Chapter 4 - Midnight Confessions
By 11:30 PM, the estate had finally quieted down. The uncles had retired to the patio with cigars and scotch, the aunts were arguing over dessert recipes in the kitchen, and Nonma had finally retreated to her quarters upstairs.
I slipped out through the French doors of the East Wing, stepping barefoot onto the cool stone terrace that overlooked the moonlit Atlantic. The salty ocean breeze caught my hair, carrying the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.
I gripped the wrought-iron railing, closing my eyes as the adrenaline of the evening finally began to drain out of my system. Pretending to be in love with Marco Ricci was the most exhausting, exhilarating thing I had ever done. Every touch, every lingering look, every casual brush of his hand had felt too real—a cruel simulation of a reality I could never actually have.
“You’ll catch a cold out here,” a deep, gravelly voice murmured from the shadows of the doorway.
I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
Marco stepped out onto the terrace, having discarded his suit jacket and tie. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the top two buttons, exposing the hollow of his throat and the dark shadow of stubble along his jawline. He walked over, stopping right beside me at the railing, the heat of his body cutting through the chilly night air.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, keeping my eyes fixed on the silver shimmer of the ocean waves in the distance. “Your family is... intense.”
“They liked you,” Marco said quietly.
“They practically bullied me into eating half a cow.”
A low, rich chuckle rumbled in his chest. “That’s Isabella’s version of a blessing. If she hated you, she would have served you plain boiled chicken and asked about your career ambitions.”
I smiled faintly, resting my forearms against the cold iron. “It’s a lot, Marco. Playing this part. Every time you touch my back or look at me the way you did at the dinner table... it feels dangerous. Not because of your family, but because...”
I trailed off, suddenly terrified of finishing the sentence. Because I’m falling deeper into a trap of my own making.
“Because what?” Marco prompted, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic hum. He turned toward me, leaning his hip against the railing, studying my face in the moonlight.
“Because it feels too easy,” I admitted, my voice trembling slightly. “Pretending to care about you isn’t acting. That’s the scary part.”
The silence that followed stretched out between us, thick and electric. The ocean breeze whispered through the weeping willows behind the terrace, but all I could hear was the frantic, deafening rhythm of my own heart.
Marco didn’t laugh. He didn't offer a professional dismissal or step back. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His large, warm hand cupped the side of my face, his thumb gently brushing against my cheekbone, tracing the line of my jaw down to my chin.
His touch was so tender, so impossibly gentle for a man who commanded syndicates and terrified corporate boardrooms, that a tear slipped unbidden from the corner of my eye.
“Emily,” he whispered, his green eyes burning into mine with an intensity that felt like a physical brand. “Who said we were pretending?”
My breath hitched violently. The world around us seemed to stop spinning entirely.
“Marco... what are you saying?”
“I’ve watched you for two years,” he confessed, his voice rough, stripped of all armor and pretense. “I watched you walk into my office every morning with your coffee and your spreadsheets. I watched you shield me from incompetence, laugh at my worst jokes, and stay late just to make sure my desk was clear. I didn't invent this charade to trick my mother, Emily. I invented it because it was the only way I could finally justify holding your hand without you running away.”
Stunned into complete silence, I stared up at him, tears welling in my eyes. Every doubt, every fear, every agonizing night spent wondering if he even noticed me—dissolved in a single heartbeat.
Before I could form a coherent thought, Marco closed the remaining distance between us. His hand gripped the back of my neck, pulling me forward, and his lips met mine.
The kiss wasn't hesitant or tentative. It was deep, fierce, and desperate—a culmination of two years of suppressed longing, unspoken words, and dangerous proximity. His mouth moved over mine with a slow, devastating authority that made my knees buckle. I gasped softly, and Marco took advantage of the opening, his tongue tangling with mine as his other arm wrapped securely around my waist, lifting me flush against his chest.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his thick hair, kissing him back with every ounce of the love I had hidden away for so long. The ocean roared around us, the moonlight washed over the terrace, and for the first time in my life, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.
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When Marco finally pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, we were both breathing heavily, our chests rising and falling in sync.
“Not pretending,” he whispered against my lips, a fierce, triumphant smile touching his mouth. “Never pretending.”
