Be With Me: Chapter 7

The face that appeared in the window belonged to Kassandra Proctor.

I’d never been so relieved to see her.

Which was saying a lot, considering Kassandra was the self-appointed Grim Reaper of my career. But at least she had no connection to my dad and no interest in politics.

I tried to look calm as I unlocked the door.

Over the past year, Kassandra had gone out of her way to poach my clients. She’d flooded their inboxes with offers and sent weekly emails to make sure they knew she’d always be more available than I was.

I didn’t blame my clients for leaving me when I wasn’t able to meet their expectations, but Kassandra seemed to take sick pleasure in taking me down.

What did she want now?

“Kassandra. Can I help you?”

She stood there in her usual monochrome ensemble, a silk wrap covering her red hair. She was the queen of sad neutrals.

“Hello, Mia, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Just stopping by to let you know Angie has decided to join my client list.”

The client who’d gone radio silent. The last sliver of hope I’d had for her melted into nothing. I’d known it in my gut.

Kassandra adjusted her glasses. “I thought it was only professional to tell you in person. Since, you know, we’ve had so many clients migrate from your list to mine.” She sighed dramatically. “I think that makes it eleven now. Honestly, I feel like I should be paying you a referral fee.”

The polite smile on my face was frozen. I was barely holding on to the fraying edges of my composure. My day had gone from bad to worse to apocalyptic.

With another client gone, I was going to have to dip into my savings just to cover the studio’s rent next month.

My throat itched.

Don’t. Cry.

I would not. Not in front of Kassandra, who’d probably feign pity and only make me feel worse, and definitely not in front of Romolo, who could hear every word of our conversation from behind the curtain.

“Thank you for the heads-up.” Despite my best efforts, my voice cracked.

Kassandra’s smile sharpened. “Of course, sweetheart. I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but in our industry, clients expect excellence. If you can’t deliver… Well, you can’t blame them for going elsewhere.”

It stung because it was true.

I’d disappointed my clients by being flaky and unreliable. I was trying so, so hard, but it wasn’t enough. Whenever I tried to push back against Jenny dropping something on my calendar at the last minute, she’d lay on the guilt trip so thick it felt like I was suffocating.

I dug my nails into the palm of my hand, hoping the pain would distract me from the tears blurring my vision.

It didn’t.

“Oh, and—” Kassandra added with a triumphant glint in her eye “—if you’re ever looking for work after your father’s campaign, I’d be happy to bring you on as an assistant.”

Don’t. Cry.

“This fits well, Mia.’ A deep voice cut through the air. ‘But I think we’ll need something more dramatic for The Golden Circle party.”

I whirled around to see Romolo stepping out from behind the curtain.

What is he doing?

He slid his palms over the front of his suit, as if he’d just put it on and was straightening the folds.

“Did he just say The Golden Circle?” Kassandra asked, her voice hushed.

I thought so, but I must have been hearing things. The Golden Circle was the most exclusive social club in New York City, with a membership fee of a hundred grand a year, and a waitlist longer than Fifth Avenue. Their parties were legendary, filled with only the cream of the crop of this city’s high society.

Romolo was a member? I guess he had the connections and the money to find his way in, criminal reputation notwithstanding.

He strode toward me. “We still have two weeks to get it right. I gave you an unlimited budget for a reason. Get creative. Make me stand out.”

Kassandra swallowed. I watched the gears turn in her head while mine did the same.

He was helping me save face. Dressing someone for a Golden Circle event was something few stylists in the city got to do.

I didn’t have time to react before his gaze slid to Kassandra.

“The door was locked for a reason. We’re busy. Get out.” His voice was so cold that Kassandra visibly recoiled.

She sputtered. “I-I didn’t realize⁠—”

He stepped forward, crowding her. “A word of advice? Look somewhere else for your assistant. Given the astronomical rate I’m paying Mia, I doubt you can afford her.”

She backed up. Fast.

I just stood there, stunned, as he forced her out of the studio.

He shut the door, locked it, and closed the blinds.

Then, he turned to me.

Something dangerous swarmed inside his eyes, something that sent a series of shivers racing down my spine.

He walked toward me with measured steps. I forced myself to stand my ground, even though my animal instincts screamed at me to run.

“Has she always been such a cunt, or is this a new thing?” His voice was a low rumble inside his chest.

He stood so close that my next inhale caught his scent. Rich, spicy, unmistakable, and so familiar.

Was that…?

Angel’s Share. My favorite cologne.

Why? Just why?

It was like someone had conspired to make this dangerous predator as physically attractive as possible.

“I’m pretty sure she was born that way,” I whispered.

In this light, his eyes were a pale, piercing gray—the color of dense morning fog. “And here I had the impression you were the kind of person who never had a bad word to say about anyone.”

I was that kind of person. But something about Romolo made me a little sharper around the edges. I didn’t think I could survive around him if I stayed all soft.

“Guess you don’t know me.”

“I’d like to change that.” He lifted his hand and took hold of one of the ends of the bow hanging over my shoulder. There was something sensual about the way he rubbed the gauzy fabric between his forefinger and thumb.

My stomach did a flip I refused to analyze too closely.

Fear. That’s all it was. The same fluttering, disorienting sensation I’d felt yesterday when he’d pinned me to the bed, his body overwhelming mine.

I tugged the fabric free from his grasp and took a step back, heat prickling my cheeks. “I’d like you to leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Not when you just became my new stylist.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. “Look, I appreciate you saving me from further embarrassment just now, but we both know I’m not dressing you for anything.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You left your agenda open on a stool in the dressing area. Five cancelled appointments in the last week. Ten out of nineteen clients crossed out. I guess it’s eleven once you account for the one you just lost. Your business is crumbling.”

I clenched my hands at my sides. Shame clawed at me. I brushed past him and retreated behind the safety of my desk. It wasn’t much of a barrier, but it was something. “My business is none of your business.”

He settled back into his chair, all relaxed confidence, while I busied myself with opening my laptop. The fact that he’d seen me in that moment of vulnerability—and knew just how screwed I was—was a bitter pill to swallow. I hadn’t even told my friends the full extent of my business problems. It was too embarrassing. Too raw.

“Dress me for this dinner, and I’ll get your name out there.”

“No.”

“The theme is Moon Signs and Merengues.”

My pulse skipped.

If there was one thing New York loved, it was a ridiculous theme. I’d styled at least ten absurdly themed parties every year for the past three years.

And I loved it. Okay? I loved it. It allowed me to get creative. It allowed me to take risks.

“Normally, I don’t bother dressing up for these things. But this year, I feel like giving it a try.”

Slowly, my gaze slid back to him. He’d look good in midnight-blue with his lightly tanned complexion. Maybe if⁠—

Stop. Just stop.

I slammed my laptop closed. It was out of the question. A disaster waiting to happen. “My answer is still no.”

Romolo’s brow arched. “Do you know what a feature in The Golden Circle monthly newsletter could do for you?”

A lot.

The Golden Circle’s members were some of the most fashionable people in the city—socialites, artists, cultural icons… They graced the pages of glossy magazines, got photographed every time they stepped outside, and were watched by everyone else who wished to be like them.

A roster full of them would be a dream.

“Are you the owner of The Golden Circle?” I asked.

His brow furrowed. “No.”

“Then why should I believe you have the kind of sway needed to get someone of your choosing into their heavily curated newsletter?” I clipped out, annoyed at myself for even engaging with this delusion.

“Heavily curated by my cousin, Caterina Ferraro. A glowing recommendation from me would be all it takes.”

Anger was starting to bubble up inside of me. He was dangling a shiny, golden ticket in front of me—the answer to my problems.

But it didn’t matter.

I couldn’t do it.

As he said, I was the enemy. He was my enemy too.

“What would you get out of this, Romolo?” I demanded.

He didn’t answer. He just smiled. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell me his real motives, but I knew they wouldn’t spell anything good for me.

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “There are plenty of other stylists in this city who could do exactly what you’re asking for.”

“I don’t want them. I want you.”

The way he said it—low, firm—made the air in my lungs feel thin.

I shook my head. “It’s not going to happen.” Yes, I wanted to save my business. But not like this.

If anyone saw us together, it’d be a headline. If anyone found out I was working for him, it’d be a full-blown scandal. Knowing the damage that could do to my dad’s campaign, I wouldn’t risk it.

No, I would fix my business problems on my own. I didn’t need Romolo Ferraro’s help.

I tipped my chin up. “We’re done here.”

He didn’t seem disappointed. He simply reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a card. ‘Call me if you change your mind.’

There was no name, only a number. I flipped it over to see the initials R.F.

“I won’t change my mind.” When I glanced up, he was already halfway out the door, and if he heard me, he didn’t reply.

He stepped outside, his tall frame moving past my window before he disappeared out of sight.

I had no intention of calling him.

But something told me he wasn’t done with me yet.