Page 36 of Valentino

So I leave the phone where it is, and I let her steer me deeper into the palazzo, away from the noise. I tell myself the tightness in my chest is just the corset seams of this dress.

We pass two doors. At the third, Francesca stops and pushes it open without knocking.

Four or five people are scattered across the leather furniture. A woman laughs at something, low and bored. There's a glass-topped table with a bottle of something amber on it and crystal tumblers, one tipped onto its side. Someone's cigarette smoke hangs in a flat layer near the ceiling.

It feels like a party inside the party. The kind you only know about if someone tells you.

"Here she is," Francesca announces, like she's presenting a gift.

A few faces turn toward me. Not all of them. A man on the far sofa doesn't look up at all; he's murmuring to a girl beside him.

I do what I'm supposed to. What I've refined to an exact science when I walk into a room of industry professionals. I let my shoulders soften, lift my chin just so, and smile. Charm is exuded from every cell in my body, convincing everyone that I am comfortable and delighted to be here.

"Hi," I say to them. "I'm Amanda."

A man rises from the armchair near the fire, and the attention of the room seems to shift toward him, the way iron filings turn toward a magnet.

He's young. Dark hair pushed back. A suit so well cut it looks like part of his body. He walks toward me, his smile reaching me first, warm and unhurried. As if he has been waiting on me to walk through the door. "Francesca has been telling me about the woman behind the Casa Aurelia launch. I confess, I didn't believe her. I couldn't believe anyone could be that talented."

I laugh. Partly because it’s funny which he intended, but also because flattery is a language I’m fluent in. "She’s a generous narrator. I’d take her stories with a grain of salt."

"No salt." He lifts my hand to his mouth, his lips warm against my knuckles. His thumb grazes the inside of my wrist, pausing for a moment over my pulse. "The campaign is the most alive thing to come through this house in years. The faces, the light, the strategy. That is you."

"Some of it is me," I say. "A lot of it is a very good photographer and an unreasonable amount of caffeine."

He laughs.

"Where are my manners," he says. He's still holding my hand, I realize. "Aldo. Aldo Basile."

"Basile," I repeat, keeping my smile in place, perfect and bright. "I bet the mere mention of your name gets people's attention."

"It opens a few doors." His eyes don't leave my face. There's an attentiveness in them that's almost too much. Unnerving and too steady. As if he's seeing something in my eyes—my expression I didn't volunteer. "Francesca, you didn't tell me she was funny."

"She's full of surprises," Francesca says behind me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Amanda

The champagne the waiter handed me has grown warm, but I keep sipping it anyway because my hands need something to do besides fidget in my lap.

Aldo Basile has been talking for a while. I gave up trying to follow several minutes ago. Partly because he keeps circling the same points, and partly because the room is starting to blur in a way I'm blaming on the heat, the wine, and the exhaustion of the week.

"I'll be honest with you," he says, leaning in like he's letting me in on a secret. "I have never really cared for fashion. Not the way people in this room pretend to. It always seemed like a great deal of noise about fabric."

I laugh because it's polite, not because it's funny.

"My mother, though." He spreads one hand, and the gold ring on his finger catches the lamplight. "She lives for it. The shows, the houses, the names. She is the one who pushed me to put money into the industry. I do it for her. That's what sons do, no?"

"That's sweet," I say.

I want him to understand that I never asked about his mother or his money or his opinion on fashion in the first place, but the part of me still capable of forming complete sentences isn't in charge right now. He’s decided I’m his audience. So I smile and nod. All the cue he needs to keep.

He’s handsome, objectively speaking. The kind of face that probably never heard the word no from anyone with a pulse. Dark eyes, easy symmetry, a jaw made for cologne ads. Six months ago, maybe a different version of me would have leaned into this, twirled a piece of hair, let the night unfold however it wanted

"You’re very kind to entertain me," Aldo says. His knee shifts closer to mine. "Most beautiful women have perfected the bored look. You haven’t. You actually listen."

"I'm a professional listener," I say. "It's in my contract."