Chapter 27 Jess
Jess
I’m sitting on the floor of Marco Fiore’s primary suite at ten thirty at night trying very hard not to think about the fact I’m literally inside my boss’s bedroom during a media siege.
When “shelter-in-place” sounded professional until you’re actually doing it.
The white noise machine hums on low. Blackout drapes seal out the world. Ben’s sprawled across the bed like a tiny starfish, Frederick clutched to her chest, completely oblivious to the fact there are approximately seven paparazzi vehicles circling the block.
My phone buzzes. Filepe in the group chat.
Two more plates added. Recommend maintaining go-to-ground posture until dawn sweep.
Marco’s reading the same message on his screen, which lights his face in the dim light. His jaw tightens.
“Do you think they’ll leave by morning?” I ask quietly.
“Depends on whether they get better content elsewhere.” His voice is tight. “Gianna’s monitoring the feeds. Let’s hope it’s not another ‘slow news’ day.”
I nod even though he’s not looking at me.
Ben shifts in her sleep and makes a soft sound that might be distress so I move to the edge of the bed instead.
“Hey sweetie,” I whisper. “You’re safe. Frederick’s got you.”
She settles. Burrows deeper into the pillow.
I stay crouched there for a minute, one hand on her shoulder, counting my own breaths. One, two, three. The Brave Rules work both ways.
When I glance back, Marco’s watching me. His expression warring between gratitude and something dangerous.
When your boss looks at you like you’re prey and you don’t entirely mind.
“I should take the floor,” I say, standing. “You take the bed with Ben.”
“Neither of us is taking the floor.” He gestures at the space. “There’s a reading chair. Window seat. We’ll make it work.”
“For how long though?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Filepe said dawn sweep. That’s like, eight hours from now.”
“Could be longer if the swarm doesn’t disperse.” He’s already texting Jag. I watch his thumbs move across the screen. Competent hands. Very distracting hands.
Focus, Jess.
My face heats. Thank God the lighting is dim enough to hide it.
“What are you thinking?” Marco asks without looking up.
That you have really attractive forearms and I’m a disaster. “Just wondering if this is what witness protection feels like. Except with better furniture and a five-year-old chaperone.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
The phone in his hand buzzes. He reads, then shows me the screen.
Jag: Street’s thinning slightly. Will run dawn curb sweep at 0600, advise status.
Marco: Copy. Holding go-to-ground until your all-clear. No exterior movement.
He pockets the phone. Moves to the window seat, the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtain beside him. Settles in like he’s planning to stay there all night.
Which he probably is.
Because that’s Marco. Control and vigilance wrapped in a Henley.
I take the reading chair. It’s one of those deep leather numbers that’s designed for someone approximately eight inches taller than me. My feet don’t quite touch the ground.
Marco’s phone buzzes. He reads, frowns, then looks up. “I got an update on what triggered the swarm. Finally.”
My stomach drops. “And?”
“Apparently, Kells’s decline piece got picked up by three aggregator sites.”
I cross my arms. “Wait, so it took your people this long to figure out it was just the same piece?”
He grimaces. “Apparently. They were looking for new information. Speaking of which, we did find another thing.”
Something in his tone makes me hesitant to ask. “What?”
“Another video,” he replies. “This one about you. That parasitic influencer again. Doubling down on the escort narrative.”
My face goes hot. Marlowe. Has to be.
“So basically a perfect storm,” I manage. “Aggregation plus algorithmic amplification.”
“Exactly.” His jaw tightens. “And now we wait for it to burn out.” He pauses. “You should try to sleep.”
I stare at him defiantly. “You should, too.”
“I will,” he counters. “Later.”
We sit in silence for maybe three minutes. Which feels like three thousand years when you’re hyper-aware of every sound, every breath, every shift of fabric.
Ben snores softly. The white noise machine doesn’t quite mask it.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice sounds too loud in the silence.
“Always.”
I tuck my legs under me. Try to sound casual even though my stomach’s doing that anxious flutter thing. “Why restaurants? Like, you could’ve done anything. Built any kind of empire. Why food?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Control.”
I blink. “That’s it? Just control?”
“Basically.” He shifts on the window seat.
The moonlight through a crack in the blackout drapes catches his profile.
Strong jaw. That nose that’s just slightly crooked like maybe he broke it once.
“In a kitchen, if you do everything right, you get a predictable result. Variables are manageable. Standards are clear.”
“And life isn’t like that.”
“Nope.” His voice drops. “Life gives you a wife who dies on a Wednesday afternoon. No warning. No variables to manage. Just gone.”
My throat goes tight. “Marco—”
“You asked why restaurants,” he continues. “That’s why. Because in a kitchen, I can control the outcome. At least most of the time.”
The confession hangs between us.
I should probably say something comforting. Something wise about grief and control and how you can’t actually manage your way out of loss.
Instead I say nothing. Because I don’t think there is anything I can say that would make him feel better.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with things neither of us can fix.
“Can I tell you something ridiculous?” I finally say.
He shifts on the window seat. “Always.”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Stare at the ceiling instead of at him because this feels weirdly vulnerable for something so small.
“I keep thinking about these cards. For kids like Ben. Like the Brave Rules but for food. Breathing games plus gentle exposure. I’d call them Brave Bites.
For kids who are picky or anxious or just scared of trying new things. ”
“That’s not ridiculous.”
“It kind of is.” I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Like, a year ago I was chasing a million followers and brand deals and thinking that mattered. And now I’m sitting here in a billionaire’s bedroom during a media siege fantasizing about laminated index cards for anxious five-year-olds.”
When you realize your dreams got smaller but somehow more real.
“Jess.” His voice is quiet. Almost careful. “That’s not a small dream. That’s the kind of thing that actually changes lives.”
“Ben helped me see it,” I explain, wanting to ensure his daughter gets proper credit. “The way she counts shells in her pasta. The way she smells the cocoa before drinking. Brave Bites.”
“I like it,” Marco says.
My face heats again. “It’s just an idea.”
“It’s more than that.” He leans forward. Elbows on knees. “You see patterns other people miss. You build systems that actually work. Not just for Ben. For me, too.”
I shrug it off. “I reorganized a mudroom and taught you how to breathe. Bar’s pretty low.”
“Jess.” My name in his voice does something to my chest. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to us in two years. Stop minimizing it.”
I want to deflect. Want to joke. Want to do literally anything except sit here feeling seen and valued and terrified of what that means.
So instead I admit, “I’m scared I’ll mess this up. That one day you’ll realize I’m just faking competence and you’ll regret hiring me.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
I tilt an eyebrow. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He stands. Crosses the space between us. Crouches in front of my chair so we’re eye level. “Because you’re not faking anything. You show up every day and do the work without needing proof it happened. That’s real. That matters.”
My eyes sting.
Fantastic. Crying during a shelter-in-place situation. Very professional.
“We should probably put us on ice,” I manage. Voice shaky. “Until this storm passes. And just focus on Ben.”
His jaw tightens. “Is that what you want?”
No. I want you to kiss me again. I want to finish what we started in the carriage house. I want things we can’t have while I’m employed here and your daughter is sleeping six feet away and half of Manhattan’s press corps are camped outside.
“It’s what’s smart,” I say instead.
He nods. “You’re right, of course.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he leans forward, ever so slightly.
For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me.
And I hope for it.
Yearn for it.
I lean toward him but, abruptly, he stands.
And returns to the window seat.
It’s what I wanted, after all.
I mean come on, it’s not like we could have sex right here in front of his daughter, who could wake up at any time.
So why does it hurt so much?
I guess because... it’s done.
We’re freezing whatever this is.
Maintaining boundaries.
Protecting Ben, first and foremost.
Even though it feels like the worst thing I’ve ever done, pushing him away like that.
I curl deeper into the chair. Try to find a position that doesn’t make my neck ache. And fail spectacularly.
The hours crawl. I drift in and out. Have half-dreams where I’m running through the woods and Marco’s voice is calling my name but I can’t find him.
At some point I wake to find a blanket draped over me. Marco’s back on the window seat, silhouetted against the crack of dawn light from between the blackout curtains.
My phone says 5:47.
Thirteen minutes until Jag’s external sweep.
I stay still. Watch him watching the world outside. His shoulders are tight. His jaw set. That controlled intensity radiating off him even in exhaustion.
At exactly 0600, his phone buzzes. Mine does, too. The group chat.
Jag: Curb sweep complete. Still 2-3 stringers visible. Recommend in-house hold, reassess at noon.
Marco types back. Copy. Extending go-to-ground. No exterior movement until your all-clear.
He glances over and catches me watching. “Morning.”
“Morning.” My voice is rough from sleep and feelings I can’t name. “So we’re stuck here?”
“For now.” He stands. Stretches. The Henley rides up just enough to show a strip of skin above his waistband and I have to physically force my eyes elsewhere.
Professional.
You are a professional.
Who is definitely not thinking about that V-muscle thing that disappears into his jeans.
My phone buzzes. Niamh in the group chat.
Recommend temporary live-in of 72 hours for Jess. Elena drafting addendum. Will prep guest suite.
I stare at the message.
Seventy-two hours.
Three days.
Living in Marco Fiore’s house while we wait for the press to get bored and leave.
“You don’t have to,” Marco says quietly. “If it’s too much—”
“I’ll do it.” The words come out steady even though my heart is trying to escape my chest. “For Ben.”
“For Ben,” he agrees.
But the way he’s looking at me says it’s not just about Ben anymore.
It hasn’t been for a while.
And I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to “keep us on ice.”
That’s exactly what makes this so dangerous.