Chapter 19 #2
We step into a waiting area with two chairs that cost more than my truck. A woman in black—assistant, gatekeeper, weapon—stands.
“Mr. Rossi,” she says, and then her gaze moves to Zoe like Zoe is the actual appointment. “Ms. Moretti will see you now.”
Inside the office, everything is glass and clean lines and a desk that looks like it’s never had a coffee spill. Elena Moretti stands behind it, not sitting. She doesn’t give anyone the power of looking down. She’s smaller than I expected.
Still dangerous.
Her eyes cut to me first—fast, practiced—then to Zoe and stop there.
“So,” Elena says, voice like velvet over steel. “This is the girl.”
Zoe’s chin lifts one fraction. “This is the work.”
Elena’s mouth twitches. Not warmth. Interest. “Gio,” Elena says, like we’re acquaintances and not a favor I’m cashing in. “Why is she here?”
I open my mouth.
Zoe speaks first. “Because my name doesn’t open doors. His does. Mine keeps them from slamming once I’m inside.”
Silence hits like a held breath.
Elena’s gaze sharpens. “That’s a bold assumption.”
“It’s not an assumption,” Zoe says. “It’s a pattern.”
My pulse kicks. Not because she’s brave.
Because she’s correct—and she said it without asking anyone’s permission.
Elena takes one step closer to Zoe. “Show me.”
Zoe sets her portfolio case on the low table without rushing. Hands steady. Movements exact. Competence as a statement. She opens it and pulls out the first board like she’s laying down evidence. Elena doesn’t touch it right away. She watches Zoe’s hands instead.
“You brought everything?” Elena asks.
“Yes,” Zoe says. “Including what you’ll hate.”
Elena’s brows lift. “You think you know what I hate.”
“I know what you dismiss,” Zoe corrects.
That lands harder than a compliment.
Elena finally takes the board, studies it for one long, brutal beat. Then another. Her face doesn’t change. Her eyes do—tiny movements, tracking seams, choices, decisions that weren’t made to please anyone.
“And this?” Elena asks, tapping a detail. “Why would you do that?”
Zoe doesn’t rush to defend it. She lets the question hang until it turns into pressure instead of a test.
“Because bodies move,” she says. “And clothes should respect that without apologizing for it.”
Elena’s gaze snaps up. “You’re designing for who?”
Zoe’s throat moves once. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t look away either. “For women who are tired of being managed,” she says.
I feel it in my teeth.
The way that sentence doesn’t just answer Elena—it cuts through every room I’ve ever been shoved into and reframed inside.
Elena’s attention flicks to me—quick, measuring—then back to Zoe like I’m background noise.
Good enough.
Also—fuck.
Elena sets the board down carefully. “You have ten minutes,” she says, voice quieter now, sharper. “Convince me I’m not wasting them.”
Zoe’s eyes don’t soften. They narrow. “Okay,” she says, and the word sounds like consent and challenge in the same breath.
Those ten minutes stop meaning ten.
Outside Elena Moretti’s office, the hallway is quieter than the lobby, like the building exhales once the door closes behind you and pretends nothing ever happened.
Zoe walks beside me without looking at me. Portfolio case back on her shoulder. Spine straight. Face unreadable in that way that isn’t calm—it’s control with teeth.
I can still hear Elena’s voice in my head. You have ten minutes. Convince me.
Zoe did. Without raising her voice. Without touching anything she didn’t mean to claim.
That should’ve been the end of it.
It isn’t.
We hit the elevator. The doors slide shut. The small, private box makes my skin remember the tunnel. The almost. The choice.
In the elevator, she finally speaks. “Don’t say ‘good job.’”
I let out a breath that isn’t a laugh. “I kept it to myself.”
“Don’t say anything,” she corrects.
The elevator descends. My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. The building lights flicker across her cheekbones, clean and sharp.
“Ten minutes,” I say, because I need to name something neutral before my mouth names her. “She gave you ten.”
“She gave me a test,” Zoe says. “And you watched.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “I did.”
The doors open onto the lobby. The guard’s attention snaps to us—then steadies. Like we belong here because she walked through it like she did.
Outside, the city is cold and glossy with night. Headlights smear across wet pavement.
A camera flash pops from somewhere near the curb.
Then another.
Her head turns a fraction. “Of course.”
“Keep walking,” I say.
“I know how to walk,” she says, and doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t hide. Doesn’t perform.
We’re almost at my truck when my phone lights up again—this time with a name on the screen I can use.
I answer. “Yeah.”
“Mr. Rossi,” Elena’s assistant says. Crisp. Late-night professional. “Ms. Moretti asked me to confirm—”
“I need you to add Zoe Barnes to the second slot,” I cut in. “Second interview. Internship track. This week.”
Zoe stops dead beside my door.
The assistant pauses. “That’s not—”
“It is,” I say. Even. Controlled. “If she wants confirmation, this is it. Make it happen.”
Zoe’s voice slices in, low and even. “What the hell are you doing?”
I keep my eyes on the street. On the flashes. On the way people suddenly have opinions about her because she stood next to me. “Fixing what the building already decided.”
“Gio,” the assistant warns, like my first name is collateral.
“Email her the confirmation,” I say. “Tonight.”
Zoe steps closer, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm—hard, deliberate contact. Not grounding. A claim of attention. “I didn’t ask you for that.”
Into the phone, I hear the assistant inhale. “Mr. Rossi, if Ms. Barnes hasn’t consented—”
Zoe’s gaze locks on me. “Hang up.”
I hold the call. I also don’t look away. “I’m handling friction,” I say, voice tight. “I’m clearing her path.”
“You don’t get to decide what friction is for me,” Zoe says. Calm. Surgical. “You don’t get to spend me like a favor.”
My jaw clenches. The flash hits again, and my body goes hot with it—instinct and exposure and the reality that the world is watching us right now.
“Done,” I tell the assistant. “Send it.”
Zoe’s hand lands on my wrist—light, controlled, not a plea.
A stop sign.
And in that small touch, I feel the shift.
Strategy drops away.
Leverage goes quiet.
Ownership arrives in my blood before I ask permission to want it.