Chapter 3 - Arrival in Paradise
By Thursday morning, my life had officially turned upside down.
I stood on the cobblestone driveway outside my Astoria apartment building, clutching the handle of a battered canvas suitcase that had seen better days. When a sleek, matte-black Bentley Continental GT pulled up to the curb with tinted windows and purring engine, the sleepy neighborhood pedestrians stared in open-mouthed awe.
The rear door clicked open, and Marco stepped out.
He was dressed in a casual charcoal linen button-down with the top three buttons undone, dark designer sunglasses shielding his eyes, and tailored slacks that hugged his long legs to perfection. He looked like an advertisement for a luxury resort—effortlessly wealthy, dangerously handsome, and entirely out of my league.
“Morning, Emily,” he said smoothly, taking my battered suitcase from my hand with effortless strength and tossing it into the trunk as if it weighed nothing at all.
“Good morning, Mr.—” I caught myself, my eyes widening in panic as I glanced up and down the empty street. “I mean... good morning, Marco.”
The way his name rolled off my tongue for the first time without a formal title felt illicit, like stealing candy from a vault.
A slow, approving smirk played on his lips. “Good start. Get in.”
The drive out to the Hamptons took two hours. As the dense concrete jungle of Manhattan dissolved into rolling green hills, sprawling vineyards, and multi-million-dollar coastal estates, my anxiety reached a fever pitch.
When the Bentley finally rolled through towering wrought-iron gates and swept up a quarter-mile shell driveway toward a sprawling, Cape Cod-style mansion overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, my breath hitched.
The Ricci family summer estate was less of a house and more of a luxury compound. White clapboard siding, wrap-around porches, manicured hedges, an infinity pool glittering turquoise in the morning sun, and a private stretch of pristine white-sand beach.
Several luxury cars were already parked in the gravel courtyard—vintage Porsches, sleek Range Rovers, and Mercedes sedans.
“Remember,” Marco said quietly as the car slid to a smooth halt. He turned in his seat, leaning over the center console until his face was inches from mine. The clean scent of his cologne filled my lungs. “Just act natural. Smile, stay close, and let me handle the heavy lifting.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, my hands trembling as I smoothed down my white sundress—a modest, inexpensive piece I had panic-bought at Zara two days prior. “You aren't the one about to be dissected by high-society snobs.”
Marco reached across the console. Before I could pull away, his warm, calloused fingers wrapped gently around my trembling hand. His thumb traced a soothing circle over my knuckles.
“You’re going to be fine, Emily,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble that anchored me instantly. “Because to them... you’re the woman I couldn't resist.”
The warmth of his skin sent a searing jolt straight up my arm. I nodded mutely, unable to form words, completely hypnotized by the sudden gentleness in his eyes.
The driver’s side door opened, and a sharp knock on the window broke the spell.
Marco dropped my hand, put his impenetrable mask back on in a fraction of a second, and pushed open his door.
As we walked up the wide stone steps toward the grand double doors of the mansion, Marco didn't hesitate. He reached out, sliding his arm securely around my waist, pulling my body flush against his side.
The heat of his torso burned through the thin fabric of my dress.
Act natural, I chanted in my head. Just act natural.
The heavy mahogany doors swung open before we could even knock, revealing a tall, impeccably dressed woman in her late sixties with silver-streaked dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that were unmistakably, terrifyingly identical to Marco’s.
Elena Ricci. The matriarch.
May you like
Her stern, critical gaze swept over my budget sandals, my simple hair clip, and my terrified expression. Then, her eyes shifted to Marco, whose arm was possessively banded around my waist.
“Marco,” his mother purred, her voice dripping with aristocratic ice. “You’re late. And who, exactly, have you dragged to my birthday weekend?”
