Chapter 21 Nico
Nico
“So about the office gossip,” I say as she kicks off her heels inside her apartment door.
Bree turns to me, already shaking her head. “No.”
“Bree—”
“No.” She crosses the distance between us and kisses me hard, her fingers fisting in my hair. When she pulls back, her eyes are fierce. “The office is the last thing I want to think about right now. I just want to forget about all that. Okay?”
I search her face. See the exhaustion there, the strain of carrying this weight.
“Okay,” I murmur against her mouth.
So we didn’t talk. We fucked all night. But talked? No.
Now it’s morning, and I’m sitting in my office staring at the magazine spread on my desk, and the office gossip about Bree seems almost quaint compared to the shitstorm brewing in the business press.
Kieran Ashby’s business magazine profile finally dropped. The headline reads: “The Scar King: How Nico Rossi Built a Billion-Dollar Empire on Other People’s Trauma.”
Cute. Real fucking cute.
I flip through the pages. There are photos of me looking cold and calculating at last year’s investor conference. A pull quote that reads: “Rossi monetizes other people’s trauma while living in a Tribeca penthouse.” Anonymous sources talking about “toxic work culture” and “questionable ethics.”
Martin Hale’s fingerprints are all over this.
I almost admire the elegance of it. The man obviously fed Ashby names, gave him an angle, and now I’m getting crucified in the court of public opinion while Martin circles like a vulture waiting for the carcass to stop twitching.
My phone buzzes. Dashiell.
“You’ve seen the article,” my CFO says when I pick up.
“I’m looking at it now,” I admit.
“Board’s in an uproar. Helena called me this morning. She says Martin’s formally proposing an external consulting firm to review governance and operational efficiency.”
“That’s not a review,” I spit. “That’s a takeover.”
“I know. But he’s got four votes now. Maybe five.”
Christ.
Almost half the board is ready to hand over my company to Martin Hale’s private equity vultures so they can strip it for parts. All thanks to one article. That, and the earlier leak.
“What about Helena?” I ask. “Where does she stand?”
“Still on your side. But she’s worried. She says you need something concrete. Something that addresses the donor concerns and neutralizes Martin’s attacks.”
“I’m working on it,” I tell him.
“Work faster.” He hangs up.
I set the phone down and stare at Bree through the glass walls.
She’s at her desk, typing something on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration.
I think about last night. Her body underneath mine, her nails raking down my back, the way she gasped my name when she came.
Then I think about the way she shut down when I tried to talk about the office situation.
She’s compartmentalizing. I recognize the technique because I invented it.
But compartments have a way of bursting open when you least expect it. Like scar tissue that seems healed until something tears it apart.
I force my attention back to the magazine. Read the article again. Look for anything I can use, any angle I can exploit.
Nothing. It’s a hit piece, pure and simple, and Martin played it perfectly.
The day drags on in a blur of damage control. Phone calls with nervous donors. A tense video conference with our clinic partners. Elspeth stopping by to update me on operational contingencies if the board votes to restructure.
Through it all, I’m aware of Bree at her desk. Taking calls. Managing my calendar. Being professional and competent and invisible.
Just like I taught her to be.
The irony is bitter enough to taste.
By seven o’clock, the floor has emptied out. Just me and the cleaning crew and her.
As usual.
I’m standing at my window, watching the city lights flicker on, when I hear my office door open.
Bree walks in. She’s carrying something. A bound document.
She crosses to my desk and drops it in front of me. “This is what accountability looks like.”
Then she turns and walks out without another word.
I stare at the document for a moment. The cover page reads: “Rossi Foundation Restructuring Proposal: A Framework for Transparent Philanthropy.”
I pick it up. Start reading.
By page three, my eyebrows are climbing toward my hairline.
By page ten, I’ve sat down.
By page twenty, I’m reading so fast I have to go back and reread sections because I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
The proposal is brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
She’s outlined a complete restructuring plan that splits the grant program into two legally separate entities.
A nonprofit foundation with independent board oversight, completely divorced from the for-profit company.
And the for-profit company that funds it transparently, with clear guidelines and public reporting.
It addresses every donor concern. Creates real accountability. Neutralizes Martin’s entire attack strategy.
I read it again from the beginning, looking for flaws. Legal vulnerabilities. Operational complications. Anything I can point to and say this won’t work.
I find nothing.
I set the document down and stare at it. Then I look through the glass walls at Bree’s empty desk. She left while I was reading. Just walked out without waiting for my reaction.
Because she didn’t need my approval. She knew it was good.
I’m going to see her tonight anyway at her apartment. But...
I grab my phone and text her. Come back to the office.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again. Why?
Because I need to talk to you about this proposal.
A long pause. Then: Five minutes.
I spend those five minutes pacing my office like a caged animal. When she finally walks back in, I’m standing at the window again, trying to look calm.
“You read it,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And?”
I turn to face her. “It might just work.”
“It will work.” No hesitation.
“Where did you learn foundation structuring like this?” I ask.
“Master’s degree in communications and nonprofit management, remember?” She crosses her arms. “You know, the degree I got before spending two years underemployed and taking a secretary job because rent was due.”
Right. The qualifications I’ve been ignoring because of the job title my company gave her.
“I’m going to present this to the board,” I tell her. “An emergency session Monday.” That gives us the weekend to plan.
She nods. “And how are you going to explain where it came from?”
The question hangs between us. We both know what she’s really asking. Am I going to take credit and keep her invisible?
“I’m going to find a way to give you credit eventually,” I say. “I just need to handle Hale first. Let me get through the board meeting. Then I can figure out how to acknowledge you properly.”
Her jaw tightens. I can see the frustration in her eyes.
“I know it’s not enough,” I add. “I know I’ve been handling this wrong. All of it. The way I’ve treated you in meetings. The credit I haven’t given you. The way I’ve let the gossip fester because confronting it would mean confronting us.”
“What is us, exactly?” Her voice is careful now.
“I don’t know.” The honesty feels like peeling back scar tissue. “But I know I don’t want it to end. And I know I’ve been fucking it up. We’re more than just sex. A lot more.”
She uncrosses her arms and takes a step toward me.
“You have been fucking it up,” she agrees. “Spectacularly.”
I sigh. “I know.”
“The gossip is bad, Nico,” she says. “I’m not sure how long I can keep working here. It’s like Kendrick all over again.”
I frown. “Kendrick?”
She freezes. Something flickers across her face. Pain. Old shame. The look of someone who just said more than they meant to.
“Forget it.” She shakes her head. “Ancient history.”
But it’s not. I can see that clearly. Whoever Kendrick is, he’s part of why the gossip hurts her so deeply. Part of why she flinches when people whisper behind her back.
I file it away. Later. I’ll get the full story later.
For now, I look her in the eyes. “I’m going to fix this. The board. The gossip. All of it. I just need you to trust me a little longer.”
“Trust you?” She laughs, but it’s not entirely bitter. “You stalked me across Manhattan.”
“I prefer to think of it as aggressive reconnaissance,” I counter.
“You’re totally insane,” she replies.
“Probably.” I grin. “We’ll go over the proposal together this weekend, figure out how to present it.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Is that a work request or a personal one?”
I grin. “Both.”
She sighs. “Fine. But I’m ordering the takeout this time. Your taste in delivery food is offensive.”
“My taste in delivery food is efficient,” I retort.
“Plain chicken and steamed vegetables?” she exclaims. “That’s not efficient, that’s gross”
I kiss her properly then, not bothering to set the smart glass opaque. There’s no one around on a Friday night to see us anyway.
She melts into me the way she always does, her fingers curling into my shirt, her body pressing against mine.
When I pull back, her eyes are hungry.
“Take me home,” she whispers.
I do.
The weekend blurs together. I’m used to Saturdays and Sundays being extensions of work. More emails. More strategy sessions. More time spent alone in my penthouse pretending the silence doesn’t bother me.
Instead, I spend Saturday morning watching Bree make coffee in her tiny kitchen while wearing one of my shirts. I spend Saturday afternoon going through the proposal with her, arguing about word choices and legal frameworks while she sits cross-legged on her couch and I pace her small living room.
I spend Saturday night inside her, exploring all the ways to make her fall apart.
Sunday is more of the same. Work and sex and something that feels dangerously close to domesticity. She makes me eat actual meals. Real food with vegetables and flavor. I help her reorganize her filing system, which is already impeccable but could benefit from some digital redundancy.