Their Little Girl

Chapter Seven

The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the numbers lighting up one by one. Emiliano stood beside me, his presence a quiet comfort. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen to text Lucia. I needed to tell her about how rude and a bummer Clare is, about how a certain handsome man saved my day and how I survived the morning’s humiliations from my rude bosses.

Emiliano was whispering into his phone, his voice a hushed murmur that blended with the elevator’s gentle whir. I couldn’t help but steal a glance at him, wondering who was on the other end of the line. His expression was serious, a frown creasing his brow as he listened intently.

I turned my attention back to my phone, the screen bright against the elevator’s muted lighting. Just as I was about to type out my message to Lucia, a notification popped up. An unknown number. My heart skipped a beat as I read the message:

Amara, where are you?
-Karl

I could almost hear his voice, that cold, demanding tone that had become all too familiar. A shiver ran down my spine, the thought of them makes me fear, it's crazy.

With a deep breath, I locked my phone without replying. I wouldn’t let Karl or his message disrupt the fragile peace I’d found. Not now. Not after everything. In their dreams, duh.

The elevator dinged, announcing the ninth floor's arrival. Emiliano stepped out, his call finished. We exchanged a look, smiling at each other.

"Pronto per il pomeriggio?" Emiliano asked, his voice low. (“Ready for the afternoon?”)

I nodded, mustering a smile. “Pronto come non lo sarò mai." (“As ready as I’ll ever be.”)

“Buona fortuna, Amara. Arrivederci." He said before waving goodbye to me as the elevator's door closed to bring me to my doom. (“Good luck, Amara. See you later.")

I honestly don't want to see my bosses right now, it makes me icky at the thought of Clare too, aish. Too much for my second day at work I never did dreamt.

I stride confidently towards my office, the soft click of my shoes on the polished floor echoing in the near-empty hallway.

A quick glance at my wristwatch confirms it’s 12:58 PM—plenty of time before the meeting. I’ve always been punctual, a trait instilled in me by my father, who never tolerated tardiness in business or life.

The conference room on the fourth floor will be the stage for this afternoon’s meeting, and I’m ready for it. I’ve sat through countless meetings with investors, absorbing my father’s calm demeanor and sharp acumen. It’s in my blood, this dance of words and numbers, and I feel a quiet thrill at the prospect of another round.

As I look by my bosses’ office, I can’t help but see that the room is empty, Clare’s absence a welcome relief. I suppress a smirk, thinking of her earlier antics. If she tries anything like that again, I’ll make sure karma pays her a visit, and it won’t be as forgiving as a coffee spill.

Settling into my chair, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. The files are already organized on my desk, I flip through them, familiarizing myself with the key points, the numbers, the projections. It’s all there, in black and white and red.

I’m not nervous. Excitement bubbles within me, a simmering pot of anticipation. I’ve done this before, stood in the eye of the storm with nothing but my wits and my words. I can handle the Rossi twins and their bluster. I can handle investors and their probing questions.

The clock ticks closer to the meeting time, and I stand, smoothing my trousers and adjusting the borrowed shirt. It’s a good fit, almost as if it was meant for me. I’ll have to thank Clade again. Definitely.