.
We go through the revised sequence, then the donor arrival notes, then the ridiculous issue of one foundation board member insisting the photo wall not include any branding “too obvious” despite the fact that the sponsors paying for most of the room are very obviously going to expect their logos.
Valentina handles it with sharp, practical intelligence and very little patience for performative nonsense.
Three times in twenty minutes, her eyes drift to the windows.
Twice, she checks her phone when she thinks I’m reading.
Once, a car horn from somewhere below on the street cuts faintly through the glass and I watch her shoulders tighten before she smooths them back down.
By the fourth time, I stop pretending I haven’t noticed.
“What’s wrong with you today?”
She looks up from her notes too casually. “Nothing.”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “You’re distracted.”
“Is my performance not up to your standard?” she asks, the sarcasm sharp.
“It’s not your performance I’m worried about.”
Her mouth tightens. “I’m fine.”
I let the silence sit for a second, then nod once. “Fine.”
The relief that flickers across her face is small enough that she probably thinks I miss it. I don’t. I notice everything about her, whether I want to or not.
She recovers quickly after that, or at least makes a convincing show of it. We go through the auction sequence, media angles, donor gifting, parking flow, and stage lines. When we’ve covered every detail, she closes her folio and stands.
“I’ll send revised staffing notes tonight.”
“Good.”
“I also want final confirmation on the donor green room before I lock floral counts.”
“You’ll have it.”
She nods and reaches for her phone. For a second I think she’s going to say something else. Instead, she just slips it into her bag and heads for the door.
“Valentina.”
She pauses, one hand on the handle.
“If something changes,” I say, “and it affects the event, I’d rather know before it becomes a problem.”
She turns slightly, enough that I can see the wariness return behind her eyes.
“Everything is fine,” she says again before she leaves.
I sit there for a moment after the door shuts, staring at the empty chair across from me. A low, familiar irritation settles in, though this one is aimed more at myself than anyone else.
She isn’t my problem to solve. I repeat that to myself with decreasing conviction.
I cross to the windows with a glass of water and look down at the parking structure below. The office tower has multiple levels reserved for executive and tenant parking.
Valentina is halfway across the top level, moving toward a dark-blue sedan parked near the outer edge. From this height, she’s just a slim, controlled figure. It’s unsettling to be watching her, and I know that. The knowledge isn’t enough to make me stop.
Halfway to her car, her stride slows. It’s subtle. Her head turns slightly while she moves forward, like she wants to check her surroundings inconspicuously. Then she stops altogether and looks over her shoulder toward the ramp entrance behind her.
I know that look. I recognize the precise alertness you feel when you think someone’s watching you. When you feel hunted.
To be fair, I am watching her, and maybe that’s what she senses. But she’s had to hone those instincts somewhere. At some point in her life, something bad enough happened that she feels the need to look over her shoulder in a secure parking garage.
Once again, I’m left with more questions about Valentina than answers, but the pieces are starting to come together. She had a bad breakup. I’d bet my entire fortune he hit her. Abuse rewires the brain.
I watch her get into the car safely, then sit there for a minute.
I can’t see her through the tinted glass, but I imagine she’s catching her breath.
Maybe even crying. I want to comfort her so badly it aches, but that’s not my place, and it never can be.
Obsessing over her in private is bad enough.
Actually inserting myself into her personal life would be a disaster.