Page 33 of Valentino

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.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Valentino

Icount to one hundred and twenty. That's it. That's all the patience I have left before I move.

As soon as I push off the bar, she appears.

She comes out of the corridor that leads to the offices, and the relief hits me in a bizarre way. My shoulders drop half an inch. The muscles in my jaw loosen.I don't understand it, this concern. This…

Then I see her face and it curdles.

She's pale under the careful makeup. Her mouth is set in that bright, fixed line she wears, but it isn't reaching anywhere near her eyes. Something happened in that room.

She scans the crowd, and I watch her find me. The change moves across her face like weather breaking. The fixed smile loosens. Her shoulders come down. For one second she looks at me like I'm solid. Sturdy. Something that keeps the ground from falling beneath her feet.

Then I see Elio.

He's by the bar, but he's not watching the door. He's not watching the businessmen, the buyers, or the men I told him to track. His eyes are on her. His whole body has turned toward her, and his face has softened with affection and desire. Which means he's forgotten the job entirely.

Something in my chest sparks, going from warm to white-hot in the space of one breath.

I told him not to fucking look at her. Yet here he is, watching her again, looking at her like a starving man looks at his favorite meal.

I'm already moving toward him.