Chapter 9 - The ChoiceI spent the next ten days asking everyone what I should do.
This was a mistake.
My mother said, “Take whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Julian said, “Take the promotion and force Luca to become bicoastal. He needs adversity.”
Valentina said, “What do you want your life to look like when no one is watching?”
Margaret said, “I’m not answering because I want you to take it.”
Naomi said, “Titles are temporary. Scope matters.”
Sienna said, “If you move permanently, who will stop Luca from making assistants cry?”
“I never stopped him.”
“You reduced incidents by thirty percent.”
Apparently I was an HR intervention.
Rosa refused to answer at all.
“You ask too many people,” she told me.
“That’s not helpful.”
“It’s extremely helpful.”
“No. It’s philosophical.”
“Same thing when you’re old.”
The only person who never told me what he thought was Luca.
That became infuriating.
We flew back to New York together at the end of February.
For five hours and twenty-three minutes, he discussed everything except California.
Markets.
A hotel project in Lisbon.
Julian’s inability to submit expense reports.
A restaurant Rosa wanted to try.
Finally, somewhere over Nebraska, I closed my laptop.
“Say something.”
He glanced up from his book.
“About?”
“You know.”
“California?”
“Yes.”
“What would you like me to say?”
“The truth.”
He placed the book down.
“I want you in New York.”
I waited.
“I want to wake up next to you more than twice a month. I want dinner with you on random Tuesdays. I want you complaining because I’m answering email during movies. I want your shoes inexplicably appearing in rooms where you insist you don’t leave things.”
“I don’t do that.”
“There are three pairs in my apartment.”
“Temporary storage.”
“Of course.”
His expression softened.
“I want a life with you.”
My chest tightened.
“But,” he continued, “I don’t want a version of that life where you become smaller so I can have you nearby.”
I looked out the airplane window.
Clouds stretched endlessly beneath us.
“What if staying doesn’t make me smaller?”
“Then stay.”
“What if leaving does?”
“Then leave.”
“That’s annoyingly simple.”
“It isn’t simple at all.”
He took my hand.
“I am trying to separate what I want from what I think you should do.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is the most difficult leadership exercise of my career.”
I laughed.
Then became quiet.
“What if I take it?”
“We figure it out.”
“For years?”
“If necessary.”
“You would do that?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
I studied him.
“Would you move?”
He blinked.
“To California?”
“Potentially.”
Luca looked genuinely alarmed.
I laughed.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You own property there.”
“That does not mean I want to live there.”
“You own a vineyard in Napa.”
“It was an investment.”
“You spent three weeks choosing the kitchen tile.”
“The existing tile was offensive.”
I laughed harder.
Then he sighed.
“If your life ended up there, I would consider what mine could look like there.”
That stopped me.
Not I would move.
Not I would follow.
I would consider.
He had finally learned the language of mutual decisions.
When we landed, I still had no answer.
Then Rosa fell.
Not dramatically.
Not down stairs.
Not during some emotionally convenient family gathering.
She slipped on ice outside a florist in Manhattan while attempting to carry two bags and argue with someone on the phone.
The someone was Julian.
This somehow became his fault.
By the time I reached the hospital, the entire Moretti family had occupied half the waiting area.
Luca stood the moment he saw me.
“She’s fine.”
I exhaled.
“What happened?”
“Wrist fracture. Minor concussion. Bruised hip.”
Julian looked miserable.
“She was yelling at me about centerpieces.”
Elena snapped, “She was walking on ice.”
“I told her to stop walking.”
“You were on the phone.”
“I was trying.”
Stefano paced near the window.
Valentina arrived carrying coffee.
Daniel followed with sandwiches.
My mother called twice.
Morettis turned minor emergencies into military operations.
Rosa was furious.
When they finally allowed visitors, she demanded everyone leave except me.
Luca looked offended.
“Why Emma?”
“Because she irritates me least.”
“That is demonstrably false.”
“Out.”
He left.
I sat beside her bed.
Her wrist was wrapped.
A small bruise darkened near her temple.
“You scared everyone.”
“Yes.”
“You scared me.”
Her expression softened.
“Sorry.”
I adjusted the blanket.
“You shouldn’t carry bags on ice.”
“Now you sound like Luca.”
“That is deeply insulting.”
She smiled.
For several minutes, we sat quietly.
Then she said, “California.”
I stared at her.
“You’re concussed.”
“I’m old, not stupid.”
“How does everyone know everything?”
“Family.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“It is the only explanation you get.”
I sighed.
“I don’t know what to do.”
Rosa studied me.
“You do.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“No. You know what you want. You don’t know how to arrange it.”
I frowned.
“That sounds suspiciously different.”
“It is.”
She shifted carefully.
“Do you want the work?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want San Francisco?”
I hesitated.
“Not especially.”
“Do you want New York?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want Luca?”
I gave her a look.
“Obviously.”
“Then stop treating the offer as if it has only two answers.”
I went still.
“What?”
“Take it or refuse it. Stay or leave. New York or California.” She shook her head. “Young people love false choices.”
“You realize you once spent months deciding who received voting shares.”
“Yes, and I was exhausting.”
I almost laughed.
Rosa continued.
“What does the company actually need from you?”
“National integration oversight. Western strategy leadership. Board coordination.”
“Must all of that happen in San Francisco?”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Not all of it.
Some.
Certainly.
But not all.
Rosa leaned back.
“Choose the life first, Emma. Then negotiate the job.”
I stared at her.
“You make that sound easy.”
“No. I make it sound possible.”
Three days later, I walked into Margaret’s office with a twelve-page proposal.
She looked at the cover.
“Oh, no.”
“What?”
“You have that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one Luca described from your first interview.”
I sat.
“I want the position.”
Margaret smiled.
“Good.”
“Modified.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Of course.”
I opened the proposal.
“Western Strategy should not be purely western.”
For forty minutes, I argued that the company’s integration problems were national, not regional. Acquisitions in California had exposed structural weaknesses we also had in Boston, Texas, and Toronto. Creating a permanent West Coast executive role would solve the current problem but reinforce fragmentation.
I proposed something else.
Senior Vice President, Strategic Integration.
Company-wide scope.
New York headquarters.
One week per month on the West Coast during the first year.
Additional travel as required.
Independent reporting to the COO and strategy committee.
No reporting relationship to Luca.
Margaret read silently.
Then looked at me.
“You designed yourself a bigger job.”
“Yes.”
“While refusing to relocate.”
“Yes.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I learned from leadership.”
She called Naomi.
Naomi called David.
David brought finance.
By five that afternoon, there were seven people in the room.
Still no Luca.
At six twenty, Naomi closed the proposal.
“I like it.”
My heartbeat changed.
Margaret nodded.
“So do I.”
Finance liked it less.
That was healthy.
We negotiated.
Headcount.
Budget.
Travel expectations.
Compensation.
Authority.
By seven fifteen, we had a framework.
By eight, I had a new job.
I walked upstairs to Luca’s office.
His assistant had gone.
The floor was quiet.
He stood at the windows reading something on his tablet.
I knocked.
He turned.
“You don’t need to knock.”
“I enjoy making you wait.”
“How did the meeting go?”
I entered.
“They changed the offer.”
His expression tightened.
“To what?”
“Senior Vice President, Strategic Integration.”
He stared.
“National?”
“Yes.”
“Based in?”
“New York.”
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then Luca smiled.
Not relieved exactly.
Something larger.
“You negotiated.”
“I redesigned.”
“Of course you did.”
“I’ll still be in San Francisco one week a month.”
“I can tolerate California in controlled doses.”
“You aren’t invited every time.”
His smile faded.
“I see.”
“I need to work.”
“So do I.”
“You appear offended.”
“I am adjusting.”
I walked closer.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
“For us?”
His hand moved around my waist.
“Very.”
I kissed him.
When we separated, he didn’t let go.
“There is something I’ve been thinking about.”
“That sentence is dangerous.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He hesitated.
Luca Moretti still did many things effortlessly.
Negotiating.
Deciding.
Commanding rooms.
Emotional questions remained more difficult.
I waited.
Finally he said, “Do you want to get married someday?”
My heart stopped.
Not will you marry me.
Not a ring.
Not a proposal.
A question before the question.
I looked at him.
“Someday?”
“Yes.”
“To someone?”
His eyes narrowed.
“To me.”
I smiled.
“That clarification helped.”
“Emma.”
“Yes.”
His face changed.
“Yes?”
“Yes. I think I do.”
Something almost vulnerable appeared in his eyes.
“But,” I added.
His expression immediately became suspicious.
“Of course there’s a but.”
“I don’t want you proposing tonight.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
“I don’t have a ring.”
“Excellent.”
“That sounded insulting.”
“It’s not.”
I touched his tie.
“I just want us to know the answer before the performance.”
“There would not be a performance.”
“Your family exists.”
“Fair.”
“And when you do ask me—”
“When?”
“If.”
“You said yes.”
“To someday.”
“That feels contractually significant.”
“You are impossible.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
His mouth curved.
“What were you going to say?”
I looked at him.
“When you ask, surprise me.”
Luca became very still.
I immediately regretted it.
“No.”
“You just said—”
“Within reason.”
“What constitutes reason?”
“No helicopter.”
“I don’t own a helicopter.”
“You have access to helicopters.”
“That is different.”
“No stadium.”
“Why would I—”
“No public proposal.”
“I agree.”
“No orchestra.”
He frowned.
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“Luca.”
“Fine.”
“No giant flowers spelling anything.”
“I would never.”
“Good.”
He thought for a moment.
“Are candles acceptable?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Fire-code compliance.”
He laughed.
Then kissed me.
And for the first time, the idea of marriage did not feel like a destination waiting at the end of a relationship.
It felt like another choice.
One we were allowed to approach slowly.
Together.
May you like
Unfortunately, I had just told Luca Moretti to surprise me.
Which, in retrospect, may have been the most reckless decision of my adult life.
