Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
“You won’t hand me excuses for why the bar is backed up and the keynote speaker is drunk in the green room?”
I roll my eyes.
“None of that’s going to happen,” I say. “Because my team will have already thought through every possible disaster and prepared for it ahead of time.”
“And how much am I paying for that level of detail?”
I take a breath and slide my printed rate sheet across the table. “This is my fee.”
He glances down at it.
“That includes lead planning, execution, staffing oversight, timeline management, vendor coordination, and on-site direction,” I say. “Anything added after scope confirmation gets billed separately. If your people make last-minute changes that require more labor, that gets billed too.”
He reads the page once, grabs a pen, scribbles something, and hands the paper back to me.
“This is your fee,” he says. “From here on out.”
I look down at the paper, and it’s more than twice what I usually charge. I thought he was joking about doubling my fee. Whether it’s clean money or dirty money is none of my concern.
I blink at the paper, but keep my face as composed as possible despite the thrill running through me.
“Fine,” I say. “That’s my fee.”
“Accepted,” he says.
“Great,” I say, gathering my things. “I’ll send over a formalized contract once I’m back at my office.”
He reaches into his event folder, pulls out a pre-drafted agreement, and slides it to me.
I look at it, then at him. “You already had a contract ready?”
“Yes.”
“You already included my fee,” I say, staring at the paper with equal parts amusement and irritation.
“I like efficiency,” he says.
“So the last two hours was what? Foreplay?”
His composure slips for just a second before the mask locks back into place.
“I had to make sure you were up for it. You are, so the contract is yours.”
I laugh despite myself. I scan the contract, make two minor adjustments, initial them, and hand it back. He signs without hesitation.
Just like that, the gala is mine. I should feel triumphant, but I kind of feel like I’ve just survived battle. Sebastian stands too, and suddenly I’m reminded how much more physically imposing he is when we’re not sitting down. He swallows all the energy in the room, like he operates with his own gravitational pull.
It’s not until I’m back in my car that I give myself the space to process what just happened. I landed the contract, which is amazing. Now, though, I’m going to have to work with him in close quarters. I’m not entirely sure my nervous system can handle that. Too late now. I’ve committed to this, and I’m going to throw the best damn gala he’s ever seen.
When I get back to my office, Tessa stops me.
“There’s a delivery for you,” she says brightly. “Your meeting must have gone well!”
I follow her into my office, where white orchids sit in a low modern vase. My skin prickles immediately.
Sebastian didn’t send these.
Only one person would.
I feel sick.
6
SEBASTIAN
Isit at the head of the conference table in one of the smaller downtown meeting rooms, three pages of revised gala notes in front of me and a hospitality report open on my laptop. Two separate managers have spent the better part of my day explaining staffing problems that should have been solved before they reached me. Bellissimo’s audit is still turning up irritating little inconsistencies in places I don’t enjoy finding them, and Matteo texted an hour ago to say the black sedan has shown up again.
In theory, I have more important things to think about than Valentina. In practice, none of them hold my attention for long.
I sign off on one report, close the file, and call Matteo.
He answers on the second ring. “You miss me already?”
“Is it still there?”
“Good afternoon to you, too.”
“Matteo…”
He lets out a quiet chuckle. “It’s gone now. Parked too long to be random, but not long enough for anyone to pull plates.”
“That’s not accidental.”
“No.”
“What about video footage?”
“I’ve got our exterior feeds. I’m pulling street coverage from a pharmacy across from Bellissimo and a jewelry store half a block from Dolce. Their cameras are better. The hotel garage near the Beverly property too, just in case someone got curious over there.”
“Have we seen a driver?”
“Not yet,” Matteo says. “Could still be nothing.”
I’m quiet for a beat.
“You don’t actually believe that.”
“Not really,” he admits.
“Neither do I.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts slightly.
“Do you want extra security on the girls at Bellissimo?”
Matteo can always read my mind. I don’t know if this sedan means anything, or if it has any ties to the Marchettis. After the fight a few days ago, though, I’m not taking chances on my staff being harassed again.
“Yes,” I say. “Quietly.”
“Done.”
“And I want names on anybody from Marchetti’s crew who’s been out in West Hollywood this week.”