“I’ll have the comments removed.”
Gianna did not touch the folder.
“And?”
His jaw flexed.
She waited.
“And I’ll correct it publicly.”
“How?”
“I’ll say I overstepped.”
She studied him.
For Dante Caruso, the sentence appeared physically painful.
“Good start.”
His eyes lifted sharply.
“Start?”
“You still haven’t explained why you did it.”
For the first time that evening, he looked almost irritated by the question rather than by her refusal to submit.
“You saw the photographs.”
“I was in the photographs.”
“He had his arm around you.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t like it.”
Gianna froze.
Dante had said it with certainty.
Not accusation.
Observation.
She remembered the moment outside the restaurant.
Ryan stepping closer for the selfie.
His arm settling around her shoulders before she understood what he was doing.
The small instinctive stiffness in her posture.
The smile she produced because telling a perfectly polite man not to touch her in front of a restaurant full of people felt more exhausting than enduring five seconds of discomfort.
The photograph had captured the smile.
Apparently, it had also captured the rest.
Dante said, “Your shoulders went rigid.”
“That still doesn’t give you the right to intervene.”
“I know.”
It came so quickly she almost missed it.
Gianna stared at him.
Dante looked down at the table.
“I know,” he repeated.
The arrogance had disappeared.
In its place was something much harder for a man like him to show.
Embarrassment.
“I saw him touching you,” Dante said.
“I saw the caption.
I reacted before I thought about what that reaction would do to you.”
“That reaction had a name.”
“Jealousy.”
There it was.
Not possession.
Not protection.
Not some elaborate excuse about reputation or security.
Jealousy.
Gianna had expected resistance.
She had expected Dante to tell her that men like Ryan understood only displays of power.
She had expected him to defend every comment as if being Dante Caruso exempted him from ordinary boundaries.
Instead he sat across from her and admitted the ugliest, simplest version of the truth.
He had seen another man with her and behaved badly.
Gianna folded her arms.
“You’re my client.”
“I’m aware.”
“You pay my company.”
“I’m painfully aware at the moment.”
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth almost moved.
She stopped it.
Dante noticed anyway.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to look pleased with yourself.”
“I was pleased you almost smiled.”
“Dante.”
He sobered immediately.
“Right.”
Gianna took another document from the folder.
This one was not part of the contract.
It was a single-page performance summary she had printed from the quarterly account review scheduled for the following week.
Brand sentiment improving.
Reservation recovery ahead of projections.
Corporate event bookings rising.
Negative search association declining.
Her work.
Her team’s work.
Results Dante’s company desperately needed after months of public damage.
“You hired my agency because your brand had a credibility problem,” she said.
“My job is to make people believe your company can operate professionally despite everything attached to your name.”
Dante looked at the numbers.
“You have.”
“And tonight you attached my name to yours in the worst possible way.”
His expression tightened again.
“If you ever use your position as my client to make a personal claim about me again, I request removal from the
