They climbed a narrow zigzag staircase that gave a view of the factory floor below. At the top, Kim stopped at a sleek glass door and opened it.
"Your office, Mrs. Leila," she said, with a subtle apology in her tone. "Sorry about the name tag. It'll be changed soon."
Leila's eyes narrowed at the plaque on the door: Caterina.
That...that... it was pointless to think like that, especially since she no longer mattered.
"Thank you, Kim," she muttered.
"My office is just down there," Kim said, pointing to the far right. "You'll find my number saved on the office phone if you need anything. Just call."
With that, Kim turned and headed down the hallway.
Leila didn't go in immediately. She lingered by the doorway, watching Kim until she disappeared into her own office. Then, with a slow breath, she stepped into her new space.
The scent of someone else's perfume still clung to the air—roses, too sweet, too familiar. The decor was cold, clinical.
"Damn, this bitch even lacks basic aesthetics. How did she even manage a shoe company?" she spoke aloud to herself.
And for the first time since arriving in Greece, Leila felt something close to anger.
She was a replacement.
Makros' wife replace. Caterina's replacement. She seemed like the woman who stepped in once others had been discarded.
Did she own anything that had started with her?
Suppressing the rising discomfort, Leila began to explore. The room was pristine—Caterina was many things, but messy wasn't one of them. The desk drawers were organized with detailed ledgers, factory orders, correspondence, and a thick file of financial records.
In the filing cabinet, a framed photo caught her eye: Caterina and Makros at some gala. He was smiling, actually smiling—and Caterina had her hand on his chest like it belonged there.
Leila sneered and tossed the frame into the trash can.
Returning to the desk, she eyed the floral arrangement. Red roses in a crystal vase.
Ugly.
She scribbled down notes on a pad she found in the drawer, starting a list:
Replace roses with chrysanthemums.
Change wall art (too minimalist, no personality).
Swap desk chair (uncomfortable).
Get rid of the scented diffuser (smells like a funeral home).
Add a bookshelf with design catalogues and my work.
She folded the note neatly and placed it on the desk.
Why make a note? Why claim this space like in a matter of days, or at most weeks she'd be on a jet back to Italy? It felt like a waste of effort really.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. No calls. No visitors. Just silence and paperwork. She spent most of it deep in thought, staring out the window or flipping absentmindedly through designs.
Her mind drifted back to Italy.
Dario Conti was dead, but men like him never died quietly. There would be whispers, blood feuds. Stefanos wouldn't forget. His pride wouldn't let him. He would come for her. And he wouldn't be merciful.
