7. Portia
7
PORTIA
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Calderone says, nodding in acknowledgment. His gaze pans from the men seated around the long table to where I stand at the front of the room. Subtle amusement flickers across his face. “Lady.”
Hot flames eat me up from the inside. I can only blink in disbelief as I feel like I’m on the brink of spontaneous combustion.
My hostile reaction must read on my face because Finkle and Baron exchange looks and Finkle clears his throat.
“Err… yes, well, how about we get this meeting underway?”
“Portia,” Baron whispers into my ear. He nudges my side. “Your seat.”
I lurch forward like I’m made of wood, my gaze still stuck on the man sitting at the head of the table.
Rafael— or Mr. Calderone as they’re calling him —openly returns my shocked gaze. He sits calmly in his impeccable suit and tie, his expression neutral to anyone clueless about our past. But to me, the look on his face reads loud and clear.
He and I both know what’s transpired between us.
He recognizes me. He knows exactly who I am.
Maybe that’s the point.
This is some sick game he’s playing. First, wining and dining me, then bedding me and ghosting me, and now this .
Pretending as if he’s never seen me before in his life.
I lower myself into the chair relegated for me and tear my gaze away from his. I won’t give him the pleasure of witnessing how frazzled he’s made me. He won’t get to revel in the effect he has on me, nor will I give him the courtesy of acknowledging him at all.
He’s invisible to me.
“I’m sure most of you are aware why you’re here,” says Finkle from the other end of the table. He coughs into his curled up hand and then glances down at the sheets of paper laid out in front of him. “It’s been a tough season of news. Ratings are in a sharp decline despite the rise of on-air talent like Mr. Cheng and Ms. James here. Budget cuts have left us with dwindling options for how to proceed as an independent news network. We’re facing mass layoffs if we don’t reverse course and dig ourselves out of this hole.”
“It’s social media,” interrupts Keith Foster, one of the production assistants. “We’ve got a million and one citizen journalists stealing our thunder. By the time we make it on the scene, the situation’s already gone viral online.”
“He’s right. People don’t watch live TV like before,” chimes in Baron. “But we’ve been making inroads. Portia’s field reporting has brought in numbers.”
“Ms. James has done a fantastic job. There’s no doubt about that,” says Finkle. “But she can’t carry the network on her own. We need solid long-term solutions. I’m sure many of you are familiar with the man at the head of the table. Mr. Calderone is one of the world’s most savvy businessmen.”
“Everybody knows Rafael Calderone. He’s an icon,” says an executive producer by the name of Pat Linetti. “I didn’t know you were in the media biz.”
An easy smile spreads onto Rafael’s face. A reminder of how frustratingly handsome he is.
“I like to branch out into different areas of business,” he replies smoothly. “The fact of the matter is that, as a resident and longtime viewer of Metro News, I can see its potential. I believe the network can be saved. Since I have the means to do so, it is a no-brainer. I’m sure it’s worth the investment.”
Rafael’s gaze returns, landing squarely on me. It’s as if no one else is at the table as his eyes burn a direct path in my direction.
Several others seated around the table follow his lead, perplexed frowns on their faces as they search for what’s holding his fascination.
I’m still heated.
My skin’s running hot and flames lick away at my insides.
Though I can barely glance at him, I can feel the weight of his stare. It’s visceral and unyielding.
Finkle clears his throat with another cough. “Well, Mr. Calderone has made a very generous offer to purchase Newport Metro News. The deal is set to go through this Thurs?—”
“Do those of us at the network get any say?” I interrupt suddenly. I’m aware of my snappish tone and how hostile I sound. My pulse is racing, making the room spin. “Baron and I have been called into this meeting as if our input matters, but it sounds to me as if the decision’s already been made.”
Baron gives a start in his seat at the mention of his name. “Portia, why don’t we?—”
“You said it yourself,” I continue. “Some of the on-air talent are making a difference. Cheng’s morning show and my evening field reporting are making ground. We need to give it a few more months?—”
“I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of a timeline,” says Finkle. “The network is going under if we don’t sell to Mr. Calderone. This meeting wasn’t to discuss the sale itself, Ms. James. This meeting was more of a sync up. A chance to brainstorm how we can best improve Newport Metro News.”
Chill, Portia.
CHILL.
But I can feel myself blowing up.
My hand shakes as my temper rises. I try to force a pleasant smile onto my face only for it to come out more like a grimace.
And then there’s Rafael’s—Mr. Calderone’s—unblinking stare. The way he watches me every second of the meeting.
Why is he doing this to me? Why is he here right now?
As the meeting carries on despite my outburst, I find myself unable to even pretend like I’m in agreement. I can’t even fake it like I normally would in a professional environment such as this one.
I need a moment.
Several of the people seated around the table lavish Rafael with praise. Pat Linetti goes on and on about how he’s so impressed with the business empire that Rafael has built over the years.
“You were on the cover of Forbes ! Twice !” he gushes. “We’re in good hands.”
“Thank you,” says Rafael. “But I’d like to hear from Ms. James on how she believes we can improve the network.”
The table falls silent.
The spotlight shines on me once again. I’m so lost in my bad feelings over the situation that I don’t notice for the first few seconds.
Everyone’s waiting on my response.
“Excuse me,” I say, popping to my feet. “I need to step away for a moment.”
Both Finkle and Baron call after me, but they’re ignored.
I pivot in my heels and walk straight out the door of the meeting room.
I’m not even sure where the hell I’m going. I have no clue what I’ll say when, or if, I go back.
The only thing I know in the moment is that Rafael Calderone has come back out of the blue and knocked into me like a wrecking ball.
He shouldn’t have this effect on me, yet here I am, burning up.
I’m forced to think about the humiliating situation from my vacation to Sicily, where I met a handsome and refined, if not mysterious, businessman who seemed to only have eyes for me. He lowered my defenses for the first time since I’d been foolish enough to trust Lincoln and then he did exactly the same—he lied and made me feel stupid for ever believing in his word.
What happened between us in Sicily never should’ve occurred. I never should’ve let my defenses down and let another man in.
I damn sure never should’ve slept with him.
Some women can have sex with strangers and walk away like nothing, but I’ve never been one of them. Definitely not after the night I’d shared with Rafael.
Maybe if the experience had been terrible I could, but the night we spent together was perfect .
It was everything I had never had with Lincoln and other men.
And nothing compared to the way he made me feel.
I wander down the corridor, passing by other news employees who are in the middle of busy schedules, even so late into the evening. Interns fetching yet another coffee and a camera crew rushing off to set.
One of the nightly news anchors with a bib attached to the front of his suit shouts about his makeup not being done to his liking.
I just need a moment of privacy. Some fresh air.
I’ll call Jayla and she’ll talk me off the ledge. She’s the only other person who would understand the situation I’ve found myself in.
She was with me in Sicily and knows how humiliating my experience with Rafael Calderone was…
I make it to the elevator and smash my finger on the down button. It arrives with a ding , the doors rolling open for me to step inside.
A relieved breath leaves me as I press the ground floor and then lean back against the wall. The doors are gliding shut when they jump back open at the last possible second.
A man has rushed toward the departing elevator and forced his way on before the doors could close.
Rafael Calderone steps into the tight space as if he were invited. As if the elevator belongs to him and he’s not encroaching on me.
I’m in his orbit as he sucks up all the air, including the breath in my lungs.
He smooths a hand down the front of his tie and flashes me his signature grin. “It looks like we’ll be going down together, Ms. James.”