"The Boss Who Terrorized Manhattan Just Asked Me to Fake Love Him—And I've Been Hiding It for 2 Years."

The sheets were cold. Marco was already gone.

I sat up, rubbing my temples as the events of the previous night rushed back into my consciousness. We had survived the sleeping arrangements—barely. After a fiercely stubborn argument, we had established a strict boundary: the king bed was split down an invisible geometric equator. He stayed on the left; I stayed on the right. We had spent six hours staring at the ceiling in total darkness, listening to each other's breathing, acutely aware of every single millimeter of space between us.

If this is what torture feels like, sign me up for a lifetime sentence, I thought grimly as I threw off the duvet and headed for the shower.

By 9:30 AM, I was dressed in a crisp white linen button-down shirt tied at the waist, high-waisted denim shorts, and oversized sunglasses, stepping out onto the back patio.

The entire Ricci clan was gathered around the outdoor dining pavilion. Uncle Salvatore was grilling sausages that smelled incredible, while several aunts chattered animatedly over plates of fresh pastries and espresso. Marco sat at the head of the long wooden table, wearing a navy polo shirt and sunglasses, reviewing documents on a tablet.

The moment I stepped onto the patio, Marco looked up.

Instantly, his expression softened—that miraculous, theatrical shift that made my stomach do acrobatics. He set the tablet down, stood up, and walked over to me, pulling out the chair directly beside his.

“Morning, tesoro,” Marco murmured softly, pressing a light, lingering kiss to my temple before pulling out my chair.

The pet name—treasure—sent a white-hot jolt straight down my spine. I forced a radiant, Hollywood-grade smile to my face, sliding into the seat. “Morning, darling. Did you sleep well?”

“Like a rock,” Marco replied smoothly, sitting back down and casually sliding his hand across the table to interlace his fingers with mine. His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point. “Though I missed having you closer.”

Across the table, Aunt Rosa paused mid-sip of her cappuccino, a broad, triumphant grin spreading across her face. “See? I told you! Look at them! That is the look of a man who is finally domesticated!”

I choked on my orange juice while Marco simply smiled like a cat that had swallowed the canary, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze underneath the edge of the table.

By noon, the family excursion had moved down to the private marina nestled at the edge of the estate’s property. Bobbing gently against the wooden docks was a magnificent seventy-foot Riva yacht named The Black Mamba—a sleek, aggressive vessel that looked entirely too much like its owner.

“Right,” Uncle Salvatore announced, clapping his hands together as we boarded. “The young lovers go up to the flybridge! The rest of us old folks will stay down in the main cabin where we can drink wine in peace without watching you two make eyes at each other all day!”

Before I could protest, Marco guided me up the narrow metal staircase to the upper deck.

Up here, the panoramic view of the Hamptons coastline was breathtaking. The wind whipped past our ears, carrying the crisp scent of saltwater and sunscreen. The flybridge was completely secluded from the rest of the family below, featuring a cushioned L-shaped lounge area and the primary steering console.

Marco dropped into the pilot’s seat, firing up the twin engines with a low, satisfying roar. He turned to look at me, pulling off his sunglasses.

“You okay?” he asked over the rumble of the motors.

“I’m starting to think your family views us less as a couple and more as a localized reality television show,” I shouted back, leaning against the cushioned railing as the yacht slowly pulled away from the slip, gliding out into the open turquoise waters of Gardiner’s Bay.

Marco chuckled, steering the vessel smoothly toward open water before locking in the autopilot. He stood up and walked over to where I was standing by the railing, bracing one hand against the glass windshield right beside my head.

“My family is intense,” Marco admitted, his voice dropping as the wind died down slightly once we reached cruising speed. “They operate on extremes. You’re either part of the inner circle, or you don’t exist.”

“And where do I fit in?” I asked quietly, looking out at the horizon, though my awareness of his proximity was deafening.

Marco reached out, his knuckles gently brushing against my cheek, tucking a stray lock of dark-blonde hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, yet it burned like fire against my skin.

“You were in the inner circle the day you started working for me, Emily,” he said, his green eyes burning into mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with the performance for his relatives below. “The rest of this… this is just catching up to reality.”

My breath caught in my throat. Every alarm bell in my brain screamed that he was playing a role, that he was just committing to the bit to keep his mother off his back. But the heat in his eyes felt dangerously real.

Before I could parse the sudden, terrifying hope blooming in my chest, the yacht hit a sudden, unexpected swell.

The vessel lurched sharply to starboard.

I lost my footing on the polished teak deck. With a gasp, I tumbled sideways—directly into Marco’s arms.

Reaction time was hardwired into Marco Ricci. In a fraction of a second, his arms wrapped around my waist with ironclad strength, catching my fall before I could hit the deck furniture.

The impact drove the air from my lungs. I found myself pressed flat against his chest, my hands splayed across the crisp fabric of his polo shirt, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath my palms.

For a long, breathless moment, nobody moved.

The yacht hummed beneath us, cutting through the waves, while the world narrowed down to the space between our bodies. Marco’s face was inches from mine. I could see the tiny gold flecks in his green eyes, the slight parting of his lips, the sudden, sharp tension in his shoulders.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” he murmured, his voice thick and impossibly low.

“It was an unscripted physical hazard,” I whispered back, my voice trembling slightly as I looked up into his eyes.

Marco didn't let go. Instead, his hands slid slowly up my back, pulling me fractionally closer until there was zero space left between us. His gaze dropped from my eyes to my lips, lingering there with a hunger that made every rational thought in my head instantly dissolve into ash.

“The script didn't say anything about you falling into my arms,” he said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against my lower back.

“Maybe I improvised.”

Marco let out a low, dark groan. “Emily…”

It wasn't a warning. It was an invitation.

Before I could overthink it, before my corporate survival instincts could kick back in, Marco tilted his head and closed the remaining distance between us.

His lips met mine.

It wasn't a tentative, performative peck for the benefit of the family down below. It was deep, hungry, and desperate—a two-year explosion of suppressed longing finally breaking through the dam. His lips were warm and firm, moving against mine with a fierce, demanding intensity that stole the remaining oxygen from my lungs.

My hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as I kissed him back with every ounce of the secret love I had harbored since the day I walked into his office.