Home / Romance / Twisted vows / The big meeting.(chapt.9]

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The big meeting.(chapt.9]

Author: Stone
last update Last Updated: 2025-06-25 22:33:54

(Alessia's POV)

Sleep barely registered.

The proposal rested beside me like a shotgun with the safety released, pages highlighted with scribbles in my crazed handwriting, and still, I wasn't sure I'd survive this war. Nikolai's voice rang through the silence, calm and low from our call the night before, leading me word by word through the document like he wasn't the devil in a three-piece.

However, his advice had sunk in.

"Don't panic, Printsessa. Take a breath. And remember—there has to be a reason to think otherwise."

And I did. I took a deep breath. I wore my tallest heels, my tallest suit, and strode into the building with a spine of steel.

By 9 a.m., I was standing at the front of the glass-walled boardroom, nerves raging like a hurricane in my belly, but posture indomitable. All the chairs were filled—investors, stakeholders, silent onlookers with even chillier faces than usual.

No room for mistake.

No space for fear.

I greeted them, handed out the files, and started the presentation.

Slide by slide, I showed Nikolai's proposal. His scheme. My body, my voice—but his chart, drawn in merciless detail. I did not falter, did not flinch. In some space between adrenaline and spirit, I stood tall.

And they listened to me.

When I finished, the silence continued and continued—too long.

Then Mr. Vallini, a leading investor, leaned forward. His fingers tapped the desk once.

"It's ambitious," he said, "but it's clever. Visionary."

And that was it, the tide changed.

Signatures followed. So did handshakes.

Romanov Industries' stock jumped 5% by lunchtime.

We weren't just holding on anymore. We were winning.

"Hello Princess," Nikolai's voice over the phone on the other side.

"Don't call me that." I answered, anger gradually replacing my elation.

"You are welcome." He snarled, sarcasm in his tone and I could already picture that smirk on his face.

"Forgive me." Guilt jabbed my chest. "Thank you for sending the proposal, thank you for showing me last night. I so appreciate." I grumbled, the words bitter on my lips.

"You're welcome." He said and interrupted me.

"Rude," I growled.

Gradually, my mind revitalized itself and told myself again why I hated him and how one thing on his part cannot undo years of hatred.

"He is probably doing this so when he is ready to buy the company, he will not be buying one that is broke."

In the office, there was an impromptu party.

Nothing extravagant—merely relief in paper cups and someone slipping in a champagne. Tension was replaced by laughter. For the first time, there were no whispers in the backroom, no nervously glancing about. People looked at me—really looked—and saw something they had not before.

Not Arturo's shadow.

Not a replacement.

Me.

Alessia De Luca.

Daniel held an imaginary glass aloft, smiling. "To the CEO who killed it and didn't even pass out."

I giggled, weary but beaming, some deep part of me feeling proud.

And then I felt a pressure on my elbow.

Sophia.

She was not smiling.

"Ready to meet him?" she asked quietly, gravely.

My heart ceased.

Him.

I nodded once.

We drove a car out of the city center, Sophia giving directions in short, clipped tones. The streets became darker, thinner. Eventually, we arrived at a hole-in-the-wall café that had not seen sun or repair in years. A flickering neon sign struggled to spell out Caffè Vita, and smoke hung in the air even from outside.

Dark inside. Dried-out walls and broken tables, and the lingering smell of stale espresso lingering like perfume.

He sat towards the back. Alone.

I recognized him in a second flat—he was the one who had given Sophia the photo. The photographer. A mid-forties look at most, roughed-up in a thin jacket, dark eyes half-locked behind his brow. Beard, uninterested, and by no means upset by our being there.

We tiptoed up. He did not even look up.

"I don't talk for free," he growled without greeting.

I set a fresh €100 note on the table between us.

He looked at it. Then at me.

"Talk," I said.

Sighing, he rummaged in his coat and pulled out a thin envelope. "Didn't think anyone would take any interest," he said, sliding a photograph across the scuffed surface.

I picked it up slowly.

My heart stopped.

There he was.

It wasn't a mistake.

The man in the picture had sunglasses and that familiar old leather jacket—the one that I'd held through sleepless nights, soaked in tears and memory. He was standing in front of a school. Slightly angled. Looking.

Alive.

The world went round, my hand gripping the photo.

"How long ago was this taken?" I croaked out, hard.

"Three, maybe four weeks," the photographer said, voice expressionless. "In a small town just outside Rome.". Saw him hanging around the school entrance for about an hour. Thought he was someone I knew, so I took the photo. Came back to ask him something and—poof. Gone. But I kept bumping into him, time and time again and I just thought it could be a sign of the universe and not to mention I saw someone with him who led me to shadow him full-time and well…let's just say I am disappointed it caught your friend's nose.

I went on looking at the photo, like if I blinked it would go away. My airway was constricting, everything that I had learned from the photographer did not make any sense anymore.

Sophia leaned toward me, concern plastered across her face. "Ale… are you okay? I understand that this is a —?"

"Yes," I mouthed.

I couldn't utter his name. Couldn't force myself to say it into existence. That man was supposed to be gone—six feet under and lost to the past. But there he was, living and breathing and standing on the sidewalk in front of a school like he had every right to.

The man I had loved.

The man I had mourned.

He was alive.

And seemingly watching some one.

Or something.

“How did you get this?”

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