Page 93 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

I stood. I didn’t plan it. Didn’t think about it. One second I was sitting, and the next I was on my feet. Something in my expression must have registered because Rossi took a step back. I felt that vein Cleo gave me shit about. I wasn’t sure if it was about to explode but my rage level certainly indicated it was a possibility.

“Her name is Cleo,” I said. My voice was level. Controlled. “And you will not speak about her again.”

“Or what?” But there was less confidence in it now.

I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Slid it across the table toward him. “Sign it.”

He looked at the paper like it might bite him. “What is it?”

“It will immediately void the contract. No penalties.”

He blinked. Picked it up. Read it. His eyes moved over the text like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Why?” he asked finally.

“Why what?”

“Why would you let me out? Armand Bancroft doesn’t accept failure. He certainly doesn’t hand out free passes.”

“My father isn’t here,” I said. “I am.”

“This doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.” I gathered my things, sliding my laptop back into my briefcase with deliberate calm. “You can’t afford this partnership. We both know it. I’m offering you a clean exit before your financial situation becomes public knowledge and damages both our reputations.”

“How generous,” he said bitterly.

“It comes with conditions.”

“Of course it does.”

I looked at him directly. “You will never do business with my family again. You won’t approach us for deals, for partnerships, for so much as a coffee meeting. You won’t speak the Bancroft name in your investor pitches or use our association to prop up your failing ventures.”

His jaw clenched.

“And if you do—if I so much as hear our name come out of your mouth in a business context—I will make you more irrelevant than you already are.” I picked up my briefcase. “I have documentation of every questionable investment, every late payment, every loan you’ve taken against assets you’re underwater on. I will ensure every potential investor, every business partner, every bank in Europe sees exactly how precarious your position is. Mark my words.”

He stared at me. His face had gone pale.

“Sign it,” I said again. “Or don’t. But if you don’t, I’ll tie you up in breach of contract litigation for the next five years. Your choice.”

I walked to the door.

“She must be something,” Rossi said behind me.

I paused, hand on the handle.

“The girl,” he continued. “For you to walk away from your father’s deal. For you to threaten me over her. She must be quite something.”

I looked back at him. “She is. She’s a million times the snake you crawl into bed with every night. Watch out for that one. She bites.”

The hallway was empty. Everyone seemed to have scattered. I made my way to the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the warm Roman afternoon. My driver was waiting. I got in the car and told him to take me back to the hotel.

He pulled into traffic and I sat in the back seat staring at my phone. My father was going to lose his mind. Walking away from the Rossi deal, letting him out of the contract with no penalties—it went against everything Armand Bancroft stood for. Never show weakness. Never let a client dictate terms. Never, ever walk away without getting something in return.

But I didn’t care. I was tired.

Tired of running my father’s errands. Tired of sacrificing my own judgment for the family name. Tired of treating every human interaction like a transaction that needed to result in a net positive.