"Come in."
Gianna inhaled deeply twice, her chest rising and falling in a steadying rhythm as she heard that lazy drawl beckon whoever was out there.
Younger Beckett then, she surmised, her hand tightening on the doorknob. The same man who had tried more than once to poach her for reasons not related to business.
She wondered, as she twisted the cool metal knob, if they knew she was the one outside.
Surely they must, with all the secretaries they had running around—secretaries she had barreled past with the same bold lie she’d given the petty receptionist: that she had an appointment.
But did she? Her stomach tightened. Of course not.
She hoped this little lie wouldn’t put a daint on her record or stain her reputation, just as she hoped that her coming here wouldn’t be in vain.
Maybe if she had known that she would be meeting more than Senior Beckett, founder of this empire, she would have come with a portfolio—something, anything—maybe even one of her newest designs.
She hissed automatically when she realized it was those very designs her stupid cousin had torn to shreds just to solicit a reaction from her.
The memory soured her expression, made her jaw clench.
But when she finally pushed the door open and walked in, her posture was right—straight, commanding—just as it had been in the lobby; her face schooled into an impenetrable mask.
"Good morning, Mr. Beckett." She greeted the older man, who sat at the head of the round table.
The older man looked up—Arthur Beckett, founder of Beckett Jewels, a legend in the industry. He was in his late sixties, but age clung to him like an accessory, not a burden.
His tailored charcoal suit looked expensive enough to pay a year’s rent. A single platinum ring gleamed on his finger—simple, masculine, fitted with a rare black diamond.
His hair was a crisp white, combed neatly back. And his eyes—sharp grey—held the kind of predatory intelligence only men who built empires possessed, the eyes of a business man who missed nothing.
A flicker of surprise flashed across his face. Gone in less than a second. If she hadn’t been watching, she might’ve missed it. The secretaries, it seemed, had swallowed her words hook, line, and sinker.
Gianna allowed the smallest thread of tension to slip from her shoulders.
Her gaze shifted to the rest of the room.
Five other men—probably insiders, directors, board members—looking important with their expensive wristwatches and confidences—and younger Beckett himself, leaning lazily back in his chair, studying her with blatant curiosity.
He had inherited his father’s piercing grey eyes, along with the angular features that made his face almost sculptural.
His blond hair was tousled in a deliberate, expensive kind of way. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows, exposing strong, veined forearms and elegant hands that were irritatingly beautiful.
When their eyes met, he smirked—and winked.
Gianna barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Ever the flirt.
Then she returned her full attention to Arthur Beckett. Whatever meeting she had barged into, it was clearly something important, judging by the grave faces around the table. She could feel the weight of their judgment, their assumptions.
They knew she was jobless.
They probably thought she was desperate.
But she refused to shrink.
"Ah," Arthur finally said, leaning forward, clasping his hands on the polished round table. His gaze swept over her from head to toe, sharp as a blade. "Our very own Gianna Aldo. To what do we owe this immense surprise... and visit?"
Gianna lifted her chin. "I want a job," she said succinctly. "And I’m sure you have one for me."
There was a second of silence—but to Gianna, it stretched, long and taut—before the men were thrown into a laughing fit.
Laughter bounced around the room, deep and mocking. Even younger Beckett pressed fingers to his lips to hide a grin.
For a moment, Gianna cracked under it.
Her breath hitched, her fingers curled slightly at her sides, especially when she caught the looks the men gave her—like she was joking, like she was a joke.
Then she inhaled. Drew herself up slowly, eyes half-lidded with silent disdain.
A glint of steel sparked in her eyes. And her lips curved—not into a smile, but into the faintest smirk of someone who knew her worth and was amused that others didn’t.
"Let me know when you’re done laughing," she said smoothly.
She moved forward without waiting, gliding to one of the empty seats at the table. She sat gracefully, crossing her legs with a slow, elegant motion, hands resting lightly on her lap. Her eyes never left Arthur.
If her words didn’t do the trick, her confidence did.
The laughter drained out of the atmosphere like it had never existed, leaving in its wake, an eerie silence.
Arthur stared at her more intently now, curiosity sharpening his expression as if she were a puzzle he wanted to solve.
"I have heard so much about you, Gianna Aldo. Seen much of your achievements, even up close. But you beat my expectations..."
Gianna tilted her head slightly at the compliment. She didn’t blush—not even a twitch—her body refusing to betray her despite the admiration in the eyes of Arthur.
"We heard of the recent acquisition of your company by the Whitmans..."
At the mention of that accursed name, there was a hiss.
Gianna wasn’t sure who it came from, but she was pleased—relieved even—that it had come. She had walked into a room of people with shared beliefs.
"To think that boy would be so bold to continue with business... after his father’s atrocities..."
Gianna said nothing, but she heard the subtle note of admiration in Arthur’s voice. And she could understand why he admired Zane.
Zane hadn’t buckled beneath the pressure that came with the revelation of his father’s true identity. No, he had continued flying. With the intervention of the Thornes, giving interviews where necessary, the Whitman empire had been saved.
She had had no choice but to be happy about that. The empire supplied jobs to thousands—if not millions—two of which were her friends, who worked at the health arm of the conglomerate.
"...Well, that’s by the way. You said you wanted a job, Gianna Aldo. What do you want? State your conditions..."
A blank template. A dangerous one. Gianna knew it was a trick of some sort. State what she wanted.
This could be the make-or-break point, she realized.
Fly—or choose to walk, so it wouldn’t seem she loved flying too much.
She leaned backward into the seat, appearing relaxed, though a turmoil raged just beneath her composed surface.
"I just want to design, Arthur. So, that’s what I want to do."
Then she gave the terms, without dropping her gaze.
She named a salary twice what Dane’s company had been paying her.
She demanded royalties—35%—on all pieces she designed.
She added a private office.
Her own secretary.
"... and creative freedom too. As you all may be aware, I have a unique way of designing these beauties."