Giovanni's expression is one of amusement as he regards me from across the desk, leaned back casually in the genuine leather loveseat. Having only now told him of my decision to exact revenge on Lola, I'm just glad he's not angry or reproachful. Still, I flounder beneath his gaze, nervous to hear what he's going to say.

"Do me a favor. Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"I absolutely will," I reply mischievously, dropping my hands onto either side rest.

"You know you're only fueling the fire in her."

"I know."

"And you know, she'll probably come to me to rant about it."

"And you'll tell her to fuck off, right?"

His beautiful mouth twists wryly. "You know I will."

Strangely enough, I do. And that feeling is fucking great.

I bring him up to date with my findings, Roberto and the dealers, the officer Norman has watching Dixon's moves. And as I tell him, I realize how little we truly have. And how trivial this all actually seems.

It's not. It's really not. With just a few moves, Dixon could bankrupt and defame Giovanni's entire legacy, his family's legacy. But as we lay out what we have, structuring our game like chess pieces, I'm left wondering why in the hell this is all so hard, why we keep coming up short.

Dixon can't be that smart.

Then again, he is a cop. And cops are the best at covering their tracks.

I have no doubt Dixon's got dirt, I just don't know if we'll ever be able to uncover it.

And that thought is a frightening one. There is only so much hiding we can do before we start to feel the restlessness again. Sooner or later, we're going to want more. Dixon will too.

Giovanni has the same reaction as Norman to my activity as of late. He comes around the desk and perches himself on the edge. He's lost the tuxedo jacket and bow-tie, and released the first couple buttons, I believe, to simply unravel me. My eyes zone in on the naturally tan skin left bare between the fabric. I have the grace to look embarrassed when he presses a finger to my chin, urging me to his line of sight. He's smirking, widely, no doubt pleased by my distraction but unwilling to deter from whatever he's about to say to me.

"Don't be the hero."

My eyes roll to the ceiling. "I'm not. Donnie is on it."

"I mean, with everything. It's dangerous to be going out, asking questions like this to people."

"Who better to do it? This is my job. It's what I do. I uncover and hide things from the public."

"And you're very good at it, when it is someone else's life is at stake. You're not thinking clearly. Dixon is a son of a bitch who wants nothing more than for you and me to fuck up. Even you leaving the house is dangerous."

I shake my head, sizzling in my frustration. He attempts to settle me, caressing my skin gently but it doesn't work.

"I wish there was more I could do from my end."

"No, the most important thing is that you keep the secret hidden. I refuse to be reason you lose everything."

"At this point, I'm not thinking it would be so bad."

I stare at him, bewildered. "Giovanni, your business, your reputation, your family's reputation, your mom and sister, Maria's home... you support them."

He nods, repeatedly, straightening. "I know. I know."

"No matter how much we want this, we have to be smart. They are the most important thing right now."

"We should have stayed in Italy. I should have married you there. We wouldn't be going through this bullshit."

"I don't think Norman would have appreciated an elopement, Gio. Or your mother." I smile, ruefully at him when he glares at me.

"How is he? I heard he had a family emergency at the party."

It takes me longer to speak than I thought it would. My attempt at a shrug is accompanied by a heavy sigh. "He's digressing...quickly."

"How quickly?"

"His pain meds are not enough. He's doubling his dosages. He left tonight, in a cold sweat. I made him go."

"He's not going to be able to keep up the charade for long. This is stage four."

I nod. "I know."

He takes me hand in his, lacing our fingers. "What's going to happen? Does he still expect you to stay? Take this over?"

"Yes, he does."

When he doesn't say anything more, I look up. He is simply gazing at me. The second our eyes meet, I know he can see straight through me.

"It's no crime to love him, to want to please him."

"This feels like a handout."

"You made this company what it is. It's number one because of you. Norman even told you that. He's fought to keep you here."

"How do I know that's not because I'm his daughter?"

He regards me with amused disbelief. "Are you seriously doubting yourself?"

"No." I shake my head, truthfully when his head tilts in suspicion. "No, I'm really not. I know I'm good at what I do. But I haven't always been good. Norman brought me in and has raised me up to this and part of me believes that he did that only because I'm his daughter."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's true. Doesn't mean it was a handout. Scar, I know what a handout is. I took one from my father, which was a large sum of money, and I picked something I thought I would be good at. You worked your ass off to get here. Take pride in that."

I stare at our hands joined. "So... you think I should stay?"

"No. I think you should take over the new offices in California, but yes. I think you'll regret it if you let this go. Especially after he's gone." His thumb caresses the pale skin just under my knuckles. "This is your inheritance."

The thought of that is mind-blowing and produces a chuckle deep in my chest. "You're right. We really should have stayed in Italy."

He smiles, softly but doesn't respond with a joke or pleasantry. In fact, he doesn't respond for a while and the tension grows around us. I know whatever he's going to say is important—and is going to hurt.

When he lowers himself from the desk, bending his knees, taking both of my weak hands into his grasp, I know it's really going to hurt. I stare down at him, trapped in my fear.

"You...you need to prepare yourself for what's coming, baby."

My body stiffens, my hands fisting beneath his.

"He's going to get much, much worse. And he will need you. He'll need anyone that will be there for him. I know you will go above and beyond for him because that is simply your nature, but you need to prepare for the heartache that will come with losing someone you do love." He breathes in. "Most likely, I will not be there to help you through it and that scares me."

"Why?" I whisper, almost inaudibly. He smiles, sadly, reaching up to push my hair shielding my eyes from him.

"You've lost so much already. As happy as I am that you have a different father than the one who raised you, it kills me to know you're going to lose him too. I know it's selfish of me to ask you to be strong, and if I were here, I'd tell you that falling apart is only natural. But—"

"But, too much is at stake to fall apart," I finish for him, nodding slowly. "I know. Don't worry about me."

He chuckles. "Worrying about you is what brought us together in the first place, Scarlett. That's not going away."

I hear myself sigh. "Tell me this is almost over."

He presses his lips to my hands, one by one, and obliges me, lying through his teeth.

We both know there's no way to know how long this will last.

...

I shut the door to the limo and hurry into the lobby to Norman's building. Hurrying is the only way I get around anywhere now. When I'm safely inside, my step relaxes as I make my way over to retrieve Norman's mail, knowing neither of them have remembered. I fish out the pile but a smaller note on top sashays to the ground, landing face down. I bend down and turn it over, and nearly drop it in shock.

He was there tonight. He better have kept his distance.

One word and I will make him regret the day he ever laid eyes on you. Money laundering is no small offence, Scarlett. Be careful.

I grit my teeth, pissed that Dixon was smart enough to add the crime before he left this, knowing I wouldn't be able to show this to anyone without incriminating Giovanni in the process. I resist crumbling it up, quivering in place, too angry to move.

"Excuse me, dear."

My head snaps to the side, finding a small, fragile lady waiting to get her mail.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I apologize, forcing myself to get away quickly. My eyes dart to the door, wondering when he was here, wishing I could go to the front desk and ask. Instead, I stride to the elevators and click the button repeatedly until the doors begin to part.

I hop off the elevator when I reach the penthouse, confronted by Norman's two bodyguards he stationed outside the door, to ensure our protection. They don't speak to me, to anyone really. I'm too distracted to try. I open the door and enter, immediately calling out for Monica.

"In the gym!"

After dropping my purse and the unimportant mail onto the table, my heels clink loudly against the ground as I head towards their indoor gym. Always determined to look her best, Monica is drenched in sweat, running on the treadmill.

"How was the event?" she asks when she spots me in the wall to wall mirror in front of her.

"The usual," I lie. "How is Norman? He wasn't doing well when I sent him home."

"Oh? He wasn't? I'm not sure... he was already in the room when I got home. I figured he was asleep."

I blink at her, concealing my shock. Her husband has stage four cancer and she doesn't think it's a good idea to check on him when she gets home? "Oh, well, he might be. I'll go check on him."

"Let me know if you need me," she replies, distractedly. I exit the room, frowning at her lack of concern. She's significantly gotten more distant over the weeks, and I've noticed how she pulls herself away from the house whenever Norman seems even the slightest bit ill. She's always been affectionate with him, even with the odd amount years between them. This is worrisome.

I'm beginning to think she can't handle what's happening to him. Or worse, that she just doesn't want to.

I make it back to his bedroom, and crack the door open slightly. The lights are off, and after scanning the area, I find him sleeping in bed. I walk over to the edge of the bed, worried by how pale he is. Hesitantly, I reach out and touch his forehead, gasping when my skin burns.

Shit. "Monica! Call the doctor!"

...

"He'll be alright. His body is just having trouble fighting off the cold. He is far more susceptible to illness now that his platelets are down. You will need to be extremely careful about sanitation, and keeping his medications consistent."

"And the pain? He's in a lot of it."

"I've given him something stronger. With that and the medicine for the cold, he should be feeling better within the next few days. In his state though, I'd suggest he remain resting."

I nod, glancing over at Monica. "Alright, what can we do?"

The doctor smiles at me, apologetically. "Will you allow me to be frank?"

Oh, those words. We both nod, slowly.

"Mr. White doesn't have much time left to him, I'm sorry to say. This is progressing with violent speed."

"How much time?" Monica asks, thankfully, because I can't.

"There's no way to be sure, but I'd say, at best, a month."

A month. One fucking month.

I stare at him, physically unable to process that. He holds up his hands, apologetically.

"I will do everything I possibly can to make sure he feels as little as possible. I promise you. He will have the best care possible—"

Monica walks away as he speaks, pressing her hand to her forehead. We both watch her head towards the bedroom, silent. He finally turns to me, when she's gone.

"Mr. White needs to get his affairs in order with his company. Very soon, he will not be able to handle the exertion."

"I understand. I will tell him."

"I'm very sorry this is happening. Please, call me if you need anything. Day or night."

I nod, shaking his hand weakly as he grabs his bag and heads for the front door. I'd usually show him out but my feet won't budge. My eyes dart to the bedroom door, bathed in soft morning light where Norman is doped up on strong painkillers but waiting to hear the verdict.

I think he already knew what we'd hear.

I walk to the door and open it, knowing I cannot delay the inevitable.

...

"Becca, can you print out the portfolios I had sent out this morning? I can't find the copies anywhere," I call out from my office, on my feet, searching through the piles of paperwork on my desk. With Norman unable to come in, I've taken over the job of CEO and VP, which is proving to be far more than I could have ever bargained for.

Like the saint she is, Rebecca trudges in, original copies in hand. I take them from her gratefully and begin to flip through them. I groan at the place I had expected they'd made the mistake.

"Damn. Send out an email to design. Tell them they fucked up the prices. We need a new set sent out by the end of the day. I will call them to let them know to disregard the first copy."

She nods, already typing ferociously on her iPad.

I scan the pages for more, sniffling, trying to breathe through my running nose. I snatch a tissue and take my work with me toward the window for the natural light.

"What do you want me to pick up for lunch?"

"I can't eat a thing," I tell her, stuffily.

"This cold won't go away if you don't keep yourself strong. I'll pick up some soup and bread."

"If you want to," I reply, walking back to the desk.

"I swear, what would you do without me? Starve. That's for sure."

I smile up at her. "Are you looking for praise?"

"A little would be nice."

"You are a saint. There is no better assistant and friend than you. No one compares—"

"Alright, alright. It's no fun when you say it like that."

I roll my eyes, opening up my email. "You know how good you are, Bec. You don't need me to tell you."

"You're right. That reminds me. I've been meaning to ask Norman if I can get a raise. When will he be in again? Did he tell you?"

My eyes freeze on the email in my inbox—from Norman.

"Scar?"

My gaze falters as I turn to Rebecca, trying to remember what she was saying. "Um, oh, yeah. I'm actually going to be in charge of that now."

"You're in charge of hiring? For real?"

I nod. "I'll inform payroll of your raise today."

"You're an angel." She exits the room and my mask falls, my attention turning back to the statement in my email. Above it is a paragraph he wrote to me directly.

Please have this released company-wide. After it's released, please have a statement for the public drawn up, explaining why I'm transferring CEO duties to you and send that out as well. I trust whatever you have to say. Don't mention how long I have.

I read the words over and over again, a cold, sinking feeling seeping into my marrow.

This is really happening.

He's written his resignation letter.

I feel like I should be crying. I should be inconsolable.

But I feel just emptiness. An internal pain that hasn't broken through yet.

I settle my heavy, congested head into my hands, breathing out steelingly.

Breathe...Just breathe.

You can do this. You can.

...

I drop my bags down next to the crackling fireplace, as Norman regards me from the couch. He frowns, with a sorry smile at the sight of me.

"You look worse than I do."

I glare. "Gee, thanks."

"How was work?"

My stomach flips at that question. I look at him, cautiously.

"It had to be done," he murmurs after we sit in my silence. I look down at my hands.

"The doctor could be wrong. You could have more time than he thinks. No one knows."

"I know. It's easy to feel when you're dying, Scarlett. I need to know everything is in order when the time comes."

I sit down beside him on the couch, with a sigh. "Well, it will be sent out tomorrow."

"Is that what you want?"

"To send out your resignation? No. No, I don't."

"I mean, to send it out knowing what happens next." He tilts his head. "Becoming the CEO."

I nod to myself, simply to appease him. "Yes, it's what I want."

"I call bullshit."

I look at him expectantly.

"I don't know what I want. No, that's not true." I turn to him, mouth setting into a hard line. "I want you to live... I want that."

"I wish that were the case too, Scarlett. I do. But it's not." He sets aside his novel, closing the pages. "You told me you'd think on it and I haven't forgotten that. If you don't want this, you don't have to take it. I don't want to force you into anything, not now.

"As much as I want you to have it, I realize that you've made plans for your life, and I'd never want to hold you back. I don't want you to take this because I'm dying and you feel bad saying no."

I throw up my hands in frustration. "Well, Norman, I won't lie. That is a very big part of this!"

His mouth sets and curves with disappointment. "Then don't take it."

"No, this is your legacy. I've built this place up with you. I'm not just going to give it to someone who could destroy it all."

"Then sell it."

I scowl at him, as if he had just offended me with an insult. And I'm completely aware of why that is my reaction.

And it's because my decision has already been made, floating around in my head, never settling, for some time now. It's only the feeling of entrapment to him and the image of the life I had begun to picture in my head that is making me argue on this.

Because saying yes means I'm accepting what he has to offer me. In a world where I've had to get by on my own, saying yes to this means that for the rest of my life, Norman White is my father. And while I have allowed myself to realize that, I still am having trouble with the acceptance of it all.

Because saying yes to this feels like I'm letting go of who I am.

I should be ready to let her go, but I'm not. My memories, while destructive, are mine. They are real. This woman who is being offered the world from a dying man feels like an imposter.

And yet, I don't have it in me to deny him anything right now.

"I'm not going to sell it. I'm not going to put anyone else in charge, Norman. That's just not happening."

"Scarlett—"

"You're my father," I snap, pinning him with a sharp, determined gaze. He just sits there, staring at me. I shake my head at him, unwilling to fight it anymore.

"You're my father and this is the thing you've loved more than anything else in the world. I'm going to take care of it—for you. So, just stop trying to make me change my mind." I stand up, holding out my hands in front of me. "It's made up."

I pull on my blouse as I exit the room, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

"There's medicine in the kitchen."

"Thanks," I mumble begrudgingly, heading in that direction, knowing I need a pillow and a vapor rub more than anything else right now. "Can I get you anything? While I'm in there?"

"I'm alright."

"What about tea? I can make some ginger tea?" I press, stopped by the entrance to the hallway.

"If you're having a cup, that's fine."

"Alright."

"Scarlett."

I stop again, and turn to him. He's not looking up at me, but down at his lap. I barely hear the words he says because they are uttered so low.

"That firm means next to nothing... in comparison to you."

With a sharp suck of air, I spin back around and hurry to the kitchen, before I let myself actually feel the pain of those words.

...

"We've brought you, our largest and most admired clients here, so we could inform you of the news before it's publicly released," Norman states, seated at the head of the long conference table. I'm beside him and can feel many eyes on me, anticipating his next words.

"I will be stepping down as CEO, effective immediately, due to a recent decline in my health."

My eyes meet Giovanni's across the table, which flicker from Norman to me, feeling my gaze. I don't hold his for long, quickly paying attention to the clients who's faces have fallen in concern and doubt.

Norman, who looks thin and gaunt in a suit that used to fit him perfectly, gestures to me, with a small smile. "But I am pleased to say I'm leaving my franchise in capable, nurturing hands. Scarlett Bardot will take over our branches and since all of you have worked with her for quite some time, I hope there is no objection to this transfer of ownership."

I listen diligently as the members begin to enquire about the security, wanting reassurances from him. They ask about his health, how serious it is, if he could possibly return when he's better. He tells them no, that this is final. We calm their worries with new figures, changing the announcement into a meeting, to show them nothing will change.

However, everything will be different.

I fight past the chaos occurring inside me and smile and joke, avoiding Giovanni as much as possible. But eventually, I have to speak to him. And all eyes are between us.

"Mr. Martinelli," I hum, looking down at the ledgers.

"Scarlett."

I glance up at him and smile. It's a big-ridiculously fake smile. "Your sales have skyrocketed. You've already sold out of the line you're releasing, am I correct?"

"You are."

"Your show is only weeks away. I will get in contact with you, so we can discuss exposure options. I've a few changes I'd like to make to your site to attract an older, more sophisticated crowd. Do you have anything you'd like to report to us?"

"Not at the moment."

"Well, we'll touch base sometime this week on it. Thank you for coming."

I look away from his telling smirk, feeling my face flush brightly, just pleased to be near him. Everyone begins to stand, approaching Norman and I in a more informal matter. I oblige them, politely, although my heart and body is set on making it out that door. I escape them, gathering my belongings, leaving Norman in this moment that I want him to soak up entirely, and hurry into the hallway. Most of the office is already gone, only a few remain. It's always the same people, the dedicators.

The second I turn the corner, I gasp as my hand is snatched and pulled into a darkened hallway. I back up into the wall with a blossoming smile as Giovanni plants himself firmly in front of me, hands pressed against the wall, caging me to him. His smile is just as striking.

He grasps my face, and lowers his mouth to mine with a desperation that sends tingling goosebumps over my skin in a rush. As much as it kills me to do, I pull back, quickly, turning my face.

"No, you can't. I'm sick—"

He's already moving back in. "Are you kidding me? I don't give a fuck."

When his full, smooth lips crush to mine once more, I don't fight him on it. I take, and accept all his passion, hating how quickly he must pull away. Still, we are both breathless.

"We can't keep running into each other like this," he whispers, teasingly. My eyes immediately roll back into my head but in a time like this, his positivity is welcome. Very welcome.

"You have to go. We could be seen here."

"I don't care," he says stubbornly, pulling me in again. My mouth smiles against his as he bestows kiss upon kiss to my mouth, reinvigorating the nerves. And when his tongue slips between them—delicate and sweet—I lose myself, moaning louder than I should. He pulls back, sighing.

"Look, I've made arrangements with Norman. He and I are going out for dinner."

Dinner? I frown, confused. "What? You? You're going to dinner with Norman? Alone?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"There are a few reasons. We both have quite a bit to discuss."

"You're making me nervous."

He smiles, softly and changes the subject. "You look beautiful, even with a red nose."

"I look like Rudolf," I mumble, not believing him for a second. His smile transforms into a grin within seconds.

"But a cute Rudolf."

I clasp onto his custom made suit, admiring the softness to the material. "Anything new?"

"My mother's out of rehab. She's doing better."

"That's amazing."

He nods, and I can't think about anything but the intoxicating scent of his body wash and aftershave, because I have vivid memories latched onto the smells.

"Valentina's in mourning because she thinks you and I aren't together anymore. Maria—god, don't even get me started on the phone call I got from her."

I grin, because I love her and her insufferable persistence. "I bet that was great."

"An hour of hearing how much of an idiot I am. You made quite an impression, too good, really."

A person walks by texting on their phone and we both freeze, coming back to the reality that we're cozied in a secluded, but still very visible hallway at my job. He leans in, kissing me deeply. Our eyes reopen slowly, inches away from one another.

"The cabin—Thursday?"

I nod, urging him away with a smile. He takes hold of my hand, and brings it to his mouth before turning the corner, headed back towards the conference room. I remain pressed up against the wall, knowing the possibility of re-gathering myself is pretty moot at this point.

...

Doctor Santos enters the room, smiling softly to me. I sit up straighter on the seat, bag in hand.

"Is it the flu?"

She shakes her head. "No. Thankfully, it's a simple cold. It's just lasting a little longer than normal. I've proscribed some anti-biotics to help fight it off quicker."

She tears off the paper from the prescription pad and hands me the form. I take it, standing up. "Great. I have a big fundraising event in a few days that I have to be ready for."

Not to mention—a date in Cold Springs I am very eager to be in top shape for. It's been weeks since we've been alone and even the thought of Giovanni's bare skin has the power to drive me to senselessness at the moment.

"What do I always tell my patients?" I look at her, stubbornly but she continues. "You'll never get better if you don't take the time to let your body heal."

I chuckle softly to myself.

"Right now, Doctor, I really don't have that luxury."

...

"Just wait a moment here. I'll get your prescriptions." The pharmacist disappears into the back of the shop, moving slower than a snail, refusing to pick up on my desire to get out of here quickly. I reach for a tabloid magazine, flipping through the pages mindlessly.

"That stuff will fry your brain."

I freeze at the sound of his voice. I hear the heavy belt on his uniform, his handcuffs and weapons weighing him down and catch him lean against the counter, directly beside me. Very slowly, I turn my head to him, heart pounding.

Dixon smiles softly. How the hell did he find me?

"I know a few other things that get that job done. You do too," I utter low, and he immediately chuckles.

"Touché." He looks between me and the magazine. "You're sick?"

"It's none of your damn business."

"Well, clearly you are. I mean, you're pale as a ghost. Maybe it's all the time you've been spending cooped up in Norman's fancy apartment."

"If you decide you want to leave me the hell alone, I'd be happy to be outside again," I growl to myself, looking for the pharmacist.

"That would take away the pleasure I experience, knowing you aren't happy. Knowing you're miserable, like I am."

Fuck the meds. I spin around and begin to walk in long, hurried strides towards the front of the store. He's right behind me in seconds, preying upon my fear.

"I've done what you asked. I left him. So, leave me the fuck alone," I breathe through my teeth, pulling my arm from his grasp. The second I make it out of the aisle and to the very crowded cash registers, he falls back a step, but still follows me out.

I run to the car waiting, and my driver steps out, to intervene, knowing who to look out for. I quickly tell him to get back in and drive. As I slam the door, peering out of the tinted window, hearing my phone blare in my bag, Dixon continues to walk, slowly, menacingly towards the car, only smirking to frighten me. He has no intent of fighting his way inside.

He's content knowing he's got me cornered. Knowing he's got me scared. He's content to show me that he knows how to find me, at the drop of a hat. That I'm never safe.

I tear my eyes from him as the driver pulls away from the curb with haste, merging us into the chaotic traffic. I try to recover my breath as I search absentmindedly for my phone with fumbling, useless fingers. I can still see Dixon's crystal clear eyes in my brain, and I know without a doubt they will torture my dreams tonight.

I answer on the last ring.

"Scarlett Bardot."

"Scarlett? Hi, this is Maurine Santos. You just left my office."

My brows seem to be stuck in a furrowed position, so my hand tries to smooth out the tension. "Oh, hi. Did I forget something?"

"No, no. You didn't. Your urine sample results were just placed into my hands... And, um, I think I'm going to have to shock you now."

Shock me? My head shakes in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it turns out your visit came at an ample time." She chuckles at her own humor, while I hang on her words, ice-cold terror drifting through my veins.

"This test reads that you are pregnant, Ms. Bardot."

My world stops.

Oh my god.