Chapter 1 - The Midnight Concoction and the Manhattan SkylineThe scent of cheap lavender shampoo was still fresh on my damp ends when the elevator doors hissed open, spilling me out onto the private penthouse foyer of Ricci Holdings.
Twenty-two minutes earlier, I had been standing in my cramped Brooklyn bathroom with suds dripping down my forehead, staring at my phone as Marco Ricci’s name burned across the screen like a bad omen.
“Emily. I need you in my office. Now.”
And then, click.
No explanation. No hesitation. Just the terrifying authority of a man who owned half of Manhattan and half the nightmares of anyone who ever shorted a restaurant lease or crossed his import lines.
Now, standing inside his minimalist, glass-walled office that overlooked the glittering abyss of New York City, I was trying very hard not to look like a woman who had spent the last two years harboring an agonizing, unspoken crush on her boss.
Marco stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his six-foot-three frame silhouetted against the neon glow of the skyline. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms dusted with dark hair. His green eyes—sharp, calculating, and dangerously tired—slid over me, taking in the mismatched sneakers, the damp hair, and the desperate grip I had on the hem of my hoodie.
“You came fast,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated straight down my spine.
“You said now, Mr. Ricci,” I replied, my voice sounding steadier than I felt.
He pushed away from the glass and walked toward me, his stride predatory and unhurried. When he stopped two feet away, the clean scent of sandalwood and expensive espresso washed over me, instantly short-circuiting every professional boundary I had spent twenty-four months building.
“Drop the ‘Mr. Ricci’ when it’s just the two of us, Emily. We’ve been over this,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before snapping back to my eyes. “Especially tonight.”
My throat tightened. Especially tonight.
That was how it had started five minutes ago when he dropped the bombshell that was currently threatening to detonate my entire existence. His mother’s seventieth birthday. A week-long family gathering at their sprawling estate in the Hamptons. And me—the quiet, chronically exhausted executive assistant who spent her days organizing his calendar, filtering his calls, and quietly memorizing his coffee order—playing the role of his passionate, besotted girlfriend.
“I still can’t wrap my head around this,” I whispered, hugging my arms across my chest as if holding myself together. “Out of all the women in New York. Models, socialites, executives... women who actually know how to wear designer evening gowns and hold a conversation about art auctions. Why me?”
Marco’s expression tightened. He reached out, his long fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from my cheek. The casual touch sent an electric shock straight through my skin, making my breath hitch.
“My mother is a hawk, Emily,” he said quietly, his gaze boring into mine with an intensity that felt entirely too real. “She sees through every polished debutante and trophy girlfriend I’ve ever brought home. She knows when someone is looking at my bank accounts instead of my face. If I bring a stranger to her seventieth birthday, she’ll interrogate her until she cracks in forty-eight hours.”
“And you think she won’t interrogate me?” I asked, a nervous laugh slipping past my lips. “Marco, I organize your spreadsheets! I buy her birthday gifts every year! If I suddenly show up holding your hand and calling you pet names, she’ll smell the fraud from three counties away.”
“She won’t,” Marco countered, stepping a fraction closer, invading my personal space with a gravity that made my knees feel like water. “Because my mother already likes you.”
I blinked, paralyzed. “She... what?”
“She remembers every time we’ve spoken on the phone when she calls the office. She loves the tea blends you recommended for her arthritis last winter. And last Christmas, when you sent that handwritten card? She framed it.” Marco’s green eyes darkened, a strange, vulnerable shadow crossing his features. “My mother thinks you’re the only sensible, genuine woman in my entire orbit. If I tell her we’ve been quietly falling in love for the past six months... she won’t just believe it. She’ll celebrate it.”
Falling in love.
The words echoed in my skull, carrying a crushing, beautiful agony. For me, it wasn't a performance. It was a brutal, daily reality I had wrestled with in silence for two years. Every time he stayed late at the office, every time he casually rested his hand on the back of my chair during high-stakes board meetings, every time he looked at me with those piercing green eyes—I had been drowning in a feeling I could never express.
And now he was asking me to dive headfirst into the deep end, knowing full well I’d have to climb back out and pretend it meant nothing when Monday morning rolled around.
“A week, Marco,” I whispered, staring up at him, my defenses crumbling one by one. “Seven days in your family estate, surrounded by people who will be watching our every move. If I do this... what happens when we come back?”
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Marco didn't answer immediately. He stared down at me for a long, agonizing moment, his jaw working as if he were fighting a battle behind closed doors. Then, slowly, a dangerous, crooked smile touched the corner of his mouth.
“Let’s worry about surviving my mother first, sweetheart,” he said softly, using a pet name that sent a tremor straight to my toes. “Pack a bag. My driver picks us up at six tomorrow morning.”
