Louboutins & Aprons

Chapter 11: Valentina

For the last week, I had been texting Mark.

Every day.

Every morning.

Every afternoon.

Every night.

Sometimes I texted him because I had something important to say.

Most of the time, I texted him because I wanted to annoy him.

And it worked.

Mark was annoyed.

I knew he was.

He never said it directly, but I could tell.

His replies were short.

Sometimes painfully short.

Sometimes he answered with only one word.

Sometimes he sent no punctuation at all.

And sometimes—

My favorite—

he would take several minutes before replying, as though he was deciding whether responding to me was worth the trouble.

But he always replied.

That was the important part.

Always.

Mark could pretend that I was irritating.

He could pretend that I was distracting.

He could pretend that he didn’t care.

But every time my name appeared on his phone—

He answered.

And that meant something.

At least, it meant something to me.

⸻

My ankle was still hurting.

Not badly.

But enough that I couldn’t wear my usual heels.

That was tragic.

Truly tragic.

For three entire days, I had been forced to wear flat shoes.

Flat shoes.

I hated them.

They were comfortable.

That was the problem.

Fashion was not supposed to be comfortable.

Fashion was supposed to be beautiful.

Powerful.

Expensive.

And occasionally painful.

But Mark had threatened to personally throw away every pair of heels I owned if I continued wearing them while my ankle was recovering.

He had said it through a text message.

I still remembered it.

Mark:

Don’t wear heels.

Me:

You cannot tell me what to wear.

Mark:

Your ankle is injured.

Me:

My shoes are beautiful.

Mark:

Your shoes are the reason your ankle hurts.

Me:

You carried me.

Mark:

Because you couldn’t walk.

Me:

You liked carrying me.

Mark:

No.

Me:

You thought I was cute.

Mark:

Go to sleep.

That had been the end of the conversation.

But I knew he had thought I was cute.

He had paused.

I remembered.

And I never forgot anything important.

Especially when it involved Mark.

⸻

I had not gone to the restaurant all week.

Not because I didn’t want to.

I did.

I wanted to see Mark.

I wanted to sit at my usual table.

I wanted to watch him work.

I wanted to annoy him in person instead of through messages.

But there were two problems.

The first was my ankle.

The second was work.

De Luca & Co. was preparing for a major expansion.

There were new projections.

New investments.

New partnerships.

New companies waiting for approval.

And because I was the Chief Operating Officer, every important decision eventually came to me.

That meant meetings.

Long meetings.

Endless meetings.

Meetings where people spoke for twenty minutes without saying anything useful.

Meetings where executives argued about numbers they had already agreed on.

Meetings where someone always asked a question that had been answered three slides earlier.

I hated those meetings.

And today had been worse than usual.

I had been sitting inside the executive conference room for five hours.

Five.

Hours.

The large screen displayed financial projections.

Charts covered the table.

Reports were stacked in front of me.

Executives continued discussing the company’s future.

I listened.

I answered questions.

I corrected numbers.

I explained strategies.

I approved proposals.

And somehow, I had not eaten anything.

I was tired.

Very tired.

My ankle hurt.

My head hurt.

And I wanted to go home.

But the meeting continued.

“Ms. De Luca,” one of the executives said, “what are your thoughts on the international projections?”

I looked at the screen.

“The numbers are too conservative.”

The room became quiet.

“They’re realistic,” another executive said.

“No,” I replied. “They’re safe.”

“What is the difference?”

“Safe companies remain comfortable. Successful companies take calculated risks.”

The executive nodded.

I continued.

“If we want to expand, we cannot continue planning for the same results.”

“What do you suggest?”

“We increase the international investment.”

“That is risky.”

“Everything worth doing is risky.”

The room became quiet again.

I leaned back.

“Next question.”

⸻

Twenty minutes later, my phone vibrated.

I looked down.

A message from Mark.

I smiled.

I shouldn’t have.

I was in the middle of a meeting.

But seeing his name made me smile anyway.

Mark:

Are you alive?

I looked around.

Everyone was focused on the presentation.

I lowered my phone beneath the table.

Me:

Unfortunately.

His response came quickly.

Mark:

What happened?

Me:

I have been in a meeting for five hours.

Three dots appeared.

Then—

Mark:

Why?

I frowned.

Why?

Because I worked.

Because I was responsible for an entire company.

Because people needed me.

What kind of question was that?

Me:

Because I’m the COO, Mark.

Mark:

That doesn’t explain five hours.

I smiled.

He was annoyed.

But he was asking.

Me:

We are discussing the company’s future.

Mark:

For five hours?

Me:

Business is complicated.

Mark:

Sounds boring.

I looked at the executives.

They were arguing about projections.

I looked back at my phone.

Me:

It is boring.

His reply came immediately.

Mark:

Leave.

I raised an eyebrow.

Me:

I cannot leave.

Mark:

Why?

Me:

Because I’m leading the meeting.

There was a pause.

Then—

Mark:

That sounds like your problem.

I covered my mouth to hide a laugh.

The executive beside me looked over.

“Ms. De Luca?”

I immediately placed my phone down.

“Yes?”

“Do you agree with the proposed investment?”

“No.”

He blinked.

“Why not?”

“Because the numbers are wrong.”

Everyone looked at the screen.

The analyst adjusted his glasses.

“Which numbers?”

“The third projection.”

He looked.

Then frowned.

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

I picked up my phone again.

Me:

You distracted me.

Mark:

Good.

Me:

You’re rude.

Mark:

You like rude.

I stared at the message.

Then smiled.

He was learning.

⸻

An hour later, the meeting finally ended.

I walked out of the conference room.

My ankle hurt.

My shoulders hurt.

Everything hurt.

Claire followed behind me.

“Ms. De Luca?”

“What?”

“You have another meeting in thirty minutes.”

“No.”

She paused.

“No?”

“Cancel it.”

“It is important.”

“So was the last one.”

“You need to review the proposal.”

“Tomorrow.”

“The board is waiting.”

“Tell them to wait.”

“Valentina—”

“Claire.”

“Yes?”

“I have been inside a room for five hours.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t eaten.”

“You didn’t eat lunch?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I was busy.”

“You always say that.”

“Because I’m always busy.”

She sighed.

“Are you going home?”

“Yes.”

“Should I arrange a driver?”

“No. I’ll drive.”

“Your ankle?”

“I can drive.”

“You said it hurt.”

“It hurts when I walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Claire looked uncertain.

Then she nodded.

“Good night, Ms. De Luca.”

“Good night.”

I walked toward the elevator.

My phone vibrated.

Mark.

I smiled.

Mark:

Did you eat?

I stared at the message.

That was unexpected.

Mark never asked questions without a reason.

He was quiet.

Reserved.

He usually answered whatever I said and then told me to stop bothering him.

But this—

This was different.

Me:

No.

His response came immediately.

Mark:

Why?

Me:

I was in a meeting.

Mark:

For five hours?

Me:

Yes.

Mark:

And you didn’t eat anything?

Me:

No.

There was a pause.

Then—

Mark:

Are you hungry?

I smiled.

I looked at the elevator doors.

Then back at my phone.

Me:

Yes.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

He was typing.

Stopping.

Typing again.

Finally—

Mark:

Go home.

I frowned.

Me:

Why?

Mark:

Just go home.

Me:

Are you ordering me?

Mark:

Yes.

I smiled.

Me:

You like ordering me around.

Mark:

Go home, Valentina.

Me:

Why?

His reply came.

Mark:

I’ll send you something.

I stopped walking.

I read the message again.

Then once more.

I’ll send you something.

Something?

What did that mean?

Was Mark sending me something?

Mark?

The man who had ignored me for an entire month?

The man who claimed I was exhausting?

The man who told me to stop texting him?

That Mark?

I typed quickly.

Me:

What are you sending me?

Mark:

Food.

I blinked.

Me:

Food?

Mark:

Yes.

Me:

You’re sending me food?

Mark:

You haven’t eaten.

I smiled.

Then I smiled wider.

My heart did something strange.

Something warm.

Something soft.

I typed—

Me:

You care about me.

His response came immediately.

Mark:

No.

I laughed.

Me:

You’re worried about me.

Mark:

No.

Me:

You missed me.

Mark:

Go home.

Me:

You love me.

There was a long pause.

Then—

Mark:

Go home before I change my mind.

I gasped.

He was sending me food.

Mark was sending me food.

I hurried toward the elevator.

Claire was still standing near the reception area.

She looked surprised.

“Ms. De Luca?”

“Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“You look happy.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re walking faster.”

“I want to go home.”

“Why?”

I looked down at my phone.

“Someone is sending me food.”

Claire smiled.

“Mark?”

I looked at her.

“How did you know?”

“You’ve been smiling at your phone for a week.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You are.”

“I’m going home.”

“Should I cancel tomorrow’s meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have important plans.”

“With Mark?”

“No.”

“With food?”

“Yes.”

Claire laughed.

I walked into the elevator.

The doors closed.

I looked at my phone again.

Me:

I’m going home now.

Mark:

Good.

Me:

What are you sending?

Mark:

You’ll see.

Me:

Is it pasta?

Mark:

Maybe.

Me:

Did you make it?

There was a pause.

Then—

Mark:

Go home, Valentina.

I smiled.

He had made it.

I knew it.

Mark was going to send me food.

Food he had probably cooked himself.

Because I told him I was tired.

Because I told him I had been in meetings all day.

Because I had not eaten.

And even though he continued denying it—

Mark cared.

He cared enough to reply to every message.

He cared enough to ask if I had eaten.

He cared enough to send me food.

Maybe he didn’t want to admit it.

Maybe he was still annoyed with me.

Maybe he still thought I was loud, chaotic, and strange.

But I didn’t care.

Because for the first time, Mark was doing something for me without me asking.

And I was going home as quickly as possible.

Not because I was hungry.

Well—

Maybe a little because I was hungry.

But mostly because Mark had made something for me.

And suddenly, I could not wait to taste it.