Page 11 of Confusing Cade
“I wouldn’t say I’m annoyed,” I lied. “Just busy. Too busy for this.” I stood and buttoned my blazer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have back-to-back meetings today, and I want to stay on schedule.”
The group followed my lead, a few making comments about how glad they were I was willing to do this and how excited they were that the development was in the final stages of completion. I made the usual small talk, and when I was alone again, I relished the silence.
I sat at the conference table and flipped through the proposal Frances had clearly put a lot of effort into creating. The glossy pages outlined all the reasons why it was important to involve Gino Moretti’s eldest daughter, Isabella, in the grand opening of my development, which promised to revitalize an often-overlooked area north of downtown West Palm Beach. The pitch wasn’t just about sentimentality. Frances and her team had a vision, one that came with strings attached. They were offering to fund a significant portion of the opening ceremony, including a community festival to draw in locals, but only if I agreed to make Isabella a central figure in the event. They even suggested involving other prominent local families—the Jennings, the Rowans—to create a broader coalition of Palm Beach’s elite, tying the Promenade to the region’s storied past.
The first point in their deck hit hard: including Isabella could symbolize reconciliation between the Moretti and Weston families, a public gesture to heal old wounds from a rivalry that had fractured parts of this community decades ago. Frances argued it would generate positive media coverage, framing the Promenade as a unifying force. I could envision headlines about mending fences, drawing in investors and residents who still whispered the Moretti name with reverence. It might even boost occupancy rates in the new retail spaces, encouraging cross-community partnerships or events that could sustain economic growth in this forgotten northern corridor. But the thought of reaching out to Isabella after everything, made my stomach twist. She’d hated me once, and for good reason. Could I really ask her to stand by my side for this?
Then there was the branding angle. The proposal emphasized Isabella’s connection to the Moretti legacy, and a dynasty that had shaped South Florida’s real estate landscape. Her presence at the opening would add authenticity, a nod to the past that could resonate with nostalgic stakeholders and media outlets. They envisioned her as a figurehead, someone to frame the Promenade as a respectful evolution of West Palm Beach’s history, not just another glossy development. That kind of narrative could drive tourism, increase foot traffic, and even position the area as a heritage-honoring destination. Frances’steam had done their homework, citing projections of higher retail sales and job creation, maybe even eligibility for local grants tied to community-focused projects. It was smart, but it felt like gambling on Isabella’s name to sell my vision, knowing she might see it as exploiting her family’s pain.
Finally, they pitched a philanthropic angle, one that caught me off guard. They suggested dedicating a piece of the Promenade—a park, a community center—in Gino Moretti’s memory, with Isabella’s blessing to seal the gesture. They even floated the idea of funding scholarships for underprivileged kids in West Palm Beach, tying the Moretti name to a cause that could draw in socially minded tenants and buyers. The numbers were compelling: potential tax benefits, partnerships with nonprofits, and a chance to host collaborative events that would keep the community engaged long after the ribbon was cut. But it meant pulling Isabella into a project she might want no part of, especially after what my family had done to hers. Would she see it as a genuine olive branch or a cynical ploy to polish my image?
When I got to that part, I closed the deck, shoved it aside again, and tapped the button under the conference table. My jaw tightened as I leaned back, the weight of their proposal pressing against the guilt I’d carried for years. Frances and her team weren’t just asking me to include Isabella—they were betting on her to elevate this project into something bigger, something that could redefine West Palm Beach. But they didn’t know what I knew: inviting her meant facing a past I’d spent years trying to outrun. And yet, the numbers, the optics, the potential... they were hard to ignore. Could I afford to say no?
“A lot of people still respect the Morettis. The family did a lot to help build Palm Beach County during the fifties and sixties, and Gino capitalized on that. I don’t think we’d have as much luxury real estate in this part of the state if it wasn’t for him.”
They hadn’t been wrong. Gino’s intuition for development had been extraordinary, but it was the brief conversation I'd had with my father that still haunted me.
“I’m scared about Gino, Cade. He’s lost his drive. His mental acuity. I wonder if he’ll face those pursuing him for his astronomical debts...”
“If he doesn't, what will happen to him? What are you suggesting, Dad?”
I never got a direct answer. What had Dad been suggesting about Gino? And why, when I'm thinking of Gino's last moments, do I stop and think about Bella?
The woman who both hates and intrigues me.
My phone rang, shattering my thoughts. It was Chris Rowan, following up on the meeting.
“Heard about the commission's pitch,” he said. “But heads-up: the latest progress report shows delays in the fitness center build-out. Suppliers are backing up, and the crew's behind by ten days.”
“What the hell?”
“There’s no clear reason I can find. The materials arrived on time, and the weather has been fine.”
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We were ahead last month.” The Promenade was my legacy project; slowdowns like this could snowball. “Dig into it, but quietly. I don't want this derailing the grand opening.”
Chris agreed, but as I hung up, a knot formed in my gut. Permits, builds, paperwork—everything had been smooth until now. Was this merely a coincidence? Or something more?
Fuck.
“Lois,” I called into the intercom. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the day.”
CHAPTER SIX
BELLA
