Chapter 2 - Under the ChandelierThe shockwave that rippled through the Ricci family foyer was palpable. For three agonizing seconds, the only sound was the distant crash of Atlantic waves against the Southampton shore.
Then, Elena Ricci set her crystal flute down on a mahogany side table with a sharp clink.
She didn't rush forward with theatrical tears or over-the-counter maternal platitudes. Instead, she walked across the herringbone floor with the measured, predatory grace of a queen inspecting her vanguard. Her dark eyes, identical in shape and intensity to Marco’s, swept over my mismatched sneakers, my canvas travel bag resting by the door, the simple linen sundress I had hurriedly thrown on, and finally landed on Marco’s arm still securely banded around my waist.
“Emily,” Elena said, her voice rich, low, and laced with an undecipherable layer of iron. “My son has mentioned your name exactly zero times in two years of employment. And now, on my seventieth birthday weekend, he drags you through my front door and declares you the centerpiece of his life.”
My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. I opened my mouth to offer some rehearsed corporate pleasantry—It’s an honor to finally meet you, Mrs. Ricci—when Marco smoothly intervened.
“I didn't talk about her, Mamma, because I knew the second I did, you’d start planning the wedding before I even had a ring,” Marco murmured, his tone shifting into something dangerously affectionate. He looked down at me, his green eyes softening with an artful, theatrical tenderness that made my stomach flip-flop. “And I wanted to keep her to myself for a little while first.”
A collective gasp echoed from a cluster of cousins near the french doors. One of Marco’s uncles—a burly man with silver temples named Uncle Salvatore—burst into a booming laugh, slapping his thigh. “Madonna mia! The ice king has finally melted! It took a quiet little assistant to bring down the empire!”
Elena’s gaze didn’t waver from mine. She stepped closer, reaching out to take my chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her fingers were cool, adorned with a massive, vintage emerald ring. She tilted my face upward, studying me with clinical precision. I forced myself not to pull away, meeting her gaze with steady, unwavering calm—a skill I had honed surviving corporate budget audits with Marco.
Finally, a slow, knowing smile broke across Elena’s lined face. She released my chin and patted my cheek lightly.
“She has backbone, Marco. Her pulse didn't even spike when I looked at her,” Elena declared, turning her critical eye to her son. “Good choice. Better than that plastic-surgery disaster from the Upper East Side last Thanksgiving. Bring her inside. Let her eat before you starve the poor girl to death.”
The tension in the room instantly evaporated, replaced by a deafening tidal wave of congratulations, backslapping, and rapid-fire Italian dialects. As cousins swarmed us, offering drinks and demanding to hear how we met, Marco’s hand never left my waist. His fingers burned through the thin fabric of my dress, a steady anchor amid the chaos.
“Breathe,” Marco murmured softly against my ear as his cousin Matteo clapped him on the shoulder.
“I am breathing,” I whispered back through a fixed, polite smile. “Though my internal organs are currently rearranging themselves.”
“You handled my mother better than most federal prosecutors do,” he smirked, steering me toward the sprawling back patio where long wooden tables groaned under the weight of charcuterie, artisanal cheeses, and steaming trays of baked ziti and roasted meats.
By late evening, the initial adrenaline crash had left me exhausted. The family dinner had been a masterclass in Italian-American familial interrogation disguised as hospitality. Between passing bowls of homemade meatballs and dodging pointed questions from aunts about our future wedding venue, I felt like I had run a marathon through a minefield.
Fortunately, the estate was vast enough to swallow thirty guests without friction.
When the clock struck midnight and the older generation finally retired to their respective wings of the villa, Marco led me up the grand central staircase to the second-floor master suite.
The room was breathtaking—a cavernous chamber featuring dark wood beams, a king-sized bed draped in crisp white Egyptian cotton, and a private balcony overlooking the moonlit ocean.
I dropped my canvas bag by the door and let out a long, shuddering sigh, pressing the heels of my hands against my tired eyes.
“You can drop the act now, boss,” I said quietly, the exhaustion heavy in my voice. “We made it through day one without starting an international incident.”
When I lowered my hands, Marco was standing by the double doors of the balcony, having already stripped off his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. The moonlight cut across his sharp cheekbones and broad shoulders, casting deep shadows across the planes of his chest.
“I told you to drop the title, Emily,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always bypassed my rational mind.
“Force of habit,” I muttered, walking over to the minibar to pour myself a glass of iced water. My hands were finally starting to stop shaking. “So. Where do I sleep? There’s a guest wing down the hall, right? Or should I pitch a tent in the walk-in closet to maintain the illusion?”
Marco didn't answer immediately. He pushed the balcony doors open, letting the cool ocean breeze drift into the room, carrying the scent of salt and pine. Then, he turned back to face me, leaning against the doorframe.
“My mother placed us in the master suite,” Marco said evenly.
I choked on my sip of water, coughing violently as droplets hit the marble countertop. I slammed the glass down, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “She what?”
“She insists that a couple deeply in love doesn’t sleep down the hall from one another under her roof,” Marco replied, though there was a faint, amused twitch at the corner of his mouth. “If you sleep in the guest wing, my mother’s security detail—consisting of three aunts and an uncle who used to work the docks in Brooklyn—will notice within twenty minutes.”
“Marco, are you insane?” My voice rose an octave. “We are sharing a room?”
“We are sharing a bed, Emily,” he corrected smoothly, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward me. Each step he took felt like a physical weight pressing me backward against the minibar counter. “Unless you want to explain to a woman who thinks divorce is a moral failing why her future daughter-in-law is sleeping on a chaise lounge on night one.”
“I can sleep on the floor!”
“You will ruin your back, and you will look exhausted tomorrow, which will make my mother suspicious that we’re fighting,” Marco argued, closing the distance until he was standing less than a foot away.
The heat radiating off his body was palpable. I could see the individual dark lashes framing his green eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. My mind screamed at me to step away, to cite HR policies, to invoke professional boundaries. But my feet were glued to the floor.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accused breathlessly, my fingers gripping the edge of the marble counter behind me.
Marco leaned down, bringing his face dangerously close to mine. His breath brushed against my lips, scented with mint and expensive bourbon.
“I’m surviving it,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before rising back to meet my gaze. “Just like you are. Now go take a shower, Emily. Tomorrow we have to go yachting with my uncles, and you need to look like you're madly, desperately in love with me.”
He stepped back, leaving an aching, freezing void where his body heat had just been, and walked toward the bathroom, tossing his shirt onto the armchair.
May you like
I stood frozen in the center of the silent, moonlit room, my heart hammering like a trapped bird. Seven days of this. Seven days of acting, touching, breathing the same air as the man I loved, knowing it was all a lie designed to appease an Italian mother.
God help me, I didn't know how I was going to survive the first night, let alone the week.
