Chapter 1 - The Manhattan Mirage
The digital clock on my bedside table glared back at me: 11:47 PM. Water was still dripping from the ends of my damp, dark-blonde hair, pooling into a dark circle on the fabric of my oversized gray hoodie. My heart was a frantic drum solo against my ribs. Twenty-two minutes ago, I had been standing in my tiny Washington Heights bathroom with a thick crown of white shampoo lather on my head when the phone rang. Now, I sat inside a leather armchair on the fifty-fifth floor of a skyscraper that practically ruled Manhattan, staring up at Marco Ricci.
He didn't look like a boss who handled spreadsheets or zoning permits. He looked like an apex predator disguised in a custom black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms, showing the faint, jagged scar across his left wrist. The penthouse office smelled faintly of cedar, expensive parchment, and rain. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city was a grid of electric fire and cold steel.
“You’re shaking, Emily,” Marco said, his voice dropping an octave as he pushed away from the edge of his massive walnut desk.
He took two long strides toward me. He was six-foot-three of pure, concentrated danger, and every instinct I possessed screamed at me to stand up, back away, and run all the way back to Upper Manhattan. But my feet were glued to the floor, encased in mismatched sneakers—one navy blue, one black—that I had frantically kicked on while tripping over my own rug.
“I’m not shaking,” I lied, crossing my arms tightly over my chest to hide the tremors. “It’s just... air conditioning. It’s very aggressive in here.”
A single, dark eyebrow arched upward. A ghost of a smile touched the corner of his chiseled mouth, though his sharp green eyes remained intensely focused on me. “Right. Air conditioning in late November. Naturally.”
He stopped just two feet away. Close enough that I could smell the familiar, intoxicating scent of him—sandalwood and espresso. For two years, I had served as his executive assistant, managing his schedule, screening his calls, covering for his absences, and guarding his secrets with the precision of a Swiss vault. For two years, I had told myself that my heart racing every time he walked into a room was merely professional anxiety. For two years, I had hidden the fact that I was completely, hopelessly in love with him.
And now, standing in the dead of night with damp hair and mismatched shoes, the man I loved had just asked me to pretend to be his girlfriend.
“Let’s review the logistics,” I said, desperately trying to drag my brain back to a professional frequency. “Your mother’s birthday is next Friday. We drive out to the Hamptons estate. We stay for seven days. We convince matriarch Isabella Ricci and her army of aunts that we are deeply, passionately involved.”
“That’s the core of it,” Marco agreed, leaning his hip against the corner of a side table.
“And why me, Marco?” I forced myself to look up, meeting those piercing green eyes head-on. “You have a revolving door of high-society women who would jump at the chance to spend a week in a Hamptons mansion. Socialites, models, executives. Why drag your exhausted assistant into a family theatrical production?”
Marco’s gaze darkened. He dragged a hand through his dark hair, mussing it further in a way that made my pulse spike all over again. “Because the socialites and models look like an audition, Emily. My mother isn't an idiot. If I roll up to the estate with a woman who spends forty minutes arranging her sunglasses for Instagram, Isabella will sniff it out in ten seconds flat. She wants sincerity. She wants someone grounded. Someone real.”
“And I’m real?” I gestured down at my mismatched sneakers and grey hoodie. “I look like a structural disaster who wandered off a subway platform.”
“You look intelligent, beautiful, and completely unimpressed by my bank account,” Marco said softly, his voice dropping into a register that felt like a physical touch. “That’s what my family needs to see. That’s what I need to see.”
The air in the room suddenly felt impossible to breathe. My chest grew hot, a dangerous mixture of hope and terror blooming inside my ribs. What I need to see. What did that even mean? Was it just an act for his mother, or was there something hidden beneath those guarded, cynical layers?
“Seven days,” I whispered, tasting the words on my tongue like forbidden fruit. “Seven days of holding hands, pretending to share meals, sleeping under the same roof... how are we handling sleeping arrangements, exactly? Because if you expect me to share a room with—"
“Relax, Ellis,” Marco cut in, though his eyes danced with a dangerous amusement. “The East Wing of the estate has twelve guest bedrooms. You will have your own suite. Privacy is guaranteed. But outside those doors—in the halls, at the dining table, on the terrace—we are a couple. No slip-ups. No professional detachment.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as parchment. “And when it’s over?”
Marco went very still. The playfulness vanished from his expression, replaced by a heavy, unreadable shadow. He pushed off the table and stepped closer still, until I had to tilt my head back just to look at him.
“When it’s over,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to my lips before locking back onto my eyes, “we come back to Manhattan. And everything goes back to normal.”
May you like
Normal.
The word tasted like ash. Normal meant going back to hiding behind a computer screen, fetching his double-shot espressos, and watching him from afar as he navigated a world I could never truly belong to. But looking into his face, knowing what was coming, I realized I didn't care about the danger. I had already fallen off the cliff. Now, I just had to survive the descent.
