7. Mia

Chapter 7

Mia

The morning sunlight filters through the thin curtains of my apartment, casting a soft glow over the room. I sit cross-legged on the edge of my bed, notebook open in front of me, but the words blur together as my mind replays last night in vivid detail.

Carlito’s hands on me. The heat of his breath against my skin. The way he looked at me, like he saw something more than just the gala planner he hired.

I press my fingers to my temple, trying to silence the whirlwind of emotions. Last night wasn’t supposed to happen. It shouldn’t have happened.

But it did.

I close the notebook, setting it aside as I rise to my feet and pace the small room. The rational part of me knows this changes everything. Professional boundaries have been crossed, and there’s no undoing that. But the other part of me—the part that still feels the phantom weight of his touch—can’t stop wondering what it means.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I snatch it up, half-expecting to see his name. Instead, it’s Bianca.

“I’m coming over. We need to talk!”

I groan, setting the phone down without replying. Bianca always has a knack for showing up unannounced, but today of all days, I don’t think I’m ready for her endless questions and probing looks.

There’s a knock at the door barely twenty minutes later, and I open it to find her standing there, coffee cups in hand and a mischievous grin on her face.

“Good morning!” she chirps, brushing past me into the apartment.

“Hi,” I reply, shutting the door and trailing after her.

She sets the cups on the kitchen counter, her gaze sweeping over me with a calculating look. “You look... different.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Different how?”

She shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know. Less stressed. More... distracted.”

I force a laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound as strained as it feels. “It’s probably just the lack of sleep. I was up late working on some final touches for the gala.”

Bianca narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she lets it slide—for now. Instead, she grabs one of the coffee cups and hands it to me.

“You should take a break,” she says. “You’ve been working nonstop, and trust me, my dad’s not worth that level of stress.”

Her words hit differently now, after last night. “Your dad’s intense, but he’s also... passionate,” I say carefully.

Bianca snorts. “Passionate about control, maybe. Don’t let him bulldoze you, Mia. He respects people who stand their ground. It’s rare, but he has a soft side under all that gruffness.”

Her words linger in the air, and I can’t help but wonder if she would still say the same thing if she knew the truth about last night.

Bianca takes a sip of her coffee, her gaze flicking back to me. “So, spill. How are things going with the planning?”

I take a slow sip from my cup, buying myself a moment to think. “It’s... extreme. Your father has high expectations.”

She smirks. “That’s the understatement of the year. But if anyone can handle him, it’s you. He’s been surprisingly complimentary about your work, by the way. That’s rare.”

My stomach flips at the mention of Carlito, and I set my coffee down carefully. “He’s just invested in making the gala perfect. It’s a big deal for him.”

“True,” Bianca says, tapping her nails against the counter. “But I think it’s more than that. My dad doesn’t put this much trust in people unless he sees something special in them.”

Her words send a chill down my spine, but I push the thought aside. “It’s just work, Bianca. Nothing more.”

She narrows her eyes at me, her smile fading slightly. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

I freeze, my pulse quickening. “What are you talking about?”

She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Something’s different about you. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it. And knowing my dad, I’m guessing he’s part of it.”

I swallow hard, struggling to keep my expression neutral. “You’re imagining things.”

Bianca straightens, her brow furrowing. “Maybe. But be careful, Mia. My dad’s... complicated. He’s not an easy man to deal with, and he has a way of pulling people into his world without them realizing it.”

Her words send another shiver through me, but I force a laugh. “You make him sound like a supervillain.”

She rolls her eyes. “He’s not a villain. He’s just... intense. And he doesn’t let people in easily. But once you’re in, you’re in for good.”

The weight of her words presses down on me, and I glance away, pretending to check the time. “I appreciate the warning, but everything’s fine. Really.”

Bianca doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go, grabbing her bag and heading for the door. “Fine. I’ll back off—for now. Just remember what I said.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Bianca.”

As the door closes behind her, I lean against the counter, letting out a shaky breath. Her intuition is unnerving, and I can’t shake the feeling that she’s already piecing things together.

With Bianca gone, I turn to stare at my phone, half-expecting a message from Carlito. Instead, I’m met with silence, and it only makes my thoughts spiral further.

Carlito’s absence in my inbox should feel like a relief, but instead, it leaves an ache I don’t know how to explain.

The moments replay in my mind—his hands, his voice, the raw intensity of it all. I press my fingers against my temples, willing myself to focus. This isn’t who I am.

Grabbing my notebook from the counter, I flip to the gala plans, forcing myself to review the venue diagrams. The lines blur together at first, but slowly, I start to settle into the details—the flow of the space, the lighting arrangements, the guest seating. This is what I know. This is what I can control.

But even as I lose myself in the work, thoughts of Carlito creep back in. His words from the terrace at The Venetian echo in my mind. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you’re truly ready for this.

I wasn’t ready—not for that, not for him.

My phone buzzes suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. The name on the screen makes my pulse jump.

Carlito.

My thumb hesitates over the screen for a second before I open the message.

“We’re meeting tomorrow at The Bellagio, 7 p.m. Bianca will join us to finalize her role in the gala. Don’t be late.”

No greeting, no unnecessary words—just pure command, as always.

I read the message twice, my stomach tightening. Bianca will be there. That should help keep things professional, but the thought of being near him again makes my pulse race.

I set the phone down and push away from the counter, pacing the small kitchen. Bianca’s visit earlier feels different now, her warnings taking on a sharper edge.

He doesn’t let people in easily. But once you’re in, you’re in for good.

Am I already “in”? The thought terrifies me as much as it intrigues me. I’ve spent so much time building walls—protecting myself from disappointment, from failure—but Carlito doesn’t seem to care about those walls. He pushes past them with ease, leaving me exposed in ways I’m not prepared for.

I stop pacing and take a deep breath. I have a job to do—a role to play. Whatever happened last night, whatever it means, I can’t let it derail me.

But as I sit back down at the table, my hands find the necklace resting at my collarbone—a nervous habit I’ve had since childhood. The gesture grounds me, but it also stirs something deeper.

The question I’ve been trying to avoid rises to the surface, unavoidable now.

What if I’m in over my head?