“You may think you’re prepared but you’ve blindsided everyone else—me, staff, clients.”
“I told you about my concerns with the Cavallo Group months ago.”
“And I told you to leave them alone.” Censure creeps into his voice.
I shake my head, replaying the conversation we’d had in my mind. “You said you’d think about axing them.”
“It was a polite refusal, Isla. A signal to drop the subject. I assumed you’d understood the subtext.” His clarification stings, subtle but sharp, making my inner child shrivel.
In my thirty-two years of life, I can count the times my father has been disappointed in me on one hand. None have hit harder than this. And yet I still can’t quit thinking he’s wrong.
“They’re poisoning their acquisitions,” I bite out. “It’s a bad look for us to enable their behavior.”
“What they do with our reports is their business—not ours. You overstepped.”
“No,” I state firmly. “I made the right call.”
“No, sweetheart.” He gives me a sad smile. “You didn’t. And now you need to walk back what you’ve done.”
My stomach knots. “Walk what back?”
“The broken partnership. The press conference. The damage. Redefine your statement. Soften it. Retract it. I don’t care how you spin this. Just make sure it’s done before close of business.”
It’s a three-pronged ambush—dread, anger, and shock—each taking their turn on me with surgical precision.
“Retract it?” I choke out. “What would I be retracting exactly? My demand for ethical partnerships? That we expect our clients to have integrity? I didn’t mention the Cavallo Group by name.”
“Because you didn’t need to. Everyone’s already connecting the dots.”
“Says who?” I demand.
He raises his brows, the subtlest of reprimands that holds the weight of a slap. “Raffael called me this morning.”
My face heats like wildfire, molten and merciless. “How? I disabled your business SIM. Only private calls should come through.”
“The Cavallos are more than clients. They’ve had my personal number for years.”
Thatsnitchingmotherfucker.
“We share a long history, Isla,” he adds. “They’re not our enemy.”
Like hell they’re not.
Raffael is turning out to be a nemesis worthy of a meticulously curated vendetta.
“I’m not issuing a retraction,” I say with finality.
His lips thin. “Then I’ll have no choice but to return to the office and handle this myself.”
“You’d do that to me?” I drop my teacup to the saucer, the crockery clattering loudly as I stand, my stool scraping against the tile.
“I don’t want to.” He holds my gaze with tired eyes. “You’re giving me no choice.”
“That’s bullshit. You’d never demand this of a male counterpart.”
“Isla…”
“You know I’m right.” I glare. “If I were a man this would’ve stopped at the verbal scolding. Maybe I’d be on probation. And these weeklycatch-upswould be reframed to describe exactly what they are—micromanagement. But there’s no way you’d demand the humiliation of a public retraction if I weren’t a woman.”