I force a measured breath while Elena glances between us with obvious discomfort.
There’s no point fighting him over a meal I’d salivate for given different circumstances. So instead, I sigh. “That would be appreciated. Thank you.”
Her shoulders relax. “Perfect. I’ll be back with your coffee in just a moment.” She disappears inside, leaving me alone with the dietary police.
“It’s nice to see you do still remember how to be polite.” He shuffles his papers into a neat pile and places them on the table. “I was starting to think snarky hostility was your new default.”
Don’t bite. Remain calm.
I take a drink of water to steady my voice. “Who was on the phone earlier?”
He raises a brow in that quiet, superior way that makes it clear I’ve overstepped whatever invisible line he thinks I should still be toeing.
“What were you talking about?” I add, undeterred.
He sips his coffee, eying me over the rim of his mug. “What part of my facial expression suggests I’m eager to host a Q&A about a conversation that was none of your business?”
“So you weren’t talking about me?”
He holds my stare, feigning boredom.
I can’t tell if he’s stalling or provoking.
Then he slides the papers toward me and takes another sip from his mug.
“What’s this?” I glance at the small print. Legal. Dread-inducing.
“Details of a mentorship program we’re about to partner in—the Cavallo-Cross Futures Initiative,” he says dryly. “I’ll front the funding, naturally, given your family’s history with mismanaged funds, while CrossPoint takes care of the program’s operations.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Your solution to me trying to cut ties is to form another partnership?”
“It saves you from retracting your statement and shifts the narrative. It will show my investors that we were never the focus of your smear campaign.”
I grasp the pages and skim the proposal as Elena returns with my coffee and vanishes again.
“You’ll call it a trial,” Raffael continues. “It will last twelve to eighteen months. Then we let it die a slow death.”
Snippets catch my eye, language that screams press-ready and investor-approved. But I’m hunting for traps. Clauses that will increase his leverage.
“When did you come up with this?” I ask.
“In the early hours. While you were snoring like a bull with sleep apnea.”
I ignore the jab and keep reading.
I’m two pages deep into what seems to be a legitimate proposal, albeit one that leaves all the workload in my hands, when Elena emerges for the third time to seat a plate piled high with pancakes before me.
Not justanypancakes. Mybananapancakes. Strawberry glaze. Almost an exact replica of the ones from my eighteenth birthday, back when my father threw a party crowded with his colleagues and barely a handful of my friends.
But I hadn’t cared about the more adult-skewed crowd because the cake had been dreamworthy, and exactly what I’d requested—a mountain of banana pancakes drowning in strawberry sauce.
And now, here they are again. Smaller. Neater. Served as if they’re nothing more than breakfast and not the ghost of a core memory.
I raise my gaze to Raffael, about to question him on the uncanny coincidence. Only he’s already pushing to his feet.
“I’ll be in the study when you’re ready to take center stage.” Then he strides away, disappearing inside.
Every time I think I couldn’t possibly be more confused, the universe doubles down.