Page 84 of I'm sorry, Princess
“Calmati, madre. Verrò a trovarti presto,” I reply, my own voice softening. Italian is still my first language, no matter how long I’ve lived in New York.
“Really?” she asks, hope suddenly lighting her tone.
“I’ll visit soon,” I say, meaning it, but not entirely for the reasons she thinks. I need to see her, yes, but I also needanswers. If anyone knows what kind of business my father had with Beaumont, it’s her.
“Yes,” I add quickly, reassuring her. “Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself and keep taking the pills, okay?”
She’s been a train wreck since my father’s death, ten years of pills, therapy, and isolation in Florence. I haven’t seen her since she withdrew from everything and everyone, and the thought of it sits uncomfortably in the back of my mind.
“Ti amo, figlio mio,” she says, her voice calmer now.
“I love you, too,” I reply, my tone steady, before ending the call.
I stare at the phone in my hand for a moment longer than necessary, the silence of the room pressing in around me.
Tomorrow’s going to be a fucking long day.
Chapter Twenty-five
Serena
It’s finally Friday. Another boring day at work, sitting through endless sessions with clients who are either manipulative, perverted, or both. My current client? Just another old creep who spends more time ogling me than talking about his so-called issues.
I head toward Martha’s office to drop off my report, grateful to finally be done for the day. But in the distance, I see her, Blakely. My senior, my manager, and, unfortunately, a close friend of my father.
She’s in her early 40s, tall, always immaculately dressed in a way that screams authority. But beneath the polished exterior is a woman who absolutely hates me.
“Serena, a word,” she calls out, gesturing toward her office with a flick of her hand as if I’m somedisobedient dog.
I swallow my annoyance, hold my head high, and follow her into her office.
“Serena, darling,” she begins, her voice dripping with false sweetness and her smile faker than a plastic Barbie doll’s.
Here it comes.
“I know your father worked hard to get you here,” she says, her tone just slightly condescending. And there it is, the constant shadow of nepotism hanging over me like a dark cloud.
“But, honey,” she continues, setting down her coffee with a theatrical sigh, “your performance has been very poor.”
Her words hit me like a slap, but I keep my face neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
“You’re not making any progress with your clients,” she says, her tone as sharp as a blade. “With Moretti, despite seeing him three times per week, there’s nothing of substance in your reports. No breakthroughs, no progress, nothing useful.”
She sips her coffee as if she didn’t just gut me with her words.
“And with Blackwell, those sessions are, quite frankly, depressing. We need results, Serena. And, I’m sorry to say this, but it’s becoming clear that you’re not the best person for this job.”
Ouch.
I feel the sting of her words settling deep in my chest, but I refuse to let her see how much it affects me. I nod, keeping my expression neutral, though I can feel my fingers digging into my palms.
She’s not wrong about Moretti, I haven’t made any breakthroughs with him. How could I, when he spent every session playing mind games and making inappropriatecomments? And Blackwell? He’s a lost cause, a man too bitter and stubborn to even try.
But hearing it from her, hearing her twist the knife, as if she’s been waiting for an opportunity to tear me down, it’s unbearable.
I square my shoulders and meet her gaze, my jaw tightening.
“Blakely, I am conducting my sessions according to policy,” I say, my voice flat and controlled. “If there is no progress, it’s because my clients aren’t sharing anything meaningful. I can’t force them to talk.”
