When in Rome Pt. 5

“…and together, we will redefine the beauty of leadership.”

The final syllables of Isabelle Chastain’s voice curled into the air, smooth and confident, before the applause broke like a wave. The ballroom filled with the crack of clapping hands, the low rumble of approving voices, champagne flutes chiming against crystal tabletops. Kiara stood just off-stage with Seraphina at her side, hands clasped neatly in front of her waist as she offered the polished smile she’d been trained to maintain. Her cheeks ached faintly from holding it all night, but it looked effortless—because it had to.

Tonight, Kiara wore a fitted ivory sheath dress that skimmed just below her knees, its clean lines softened by a wide satin belt cinched high at her waist. The belt’s subtle sheen caught the light each time she shifted, accentuating the deliberate hourglass Celeste’s endless training and wardrobe had sculpted for her. Beneath the dress, layers of shapewear hugged her tighter than a secret, smoothing everything into a flawless silhouette. The neckline dipped just low enough to be called elegant, not provocative, offering a glimpse of décolletage that suggested more than it revealed. Her hair, coaxed into soft waves, framed her face and brushed her shoulders when she turned. Every detail screamed CEO, but in a way that teased femininity just at the edges.

Seraphina, beside her, mirrored the professional polish with her own twist of charm: a powder-blue high-waisted pencil skirt that hugged her curves unapologetically, paired with a cream blouse tucked in neatly, the silk fabric catching a faint shimmer beneath the chandeliers. The blouse’s collar framed her throat in a neat V, and a delicate gold necklace rested against her skin. Her long hair swayed when she leaned toward Kiara, eyes shining with the kind of loyalty that had become her signature.

Out among the crowd, Lucian Devereaux sat at one of the gilded round tables, suit jacket draped open in casual elegance as he spoke to a cluster of executives who all seemed half in awe and half **** to impress him. His laugh carried lightly above the noise, confident without arrogance, and Kiara’s eyes flicked toward him more often than she wanted to admit.

The applause began to soften, and Isabelle stepped gracefully down from the stage. She was luminous even in simplicity—her short blonde bob sharp and polished, a tailored black dress hugging her figure like armor. The fabric gleamed faintly as it moved, the cut precise: a strong shoulder line, a narrow waist, a hem that ended mid-calf. Sleek pumps clicked against the hardwood as she descended, every inch of her posture radiating dominance wrapped in charm.

She spotted Kiara instantly. Her lips spread into a radiant smile as she closed the distance and enveloped her in a hug that was both warm and commanding. The faint scent of expensive perfume clung to her, florals edged with spice.

“Oh, my dear,” Isabelle breathed against Kiara’s cheek as the embrace broke, “we are absolutely killing it, aren’t we?”

Kiara laughed lightly, shoulders dropping just enough to signal warmth. “We are. Today's event was… perfect.”

Isabelle’s eyes softened, but only for a second before narrowing with a shrewd gleam. She leaned in, lowering her voice so that only Kiara could hear. “You’re leading beautifully, Kiara. Truly. But—” Her gaze flicked deliberately down to Kiara’s waist, then back up. “Show it off more. Cinch tighter. People love an hourglass. It’s primal, it draws the eye. Don’t be afraid to let them see what you’ve worked so hard to shape.”

Kiara’s smile stayed fixed, though she felt a faint twist of discomfort in her stomach. Isabelle’s breath was still warm on her cheek as she added, even softer now: “And more cleavage, next time. Don’t underestimate the power of horny men staring at you. Their eyes are attention, and attention is influence. Use it.”

The words settled like stones in Kiara’s chest. The image bloomed unbidden—faceless men behind screens, dicks in their hands, groaning her name while she smiled politely for a camera. It made her skin prickle, disgust and thrill tangled until she couldn’t separate them. She wanted them to look. She hated that she wanted them to look. But Isabelle’s tone left no room for negotiation. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

So Kiara tilted her head, let her lashes dip low, and gave her sweetest smile. “Of course, Isabelle. I’ll remember.” Her voice slipped into something softer, teasing at the edge of flirtation. “After all, if I’ve got it… why not give them something to drool over?”

Isabelle’s smile sharpened. “That’s my girl.” She brushed a hand down Kiara’s arm before straightening. “Now, I must say my goodbyes before they whisk me away. We’ll speak soon, darling.”

And with that, she was gone, her black dress slicing through the crowd like a blade sheathed in silk, every man and woman in the room turning just slightly as she passed.

Kiara stood very still, her hands clasped lightly in front of her waist again, the perfect picture of poised femininity. But inside, she was buzzing with a cocktail of emotions she couldn’t untangle.

The applause had faded. The event was over. The real conversations—the ones in whispers and shadows—were only just beginning.

The room hummed again with voices, waiters weaving between tables with trays of sparkling drinks, executives leaning into hushed conversations. Kiara let out the faintest breath of relief—her body still locked in that feminine posture even when no one was watching.

Then, beside her, Seraphina suddenly gasped. Her whole face lit up, and she started waving frantically into the crowd. “Liam! Liam! Over here!”

Kiara blinked, following her line of sight. Through the sea of suits and gowns, a young man began weaving his way toward them, a crooked grin on his face. He was tall, with messy brown hair and an energy that didn’t quite fit the stiff elegance of the ballroom. He wasn’t alone—his hand was clasped firmly around that of a blonde girl at his side.

And Kiara recognized him instantly. The boy from New York. The one who had taken their picture the day Isabelle had come to officially sign the partnership. She hadn’t known his name back then, but now it clicked—Liam.

The girl with him was new, though. Blonde hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders, a fitted pale blue sundress that hugged her body casually rather than formally. Her breasts, round and perky, filled the neckline in a way that made Kiara’s stomach twist—almost the exact same size as her own carefully padded and presented chest. She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of girl who could stroll into a café and turn heads without even trying.

“Holy shit, hi!” Seraphina practically bounced as Liam reached them.

“Hello, Ms. Laurent,” Liam said immediately, straightening his posture and dipping his head with stiff formality.

Kiara instantly laughed, lifting a hand to wave it away. “God, no. Just Kiara, please. You’ll make me sound like my mother.”

Liam grinned wider, relief flashing across his face. “Kiara it is, then.”

Seraphina’s attention had already shifted to the blonde girl. “Oh my god—is this Mia?”

The girl smiled brightly, squeezing Liam’s hand before stepping forward. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Seraphina clasped her hands together dramatically. “I’ve been dying to meet you, girl. Ever since I found out this cute boy had a wife, I had to know who you were.”

Mia laughed, cheeks flushing faintly pink. Liam tugged her closer with a smug little grin. “Lucky for me, huh?”

Kiara let herself smile, standing a touch straighter, shoulders delicate, head tilted just so—a feminine stance locked into her without thought.

“Why are you even here?” Seraphina asked, still brimming with energy.

“Oh, I decided to take the wife out on a little vacation,” Liam said with a shrug, his grin never fading. “And then I heard this big fancy event was happening at the same time we’d be in Rome. Figured I could cheap out a little—get some nice pleasantries for being an employee while also scoring points for being a romantic husband. Two birds, one stone.”

Mia elbowed him gently, rolling her eyes. “Translation: he’s a freeloader with decent timing.”

“Hey, hey,” Liam shot back, smirking. “I prefer ‘financial strategist with romantic inclinations.’”

Mia laughed again, and the easy, witty rhythm between them was instant—snarky comebacks, affectionate teasing. Husband and wife, clear as day.

Kiara laughed, that soft, bell-clear trill she’d trained into habit, and hated that a small part of her noticed the exact angle her chin tilted to lengthen her neck. Seraphina bumped her hip against Kiara’s like a punctuation mark. “Tell us everything. Are you two loving Rome? Are you hopelessly in love? Are you two annoying about it?”

“All of the above,” Mia said sweetly, sliding her fingers through Liam’s. “He has eaten gelato twice today.”

“In my defense,” Liam said, raising a finger, “this city has gravity. Toward pistachio.”

“And he got hazelnut,” Mia added.

“Exactly. Chaos.” He fanned a hand at the room, catching Kiara’s smile like he’d been aiming for it. “You were incredible up there, by the way. Crisp. Like… couture caramel.”

Seraphina wheezed. “Couture caramel?”

“It’s a phrase,” Liam said, as if disappointed no one had heard it before. “I’m starting it.”

“Please don’t,” Mia murmured. “You’ll start a dessert line.”

Kiara softened, the corners of her mouth curving as she pressed a palm to her hip and subtly adjusted the cinch of her dress at the waist—a tiny, invisible micro-move that made the silhouette sing. “You two are adorable,” she said before she could stop herself; the words sat warm in the back of her throat. Kieran, tucked deep, felt the ache of it—the way their easy shorthand filled the air with something soft and enviable.

Their conversation kept spiraling—tiny stories about missed trains and miracle reservations, about Mia’s job, about Liam’s escalating feud with the office espresso machine, about Seraphina’s belief that a proper handbag weighs as much as a newborn. The rhythm was easy, overlapping in places, friendly interruptions and laughter cresting over laughter. Kiara found herself standing at a slight three-quarter angle without realizing it, the pose that made her waist read narrower and her posture look effortlessly elegant. Her hand rested over the curve she’d learned to emphasize; the habit was so embedded now that she noticed it only once it was already happening.

“…so there we were, standing outside this fancy-ass trattoria in Florence, and Liam decides the best way to ask if they have a table is to lean in the doorway and shout, ‘Yo, spaghetti for two?’”

Mia buried her face in her hand, shaking her head as her blonde curls bounced against her cheeks, but the laughter was already spilling out of her. Seraphina actually doubled over, clutching her clutch bag to her stomach, and Kiara—despite her well-practiced grace and the tight hug of her shapewear beneath the cream silk blouse—let out a bright, unguarded laugh that made a few nearby guests turn to look at her. Her laugh had grown lighter these days, less restrained, a trained sparkle that had become dangerously natural.

Liam held his hands out, feigning innocence, his grin boyish. “What? It worked, didn’t it? We got a table. With breadsticks!”

“Oh my god, breadsticks,” Mia groaned through her laughter, “you’ve been telling everyone about those damn breadsticks like they cured cancer.”

“They were life-changing,” Liam shot back, deadly serious for half a beat, then cracking into a grin again. “You’ll never understand, ladies. That first crunch was like hearing angels sing. I almost proposed to the waiter.”

“Oh please,” Mia teased, flipping her hair back with a girlish flourish, “he was at least prettier than me.”

Seraphina gasped dramatically and clapped her hands together. “Scandalous! Liam, cheating on Mia with a Florentine breadstick boy? Shameful.”

“Not cheating,” Liam corrected quickly, wagging a finger. “Polygamy. Me, Mia, and Giovanni with the bread basket.”

That one had Kiara **** on her own giggle, trying to cover her lips with perfectly manicured fingers, but Seraphina noticed and nudged her playfully. “Oh don’t even try to hide it, Kiara, you’re laughing your ass off.”

Kiara shook her head, her silky brown hair falling forward as her blue eyes sparkled. “I’m not—okay, I am.” She exhaled through her smile, trying to maintain some composure, though her girlish lilt gave her away. “Giovanni with the bread basket… honestly, Liam, that sounds like a tabloid headline.”

“That’s the plan.” He grinned. “Step one: get famous. Step two: bread-based scandal. Step three: retire.”

Mia swatted his arm, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation. “I swear, this man is an embarrassment. He’s lucky he’s cute.”

Seraphina leaned closer to Kiara, whispering just loud enough for Mia to hear, “God, she really loves him.”

And it was true. Kiara could see it—every witty back-and-forth between them had an undertone of warmth, of deep-seated comfort. Liam teased because Mia loved being teased, and Mia’s comebacks always landed like gentle punches full of affection. For a moment, Kiara felt a pang of something she didn’t quite name—envy, admiration, wistfulness? It fluttered away as quickly as it came, replaced with another bubble of laughter as Liam pretended to tip an invisible hat in mock respect to her.

“So,” Mia finally said once the laughter had ebbed just enough for her to speak, “we’re flying out tomorrow morning. Figured we’d head back, get over the jet lag sooner rather than later.”

“Oh my god, same!” Seraphina lit up, grabbing Kiara’s wrist with excitement. “We’re flying back tomorrow too! This is perfect—we should totally go together!”

Liam blinked. “Uh, I mean… we already booked our tickets, so—”

Mia cut in, smirking at him. “Yeah, in economy, might I add. Because my husband thinks legroom is a myth invented by Big Airline.”

“Hey,” Liam said, puffing up, “economy builds character.”

Seraphina threw both hands up. “Nope. Unacceptable. You’re flying back with us.”

“Oh no, we can’t,” Mia said quickly, polite even as she tried to retreat. “We’d have to pay cancellation charges and—”

"We are humble gremlins who do not belong in the castle of first class.” Liam jumped in.

“Okay, gremlins,” Seraphina said, already shaking her head, the sparkle in her eyes narrowing to target. “First, this is literally logistics. My middle name is Logistics. Second, humble gremlins make the best first class passengers. They appreciate the hot towel like it’s a coronation.”

Kiara stepped in without even thinking, a sweet blade. “Also, you’re not paying. We’ll bring you over on our reservation.” She glanced at Seraphina. “You can handle it?”

“By the time I finish this breath,” Seraphina said, tugging her phone from her bag. “What’s your booking number? I’ll do a change request and send the fee to our event account.”

Mia blinked. “You can do that?”

Liam leaned in as if confiding. “Seraphina is the CIA.”

“That’s insulting,” she said, tapping away. “The CIA wishes.”

Kiara caught Mia’s uncertainty—the slight pinch at the corner of her mouth, the instinct to be polite, to refuse a gift. Kiara gentled her voice. “We’d like your company,” she said, and it landed not as grand gesture but as invitation. Friendly. Easy. Unforced. “It’ll make an exhausting travel day a little less exhausting.”

Mia looked a little wide-eyed. “Oh, no, we couldn’t, I mean—we’d have to pay cancellation charges and—”

Seraphina waved a dismissive hand, already pulling out her phone like she was ready to email a travel concierge right then and there. “Girl, please. Do I look like I can’t handle a couple of flight cancellations? That’s literally, like, my morning coffee.”

Liam tried, valiantly, to get a word in. “Look, I appreciate the offer, really, but—”

“No buts.” Kiara’s tone softened into something almost teasing, the way she’d learned to let her voice glide, velvet-like. “If I, your CEO and indirect boss, says you’re flying first class with us, then that’s exactly what’s happening.”

Mia’s laugh broke out again, bright and girlish, her blonde hair falling forward as she leaned into Seraphina’s side hug. “Well, I guess we’re being kidnapped by these two, huh?”

Kiara lifted her hand for a high-five, and Seraphina slapped her palm against it with a sharp clap. Both of them grinned like conspirators who’d just won a battle.

“See?” Seraphina teased, glancing at Mia with mock sternness. “We’re a package deal. Resistance is futile.”

Liam groaned theatrically. “God, this feels like I’m being bullied into luxury. The horror.”

“Shut up,” Mia said, elbowing him lightly, though she was laughing too. “First class it is, then. I guess we’re spoiled now.”

“That’s the spirit,” Seraphina beamed, hugging her again. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you and your man covered, obviously.”

Mia melted into the side-hug, cheeks pink from the champagne and the warmth of the moment, while Liam gave a mock salute as though they’d just been enlisted into some secret society.

“You two are something else,” Liam said, half-marveling, half-teasing. “Is this the Euphorica concierge service? Because I’d like to subscribe.”

Kiara tipped her head. “We call it being a decent human,” she said. “But we can invoice it if that helps.”

Mia laughed, touching Kiara’s forearm in that casual feminine way that said I like you without needing language. “Thank you,” she said, sincere and soft. “Really.”

A server drifted past with a tray; Seraphina plucked four flutes like she’d been born to it and handed them out. “To the Roman detour,” she chirped. “And to our economy seats that will never know what might have been.”

“Rest in peace,” Liam intoned, tapping his glass to Mia’s. “They died how they lived. Narrowly.”

They all drank, an easy communal sip, the four of them tucked into a little eddy of friendliness in the wider swirl. Around them, applause flared again for someone’s farewell, silverware chimed, a cello of laughter rose and fell by the bar. Kiara adjusted the line of her neckline, just a breath, a habit more than thought—Isabelle’s advice still humming at the edges of her awareness. Kieran noticed the way Liam’s gaze didn’t drop, didn’t do the cheap slide; it lingered on her eyes, went to Seraphina’s, bounced to Mia’s, as if he’d learned the choreography of respect without thinking. It made something unclench.

And the four of them—heiress, assistant, photographer, and wife—stood in their little corner of the grand venue, laughing again as though the rest of the world didn’t matter.

The first sign was the hush of shifting air behind her, that almost imperceptible ripple that made Kiara’s body stiffen before her mind caught up. Then came the hand—firm, steady, and unhesitating—sliding onto the small of her back as though it belonged there, guiding without **** but with the kind of casual possession that sent every nerve sparking under her dress. Kiara’s head turned automatically, chin tilting, eyes following the line of his movement. Lucian was there.

The room’s ambient chatter seemed to soften as he joined the circle, his presence commanding without demanding. His tailored charcoal suit skimmed his lean frame effortlessly, his open collar and loosened tie adding a kind of practiced carelessness that only made him sharper. His scent—a clean, understated spice with a faint trace of leather—slid over her, worming its way beneath the surface of her careful composure. She felt her trained feminine posture tighten reflexively: shoulders angled delicately, spine lengthened, chin lifted just enough to flatter the lines of her jaw.

Seraphina’s voice carried them forward before Kiara could even swallow down the heat creeping into her chest. “Lucian,” she sang lightly, sliding into her role with that breezy warmth that made her indispensable. “These are our new friends. Liam Fielder—he works at our Euphorica New York office—and his wife, Mia.” She let her smile curve wider, glancing at Kiara knowingly. “They’ll be joining us on the flight home tomorrow.”

Lucian’s eyes flicked over the couple, sharp but warm, and then—just like that—his mouth curved into a grin. “Well,” he drawled, low and amused, “I see how it is. The Euphorica girls are collecting strays again.”

Liam didn’t even blink. He leaned slightly forward, resting one hand in his pocket and firing back without hesitation. “Stray? Please. You should be thanking us for upgrading your in-flight entertainment. Economy was never going to survive us.”

Mia groaned and tugged at his sleeve, eyes sparkling. “Upgrading? Babe, you still get lost walking through LaGuardia. The only thing you upgrade is the airport stress level.”

The laughter broke around them instantly—bright, real, unforced. Seraphina nearly spilled her drink, biting back a giggle, while Kiara’s carefully trained laugh spilled out, high and crystalline, her fingers brushing her lips as though the moment was too delightful to be contained. Even Lucian’s chuckle was low and genuine, his thumb pressing for the briefest second against Kiara’s spine before slipping away. That ghost of contact lingered on her skin even as his focus turned back to her.

Then, quieter, his voice threaded through the laughter like it was meant only for her. “We’re still on for tonight?”

Her lashes lowered instinctively, heart catching against her ribcage. “Yes,” she answered, the word soft, precise, perfectly feminine in its intonation, though it felt dangerously breathless in her throat.

His gaze lingered a fraction too long, then softened at the corners. “Casual, remember,” he said, the reminder carrying both a tease and an unspoken command. “Nothing fancy, like we talked about.” He straightened slightly, smoothing his jacket, his presence pulling back as his authority reasserted itself. “I’m off to lunch with some of the folks here. I’ll see you later.”

And just like that, he was walking away—unhurried, unbothered, as if the air bent around him. Kiara’s eyes, against her will, followed the line of his shoulders, the easy sway of his stride, until the crowd swallowed him again.

The silence that followed lasted less than two seconds.

“Oh my god,” Seraphina hissed, smacking Kiara’s arm with her free hand, eyes wide and gleaming. “What the fuck was that?”

Mia’s jaw was already hanging open, though her grin broke almost immediately. “Are you kidding me right now? That man just touched your back like you were already married. Who the hell—what the hell—spill it.”

Even Liam, who leaned back with the unbothered confidence of someone who knew how to deliver a killer one-liner, raised his brows and crossed his arms. “So… casual, huh? Is that code for something? Because I think we all need the translation here.”

The three of them closed in at once—teasing, prodding, delighted conspirators—and Kiara, cornered but trained, only smiled that impeccable, practiced smile. Her lips curved just so, her eyes flickered in that soft doe-like amusement, her posture radiated poise.

“Oh, stop,” she breathed, her voice delicate, almost airy, like the accusation was too silly to even entertain. She lifted her glass to her lips to hide behind a sip, the gesture as fluid as any of Celeste’s drills had **** into her body.

But beneath that polished exterior—beneath the soft smile and gentle laugh—her pulse was hammering so hard it felt like her ribs could crack from it. Lucian’s touch still burned against her back, his words still echoed in her chest, and the teasing voices around her blurred as she fought to hold onto her composure.

She tilted her chin, gave a little flutter of lashes, and played it off. Just like she’d been trained to.