Chapter 13 - Swallowing Pride
1392 Words
The next morning comes too soon and not soon enough. I’ve been awake since four, replaying last night’s encounter with Massimo over and over.
There’s no shame in using available resources.
His words circle in my head like a broken record while I shower, while I feed Simba, while I stare at a piece of toast I can’t bring myself to finish. It tastes like cardboard in my mouth, heavy and pointless. I chew once, twice, then push it away. Useless. Why am I even trying?
By the time Carlos pulls up, I probably look like I’ve been hit by a truck, dark circles under my eyes, blouse wrinkled because I couldn’t focus long enough to pick something decent. My bag slips off my shoulder twice before I even make it into the car. Typical.
“Rough night, Miss Miller?” Carlos asks, eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror.
“You could say that,” I mutter, forcing a smile that comes out crooked.
He studies me for a moment, then shrugs with a grin. “Miami will do that to you. The city doesn’t really sleep. You’ll get used to it, or it’ll eat you alive.”
I huff a laugh, leaning my head against the window. “Comforting.”
“Don’t worry,” he says lightly. “You look tougher than most.”
The warmth in his tone surprises me. I hold on to it all the way to the office.
⸻
When I walk into Isabelle’s office, she takes one look at me and immediately closes the door.
“Emma, honey, you look terrible. What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I start automatically, then stop. My voice cracks. God, I’m so tired of lying. “Actually… no. I’m not fine.”
She pours coffee, sets the cup directly in my hands, steadying, grounding, and then sits across from me with that patient expression I’ve grown to depend on.
“Talk to me.”
So I do. The permits. The bureaucratic nightmare. The endless circle of departments that lead nowhere. My words tumble over each other, too fast, like I’m afraid if I stop, everything will get stuck in my throat.
“I’ve called everyone I can think of,” I finish, voice raw. “Environmental services, coastal management, city planning. They just keep bouncing me around. I… I can’t get a straight answer from anyone.”
Isabelle listens without interrupting. When I finally run out of air, she leans back.
“Emma, why didn’t you come to me sooner?”
“I thought I could handle it myself.”
“You can handle it. Just not alone. And definitely not without the right connections.”
My heart sinks when she hesitates, phone in hand.
“The thing is, sweetheart, I don’t have the right contacts for these permits. Environmental coastal development is a beast of its own.”
If Isabelle can’t help…
“But,” she continues, “Massimo can.”
My throat tightens. “There has to be another way.”
“Emma.” Her tone sharpens. “This isn’t about your comfort. It’s about the project’s success.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. But the thought of going to him… of admitting I need help…
“He’ll think I’m incompetent.”
“No. He’ll think you’re smart enough to ask, and to know when to admit you need help.”
“That’s not how it works in my family,” I mutter.
Her expression softens. “Honey, this isn’t your family. This is business. And in business, using resources isn’t weakness. It’s strategy.”
I stare into my coffee. Everything she says makes sense. But the fear sits heavy anyway.
“What if he regrets hiring me?”
“What if he regrets you not using his help?”
Point taken.
She leans forward. “Emma, let me tell you something about Massimo. He respects results. Not perfection. Results.”
“He offered to help last night,” I admit.
“And you turned him down.”
“I thought I could find another way.”
“And now?”
Deep breath. “Now I need to ask for help.”
“Now you need to be smart.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll talk to him.”
⸻
Twenty minutes later, I drag my feet down the hall to the entrance if his office pulse hammering so hard I swear the assistant must hear it.
“He’s expecting you, Miss Miller. Go right in.” His assistant tell me
Of course Isabelle called ahead.
I knock. His voice answers, calm, commanding. “Avanti.”
The click of my heels sounds too loud as I step inside. Massimo looks up, something like satisfaction flickering across his face.
“Miss Miller. Sit.”
I perch on the chair, fingers knotted. My throat is dry. “Mr. De Luca, I wanted to apologize for last night.”
He raises a brow. “For what, exactly?”
“For being stubborn. For not accepting your help.”
“And?”
Heat climbs my neck. “And for not being honest about how… lost I am.”
“Which is?”
“I’m drowning,” I admit. “I don’t know the right people here. I don’t understand the local regulations. Back in New York I’d know exactly who to call, but here…” My pen slips from my fingers to the carpet. I don’t even bother to pick it up. “I’ve been hitting walls for days.”
He studies me, some part of me feels that he is enjoying that I came asking for his help, then his voice drops lower.
“Do you know what separates good planners from great ones?”
I shake my head.
“Buoni pianificatori lavorano da soli. I grandi… costruiscono una squadra.”
The Italian rolls off his tongue like velvet. I catch a few words, not all. Honestly, I’m too distracted by how damn sexy it sounds.
“I… I didn’t understand everything,” I admit.
He smirks faintly. Switches back to English. “Good planners work alone. Great ones build a team. They use every tool, every connection.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“I don’t want to be just good,” I whisper.
“Then don’t be.”
He picks up his phone. “I’ll call Marcus Rodriguez at Environmental Services. He owes me.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Emma.” His look stops me. “I want this opening flawless. If that means making calls so my event coordinator succeeds, that’s what I’ll do. Chiaro?”
‘My event coordinator.’ The phrase hits deeper than it should.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when we have permits.”
Five minutes later, he hangs up. “Problem solved.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I can only stare. “How do you make it look so easy?”
“Esperienza. Connessioni. Knowing when to call in favors.” He steps closer. “And knowing that asking for help isn’t weakness, it’s intelligence.”
Something loosens in me.
“I’m still learning that.”
“We all are.”
For a second, there’s something almost gentle in his face. Then it’s gone.
“I’ll have my assistant send you Marcus’s details. From now on, regulatory issues go through him.”
“Thank you.”
“And Emma?”
“Yes?”
“Next time you’re working until eleven on a problem I can solve in one call, just call me.”
“But you said we wouldn’t—”
“I said a lot of things.” His mouth curves. “Alcune promesse… sono più difficili da mantenere.”
Some promises are harder to keep. The way he says it, low, deliberate, sparks somewhere dangerous in me.
I leave his office lighter, with this weird mix of relief and unease I can’t explain.
Maybe Isabelle was right. Maybe asking for help isn’t defeat. Maybe it’s just being smart enough to know when you can’t do it alone.
And maybe Massimo De Luca isn’t only the cold, intimidating man I thought he was.
That last thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes me smile.
- Writer
