Until He Sees Me - Broken Yet His

Chapter 15 - Buona notte, dolcezza

Morning hits different here. Back home, mornings were gray and cold, made you want to crawl back under the covers. In Miami, even at seven, the sun is already warm on my skin through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Thank God it’s the weekend. I need this. Coffee on the terrace, Simba chasing his tail like an i***t… and for once, I feel good. Not just “okay,” but actually good

Three weeks. That’s how long I’ve been here now. Three weeks since I stepped off the plane convinced I’d fail spectacularly. Since I walked into that office expecting Massimo to tear me apart like that first night. But he hasn’t. Instead, he’s been… supportive? Protective? Not the right word. But when I think of him fixing the permit mess with one phone call, leaving little notes with coffee, my chest does this weird warm thing.

Never had anyone believe in me like that. Mom never did. Dad just nodded. Ethan… well, he’s got his own stuff. But Massimo… every time he looks at me, really looks, I feel like if I fall, he’ll catch me. Don’t know if it’s real or wishful thinking, but it’s there. And that makes everything scarier too because now the fear of not being good enough isn’t just about me. It’s about disappointing someone who actually gives a s**t.

Each message, each look in meetings… there’s something underneath. His voice softens when he says my name. He notices that I don’t eat enough, that I work too late. Isabelle’s words echo: “Be careful, Emma.”

But careful of what? Reading too much into professional kindness? Wanting something I can’t have?

Part of me knows I’m imagining half of it. Successful men do this. They take care of their assets. And right now, I’m an asset. Planning his biggest opening of the year.

Because let’s be real. Massimo De Luca doesn’t really notice someone like me. I barely had the courage to take this job. I panic at permits. I still feel like a fraud in this world even if I grew up in money. He dates actresses, heiresses. Not anxious coordinators whose best relationship is with a dog.

My phone buzzes on the table next to me. Mom.

I stare at the phone and feel that familiar weight settle in my stomach. Not today. Can’t deal with the interrogation, the subtle criticism disguised as concern. I’ll call her later.

For now I need air, I need to get out of the house.

“Come on, Simba. Beach time.”

He’s off the terrace before I finish, tail going crazy. At least someone’s consistently happy.

The beach is perfect today. Not crowded. The water’s warm. I brought my swimsuit just in case. Simba loses his mind the second his paws hit sand. Racing, barking at seagulls. Dogs don’t overthink things. Must be nice.

I change behind a hut and wade in. My brain actually shuts up for the first time since I arrived. No work thoughts. No Massimo thoughts. Just sun, salt water, and Simba.

We stay until our fingers are pruny and he’s exhausted. Walking back to the apartment, sun-drunk and sandy, I feel lighter than I have in months.

Saturday evening passes quietly. I skip dinner, fall asleep early with Simba stretched across the foot of the bed.

Sunday morning I know I have to call Mom. If I don’t, she’ll probably send the FBI to do a welfare check or some s**t. She’s always been like that. Suffocating concern disguised as love. Makes you feel guilty for needing space while she’s ‘just worried’ about you.

I make coffee first. Lots of coffee. Then dial before I can chicken out.

“Emma! Finally. I was starting to worry.”

“Hi, Mom. Sorry, been busy with work stuff.”

“How’s it going? The project, I mean.

I start to tell her, expecting the same as always, being cut off, the conversation dragged back to her. Same as always. Except… it isn’t. Instead of her usual routine, she actually listens. Asks about the hotel. About Miami. Even about me. Real questions.

“You sound different,” she says about halfway through. “Happier. More… confident?”

The observation catches me off guard. Do I sound different?

“Maybe. I guess I like it here.”

“Good. You work so hard.”

And then, softer: “I’m proud of you, Emma. Don’t forget that.”

My eyes sting. For once, they’re not sad tears. Relief maybe. Gratitude. I know it won’t last, but right now she’s proud of me, and I’ll take it. I have no idea what the f**k is wrong with her today, but I am not complaining.

After we hang up, I sit on the couch for a while just breathing. Simba comes over and puts his head in my lap like he knows I need comfort, even though these are good tears for once.

Late afternoon, my phone buzzes.

How’s the weekend going? Hope you’re resting? —M

I stare at the message, that familiar flutter starting in my chest.

What boss texts their employee on Sunday afternoon just to ask about their weekend? What boss cares whether you’re resting?

But I force myself to stay realistic. Professional concern. That’s all this is. He needs me functional for tomorrow’s meeting, so he’s checking in. Making sure his asset is properly maintained.

Even though my hands shake a little typing back.

Beach day with Simba. Actually managed to relax for once.

Good. You needed it.

Such a simple response, but there’s something about it that makes my stomach flip. Like he’s been paying attention. Like he noticed I was wound too tight.

What about you? Relaxing or working?

Some charity gala. Endless speeches, overpriced champagne. Smiling at people I don’t care about.

Sounds terrible.

It is. I’d trade all of this for a quiet walk on the beach.

My heart stutters. What does he mean… with me? No. I’m reading too much into it. I always do.

Still, this feels… different. More personal than work texts should be. Like we’re just two people having a conversation instead of boss and employee.

When’s the last time you did something just for fun?

Long pause. I’m starting to think he won’t answer when my phone buzzes again.

Honestly? I don’t remember.

Something about that admission makes my chest tight. All that success, all that power, and he can’t remember the last time he just… enjoyed something.

Maybe you should fake less galas and do more real fun.

Maybe. What about you? Besides terrorizing seagulls with Simba, what does Emma Miller do for fun in Miami?

The question stops me cold. What do I do for fun? Work, mostly. Worry about work. Stress about whether I’m f*****g everything up.

Still figuring that out. I’m not great at the “fun” thing either.

We’ll have to work on that.

We.

I read that word about fifty times, trying not to read too much into it. But there it is. We. Like there’s a future where we figure out fun together.

Before I can spiral too much, another text comes through.

They’re giving me looks for checking my phone during speeches. Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Emma.

Enjoy your champagne, Massimo.

Buona notte, dolcezza.

The word stuns me. Sweetness.

I stare at the screen, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat, my hands tremble; I know I’m gone. This is crossing a line. Bosses don’t say things like that. Men who see you as just an “asset” don’t say things like that.

And yet… I don’t delete it.

I can’t.

Because deep down, I know I’m in too deep to keep this professional, and I don’t want too.