She sets down a wooden charcuterie board beside me, the usual cheeses, meats, jams, and crackers flanked by an assortment of my favorite snacks—Peanut M&M’s, salted caramel popcorn, chocolate chip cookie bites, and what looks to be wasabi-dusted pistachios.
“Enjoy,” she says before leaving.
“You should get some rest.” Raffael follows after her. “Elena will bring your clothes when they’re ready.”
I want to protest. To beg him to stay. But my track record for steering this ship has been abysmal.
Still, the closer he gets to the door, the more the need claws at my throat. “Raffael?”
He pauses in the doorway, his broad frame eating up the space.
“The food…?” I ask. “You planned all the meals to be my favorites, didn’t you?”
His lips thin into a sad smile. “Given the situation, it was the only comfort I could provide.”
And then he’s gone.
I stare at the closed door, having received some of the answers I’d wanted, yet they leave me feeling hollow, as if the truth carved out more than it gave back.
I crawl farther onto the bed and curl into a ball, despondently nibbling popcorn as the muted hum of the engine faintly caries through the floor.
The hours pass in a slow, heavy drift.
I doze. Fight tears. Curse my father. Alternate between crackers and camembert.
The doctor arrives at some point. A young British man who gives me a thorough once-over before declaring there’s no sign of water on my lungs or any other underlying issues, then takes my details to forward the bloodwork results Raffael requested for himself.
By the time Elena arrives with my freshly washed and steamed clothes, the light slanting through the window has taken on that golden late-afternoon glow, and my resolve to drag this ordeal to its end finally kicks in.
“Can I get you anything else?” Elena asks.
“No. You’ve already done enough.” I slide out of bed. “Thank you.”
She inclines her head. “Mr. Cavallo is waiting in the study whenever you’re ready.”
She backs into the hall, leaving me to dress and make myself presentable.
When I enter the study it’s with determination and fortitude—head high, shoulders straight—then I take my place in the seat behind the desk. Raffael sits opposite me, posture composed, a quiet wall of scrutiny I can feel without meeting his stare.
I flip open the laptop, adjust myself in the camera frame, and cue the live feed, each click a countdown to swallowing my pride.
My words come steady as I greet my invisible audience and admit my previous statement was misguided. I take ownership of the miscommunication that placed life-long clients under an unnecessary microscope and spin my premature grandstanding into a punch line, because if I don’t laugh first, someone else will—at my expense.
I announce the mentoring partnership with the Cavallo Group, gushing with enthusiasm over the private equity firm that’s been the cornerstone of my father’s portfolio for decades. And I close with a heartfelt reiteration of my apology, turning the neatly packaged PR stunt into a performance worthy of a Golden Globe.
All without giving a glimpse at how the charade strips me of every ounce of self-respect I’d worked hard to cultivate as a token female in a city full of powerful men.
But as soon as the final click of the mouse ends the feed, my ability to smile through the humiliation drains, leaving nothing but the brittle shell of someone who just staged her own public undoing.
Raffael leans forward and closes the laptop. “You did good.”
I cringe.
What I did was destroy my credibility and make myself a laughingstock.
Given more time—or access to crisis management—I might have found a way to shift the narrative or soften the demeaning blow. But as is, I’ve tarnished CrossPoint’s reputation and set a new benchmark for fastest self-sabotage in CEO history.
I stand and skirt the desk. “Does this mean I can go home now?”