Chapter 10 #2
And the whole time, I feel Valentino somewhere behind me. Not crowding. Just there. A presence at my back like the heat of a fire you've turned away from.
Francesca Renaud is near the tall windows that look out over the rain-slicked courtyard, holding a glass of red wine she isn't drinking either.
She's a small woman with black hair cut sharp at her jaw and the kind of stillness that powerful people wear with their jewelry.
When she sees me coming, her eyes light with genuine warmth, and the relief of it nearly buckles my knees.
"Amanda." She takes both my hands in her cool, dry ones. "There you are. I was beginning to think the Palazzo had swallowed you."
"Never," I say. "I'd never miss this. You look incredible, by the way. Is that Valentino?" I catch the irony of the name a half-second too late and bite down on a laugh.
"You have a good eye." Francesca smiles.
"But then, you always have. That is why the campaign works.
You see the thing before the rest of us do.
" She glances past my shoulder, and something flickers across her face.
Curiosity, maybe. Caution. "And who is your friend?
He has not stopped watching you since you arrived.
I was beginning to think he might be a problem. "
I don't have to turn around to know who she means.
"He's a friend of my family," I say lightly. "He worries. It's his whole personality."
"Mm." Francesca's gaze lingers over my shoulder a beat longer than I'd like. "He has the look of a man who has done difficult things. The good ones usually do." She returns her attention to me, and the moment passes, but my heart gallops like a stampede against my ribs.
Francesca keeps my hand in hers and turns me toward a cluster of people near the second window, guiding me as if we are old friends, not business acquaintances. I let her. It's part of the persona. The fac?de that comes with wining and dining and working to cement the deal. And I am good at it.
"Come," she says. "There are people who have been asking about the woman behind the campaign."
The group opens to take us in. A tall man with silver hair and a watch that costs more than my apartment.
A woman in emerald silk who runs three flagship stores in Paris.
A younger man whose name I catch and tuck away for later because I'm sure it will be important later.
The details matter, and I remember every one.
"Amanda White," Francesca says, releasing my hand. "She built the whole thing. Two years of pitching to get us here."
"Two years." The silver-haired man whistles low. "You must be either very patient or very stubborn."
"Both," I say with an easy laugh. "Patience is just stubbornness with better manners."
The emerald woman smiles. "Chicago I've heard. How is the city? My husband loves it. The food, the lake. He says the winters would kill a Parisian."
"He's not wrong. We breed harder stock back home." I shift my weight and let my smile settle, warm and open. "Though I'll be honest, Milan is doing its best to ruin me for everywhere else. The light here. The way the buildings hold it."
"You like it, then." The younger man leans in. "Milan."
"I'm a little in love with it," I tell him, flashing another smile. This one is a little more real because it's true. "Don't tell Chicago."
They laugh comfortably. They like me. Which means I'm doing my job well. I feel the warmth of it move through me, that old reliable glow. People liking me. People choosing, for the length of a conversation, to keep their eyes on me.
Somewhere behind me, I feel Valentino's gaze like fingers trailing over my neck, but I don't turn around, keeping my attention solely on the lovely people in front of me.
Francesca waits until the small talk has run its course. After the silver-haired man has been pulled away by someone with a bottle. When the conversation met a natural end. Then she touches my elbow.
"Amanda. Walk with me a moment. There is an office in the back. It's quieter. I want a few minutes before the night gets away from us."
"Of course." I set my untouched water on a tray. "Lead the way."
We move along the edge of the room, past the band, past a doorway hung with heavy velvet, into a corridor where the music drops to a hum and the chandeliers give way to small wall sconces throwing honey-colored light.
The office at the end is paneled in dark wood, a single lamp burning on a desk, the noise of the party sealed away behind the door when she closes it.
The quiet presses against my ears. After the roar of the ballroom, it feels like stepping underwater.
"Sit, if you like," Francesca says, but she stays standing, so I stay standing too. She turns the wine glass slowly in her fingers. "I won't keep you. I know you have many others to speak with tonight. It's an important event for you."
"It is." I keep my voice light, but my pulse has picked up without my permission. Something in her posture has changed. The warmth is still there, but there's something else lingering just beneath the surface. I can feel the sharp edges of it trying to break free.
"You've done beautiful work," she says. "I mean that. This campaign is the strongest we've launched in years. The board sees it. The buyers see it." She pauses. "Which is why I want to say one small thing, and then we never have to speak of it again."
The lamp hums. My fingers find the seam of my dress.
"All right," I say.
"I heard there was a girl at the shoot. A model." Francesca watches my face as she says it, gentle, unhurried. "One of the Agenzia Luce girls. There was a mark on her. A bruise. And I heard that you asked about it."
My stomach drops like in a descending elevator. Like that half-second when it feels like the floor disappeared beneath you. I keep my expression calm despite it.
"I noticed it," I say. "The makeup team was covering it. I asked if she was okay."
"Of course you did." Francesca's smile is soft, almost fond.
"That is who you are. I saw it the first time we met.
You notice the person in the corner that no one else sees.
It's a rare thing, and a sweet one." She sets her wine down on the desk and folds her hands.
"But I'm going to give you advice, woman to woman, because I wish someone had given it to me when I started working in our world.
In this work, the kindest thing, the most professional thing, is to focus on the job being done well. Nothing more than that."
"She had a bruise on her face, Francesca."
"Models bruise." She says it the same way Greta said it, and the echo of it crawls up my spine.
"They are thin. They are tired. They fall in heels they cannot walk in.
They live hard and travel harder. If we stopped to ask after every mark, we would never finish a single shoot.
" She tilts her head, and the kindness in her eyes doesn't waver, which is somehow the worst part.
"The agency handles its girls. That is what we pay them for.
Our job is the campaign. Your job is the campaign. And your work is extraordinary."
I nod, but I don't know why.
"I understand," I say. Except I don't. Not really. What she wants—expects is clear. It's the why I don't understand.
"I knew you would." She reaches out and gives my hand a final, warm squeeze. "You are going to have a wonderful career. The kind most people only dream of. Don't let small things take your eye off of that."
A small thing. Her name was Nadia. She flinched when I said it out loud, like the sound of it might cost her something.
An incredibly sick feeling sits in my chest like a stone. I want to argue.
But I made a deal with myself a long time ago about questions like these.
I've kept it for years, and I tell myself I'm keeping it now.
Because it's smart. It's safe. Because Francesca Renaud can end my career with a phone call.
A girl I spoke to for ninety seconds isn't worth burning down everything I built.
I don't quite believe me.
A knock comes at the door. A young man in a headset leans in, apologetic.
"Signora Renaud, they need you for the toast. Five minutes."
"I'm coming." Francesca gathers her wine and turns back to me, and the businesswoman dissolves into the warm hostess again so smoothly it makes my skin crawl. "We'll talk more. Enjoy your night, Amanda. You earned it."
She slips past me and out the door, and the music swells through the gap and then shrinks again as it closes.
I press my hand flat against my sternum, over the ache that won't go away.