Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty Seven
Olivia
The next afternoon, I’m humming under my breath as I push my office door open with my hip. I’m in flats, hair up, a soft sweater. It’s a good thing I keep an extra set of clothes in my office.
After… everything last night, Roberto brought my clothes to me, so I wouldn’t have to be seen still wearing my gown early this morning, running to my office. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
Last night was… Wow, is all I can think.
A romantic dinner, dancing, then the kind of night that doesn’t just turn your bones loose, but removes them completely.
Waking up tucked under Roberto’s arm with his breath warm against my neck was thrilling. I don’t know anything else that could top that.
Now, I’m heading back to my office after an incredibly successful weekend that I planned.
And I have plans to see Roberto again tonight.
Could a Monday possibly get any better?
I set my bag down, drop into my chair, and wince at the pain in my thigh. Then I grin and give my chair a little spin.
Turns out, Roberto was right, and I was just out of my mind with pleasure. He was definitely right not to bite me anywhere someone could see.
Though the thought of it makes me wet. I do want him to bite me visibly, tell everyone exactly who I belong to, but it’s just not a good idea. What he ended up doing is pretty good, too.
He was right. I do feel it no matter what I do or how I move.
Getting out of bed this morning was quite a task. I was sore all over; still am. My legs from practically being bent in half, my pussy from the fierce pounding, and my thigh where he set his teeth and left a deep mark.
I hope this one lasts me weeks.
Doing a little happy dance in my chair, I scoot it in and open my laptop, ready to work. The screen springs to life. My legal pad sits where I left it, top page flagged with quick notes from last night.
That jogs the memory of the odd comps I spotted—too generous for the play attached to them. I pull up the comp program, run the same filters, sweep the last twelve hours, then the last twenty-four.
Nothing new pings. It eases something in my chest, but the whole thing still feels wrong.
I tab over to the draft I started for Caterina and stare at the half-line. No. Not like this. Not in messages. I highlight the text and delete, then type: “Can we meet when you’re free? As soon as you can.” Send.
I knock briskly on Caterina’s door and wait for her to say, “Come.”
I walk in and find her reading something on a tablet, hair in a low, braid, jacket off, sleeves folded to the elbow.
“Olivia. Good timing. Sit.” She sits back and smiles.
I close the door behind me and take the chair across from her.
“Congratulations on an excellent weekend,” she says, setting down the tablet. “I’ve had dozens of calls already this morning from people looking to come back or referrals. That’s the best metric.”
I smile. “I’ve seen the same chatter. Brunch numbers were strong. Guest services said checkouts were smooth.”
“Good.” She taps her nail on the desktop, a quick, satisfied sound. “What can I do for you?”
I pull my legal pad from my tote and lay it flat. “I wanted to walk you through something I saw last night in the comp reports.”
Her posture doesn’t change. “Okay.”
“I know we were generous this weekend by design,” I say.
“The majority of it followed what we outlined—teasers tied to measurable play, targeted offers to the cohorts we’re trying to convert.
There were three offers, though, that don’t fit our rules.
I flagged them, and when I checked authorizations, the approvals were yours. ”
“Which comps?” she asks, open palm, no defensiveness. Just direct.
I slide the pad around so she can see my notes. “Suite upgrade with lounge access and a spa credit for next month,” I say, tapping the first line. “Held for a guest with modest spend and short table time.”
She nods once.
“Second,” I say, “tickets to the headliner for the Martinez reservation. Their on-property spend was mostly food and a few low-limit spins. Third, an upgrade pathway on a return visit for the S. Yang profile. No table play logged, just bar receipts and gift-shop purchase.”
I flip the page to the comp policy we drafted together and run a finger down a paragraph. “Our rule was: offers at that level require either verified play thresholds or PR value clearly tied to a campaign. These three didn’t have either in the notes.”
Caterina sits back and laces her fingers. “They were mine,” she says.
“I saw.” I pitch my voice neutral. “That’s why I wanted to ask. They don’t follow the rules we set.”
“We set rules for the program overall,” she says, measured. “We didn’t set rules that bind me when I make judgment calls.”
I hold her gaze. “I understand you have discretion. It’s my responsibility to review comps for consistency and make sure we’re not creating expectations we can’t repeat. If we’re going to shift policy in practice, I need to document it.”
She tilts her head. “And if we’re not shifting policy?”
“Then I’d like to understand the exceptions,” I say. “So I can factor them in when I’m coaching the team.”
“There are no exceptions for the team,” she says simply. “I made the call on these, and I don’t have to run them through you.”
I’m a bit confused over the reaction. So far, we’ve discussed everything related to the casino at length. I’m perfectly aware that she’s ownership and doesn’t have to discuss everything with me, but she’s never been so… blunt about it before.
“I understand that,” I say carefully. “I’m just trying to get the paper trail and flag where they don’t align with policy so I can advise the hosts, the floor, the desk. I’m not second-guessing you. I’m trying to keep the program from drifting out of our control.”
Caterina studies me. She’s the same age I am, we went to the same school, and graduated at the same time. But she outranks me by several layers of blood and ownership. “I hear that,” she says. “But when you see my initials, you can assume there was a reason—even if it isn’t written in.”
“I can assume there was a reason,” I agree. “I’d still like a way to log it so the team doesn’t use it as a precedent for the wrong thing.”
“The team shouldn’t be using my approvals as precedent,” she says, sharper now. “They have their bands. They have their thresholds. If they’re using my comps to push theirs, that’s a training issue.”
“It is,” I say. “Which is part of my job.”
“Your job isn’t to use my work as training examples. You shouldn’t even be accessing them,” she says, and it’s not exactly kind.
More like… accusatory.
That puts my back up, and my voice stiffens because of it.
“They were routed to me because of how they were entered,” I say stiffly. “Not because I was snooping. If that’s what you’re implying. If you don’t want me reviewing them, reroute them around my queue.”
She sighs. “That’s not what— Olivia, that’s not what I meant.” She softens. “I’m not trying to slap at you. You’re doing exactly what I hired you to do. You’re detail-oriented. You catch drift. But there are lanes. Mine includes things yours doesn’t.”
“I know that,” I say.
“Then trust me to drive in mine,” she says. “If I need you in that lane, I’ll ask.”
I nod once. “All right.”
Her hand slides to the tablet again, dismissing the subject in a movement more effective than a full stop. “Anything else for me?”
I flip my pad closed. “The only other note is a handful of overpour warnings in the lounge. I’ll handle it.”
“Good.” She picks up her tablet again, ready to be done with this meeting.
I take that as my cue to leave and stand. “Thanks for the time.”
“Olivia?” she adds, before I reach the door.
I turn back. “Yes?”
“We had an amazing grand opening,” she says. “That was all you. You know that, right?”
I soften. She’s my best friend, after all. If there’s anyone who knows about Caterina’s pissy moods, it’s someone who roomed with her for years.
“It wasn’t all me,” I counter. “You had a little to do with it, too,” I say wryly.
“Olivia,” she says.
“What?”
“Stop being so fucking humble and take the compliment,” she says blandly.
I grin. “Fine. I will. I was a fucking rockstar.”
Caterina laughs. “Yes, you were. And on the next night we’re both free, we’re going to go out and celebrate that.”
“Can’t wait,” I say and turn back to the door.
“Olivia,” she says again.
I turn back. “Yeah?”
“How was dinner last night?” she asks slyly.
I can feel my face heating up, which embarrasses me, so I blush even harder.
“That good, huh?” She grins.
“It was a really lovely dinner, and the wine was great too,” I say.
She laughs. “Oh, I bet it was.” She picks up her pen and taps it on the desk. “You know, we got some noise complaints from that floor last night. Someone said there was a lot of screaming. Did you hear that, by any chance?”
If my face gets any hotter, I’ll probably implode.
I clear my throat and the bite mark on my thigh throbs wonderfully.
“I didn’t hear anything, no,” I say hoarsely. “It was a pretty quiet night, all in all.”
“I’m sure it was,” Caterina says, still with that sly smile. Then she picks up her tablet again and teases me with: “Tell Zio Roberto I said hi.”
A beat passes. “If I see him around, I will do that,” I say.
I don’t miss the laugh she lets out as the door shuts behind me.