Bound By Business

Chapter two: Face to Face

Waiting at the arrivals gate of Milan’s private airport, I felt my patience unraveling by the second. My arms were crossed tightly, and my heel tapped an impatient rhythm against the marble floor, the sound drowned out only by the occasional overhead announcement. Alex Moretti was late of course, he was.

I glanced at my phone for what had to be the hundredth time, biting back a groan. One hour, thirty-two minutes. That’s how long I’d been standing here, waiting for a man who probably thought punctuality was a suggestion rather than a rule.

The bustling energy of the private terminal grated on me. Passengers in expensive suits and designer luggage drifted past, some flanked by assistants who trailed behind like obedient shadows. A few stole curious glances at me likely wondering why a perfectly polished woman stood alone, visibly simmering with irritation.

Finally, Alex appeared.

He walked like the world owed him an audience, his crisp white shirt open at the collar and his sunglasses reflecting the terminal’s fluorescent lights. The shirt clung perfectly to his toned frame, the sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest effortless confidence. A designer duffle bag was slung casually over his shoulder, and his signature smirk tugged at his lips.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite babysitter,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re late,” I snapped, uncrossing my arms and leveling him with a glare.

Alex shrugged, pulling off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket with maddening ease. “Private jets don’t exactly run on tight schedules, sweetheart,” he said, his tone laced with amusement.

I clenched my teeth, taking a deep breath to calm the frustration bubbling under the surface. “Let’s get one thing straight, Alex. You’re not here to charm your way out of anything. You’re here to clean up the mess you made.”

I reached into my bag and pulled out a tablet, handing it to him. “This is the apology we prepared. You’ll stick to it—no ad-libs, no jokes. Just read it as it is.”

Alex took the tablet, scrolling through it lazily. With each line, his smirk grew wider. “Wow,” he said, feigning awe. “‘I deeply regret my actions…’ This is riveting stuff. Don’t you think it could use a little pizzazz? Maybe something like, ‘I’m sorry for being too fabulous to care about boardroom politics.’”

My fingers tightened into fists as I fought the urge to yell at him. “This isn’t a joke, Alex. Your little stunt put the company’s future at risk. People’s livelihoods are on the line, and you’re treating this like it’s just another one of your i********: photo ops.”

For a brief moment, his smirk faltered. It was subtle—a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place—but it was there. Then, just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by his usual flippancy.

“Relax, Carter,” he said, tossing the tablet back to me. “I’ll read the script. If it makes you happy, I’ll even throw in a tear or two.”

I stared at him, frustration and disbelief warring inside me. “This isn’t about me. One more stunt like this, and the investors won’t just demand an apology—they’ll demand you step down.”

That got his attention. His easy demeanor stiffened, and for the first time, I saw a crack in his armor. “What if that’s exactly what they want?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness in his tone. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. But just as quickly as the vulnerability appeared, it vanished, replaced by his usual devil-may-care attitude.

“Don’t worry, Carter,” he said with a wink. “I’ve got this.”

The black sedan sped through the bustling streets of Milan, the city a blur of glass and concrete outside the tinted windows. Inside the car, the tension was suffocating. I sat rigid in my seat, my tablet balanced on my lap as I scrolled through emails.

Beside me, Alex lounged like we were on our way to a luxury spa instead of a PR nightmare. He stared at his phone, occasionally smirking at whatever was on the screen. The light from his phone illuminated his face, and I tried to ignore how annoyingly photogenic he looked even when doing nothing.

“So,” Alex said finally, breaking the silence. His tone was light, bordering on playful. “What’s it like being Marco’s favorite attack dog?”

I shot him a sideways glance, unimpressed. “It’s called being a professional, Alex. You should try it sometime.”

“Touché,” he said with a grin, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I focused back on my tablet, scrolling through emails as though his comment hadn’t rattled me. But the words on the screen blurred as his earlier jab lingered in my mind. As much as I wanted to brush it off, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more behind his flippant attitude than he let on.

“Why do you do it?” I asked suddenly, breaking the silence again.

Alex looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t care,” I said, keeping my tone even. “We both know you’re not as clueless as you pretend to be.”

He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms as he studied me. “Maybe I act like I don’t care because it’s easier than caring. Have you ever thought of that?”

I froze, unsure how to respond. His voice held no trace of sarcasm, just quiet honesty.

“You’re the heir to an empire,” I said carefully, my voice softening. “People look to you for leadership. You can’t afford to—”

“To be human?” he interrupted, his voice tinged with bitterness.

I didn’t answer. For a moment, the mask slipped again, and I saw the weight he carried—the exhaustion, the frustration, the fear. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual cocky grin.

“Don’t worry, Carter,” he said, flashing me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll play my part tomorrow. After all, the show must go on.”

I sighed, leaning back against the seat as the car pulled up to the towering Moretti headquarters.

“I hope for all our sakes you mean that,” I muttered under my breath.

Alex chuckled softly but said nothing.