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

Marco went from relaxed to lethal in zero point five seconds.

In a single fluid motion, his arm dropped from my face, and he stepped protectively in front of me, his body shifting into a low, coiled stance as his right hand instinctively moved toward the inside of his waistcoat.

“Who’s there?” Marco’s voice cut through the garden like a razor blade, devoid of all warmth.

Silence stretched for a agonizing second. Then, a figure stepped out from the shadows of the boxwood hedge.

It wasn't an assassin, nor was it one of his well-meaning aunts. It was a tall, impeccably tailored man in his late forties with slicked-back dark hair and cold, calculating eyes—Julian Vance.

My breath caught in my throat. Julian Vance was a high-stakes real estate developer and one of Marco’s fiercest corporate rivals in Manhattan—a man who had spent the last three years trying to muscle Marco out of several lucrative commercial acquisitions on the Upper West Side.

“Easy, Ricci,” Vance said smoothly, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though a smug, predatory grin played across his lips. “I didn't mean to interrupt a romantic moment between you and your… what is she? Your secretary? Your latest pet project?”

Marco’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. He didn't relax his stance by a millimeter. “Vance. You’re three hundred miles away from your usual hunting grounds. Trespassing on private property is a dangerous hobby for a man with your legal liabilities.”

Vance chuckled, stepping closer into the pale moonlight, his eyes flicking over me with a dismissive, arrogant sweep that made my skin crawl. “Oh, relax. Your mother invited me. Old family friends, you know how it is. Though I have to admit, I’m fascinated.” Vance looked back at Marco. “For two years, the great Marco Ricci has been completely immune to women. Not a single scandal, not a single attachment. And suddenly, on family weekend, you trot out a quiet little office assistant and declare undying love?”

Vance shook his head, clicking his tongue. “It’s a bit theatrical, don't you think? Almost like a fairy tale designed to cover up something else. Or perhaps… a convenient fiction to distract from your recent municipal zoning setbacks in Queens?”

The sheer audacity of the man made my blood boil. Before Marco could speak, before the dark, dangerous threat vibrating in Marco’s chest could manifest into something catastrophic, I stepped out from behind Marco’s shoulder.

“Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice carrying the crisp, chilling precision of an executive briefing. “If your grasp of corporate real estate zoning is as poor as your manners, it’s a miracle your firm hasn't filed for Chapter 11 yet. Mr. Ricci’s personal life is none of your concern, and your presence on this property without an explicit invitation from the host is currently bordering on criminal trespassing.”

Vance blinked, momentarily stunned that Marco’s quiet assistant had just publicly decimated him in a three-piece suit.

A slow, dark smirk spread across Marco’s face. He didn't look at Vance; he glanced sideways at me with an expression of pure, unfiltered pride.

“You heard the lady, Julian,” Marco said coldly, stepping forward until he loomed directly over Vance, his six-foot-three frame radiating suppressed violence. “You have exactly thirty seconds to walk back to your car, or I will personally ensure your next real estate development in New York involves sleeping under a bridge. Get out.”

Vance’s smug facade finally cracked. He shot one last venomous glare in my direction, turned on his heel, and fast-walked back toward the main villa.

As the crunch of Vance’s footsteps faded into the distance, the heavy tension in the garden slowly dissipated.

Marco exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair, messing the strands completely. He turned around to face me, his green eyes blazing with a mixture of adrenaline and something far more tender.

“You didn't have to step into the crossfire, Emily,” Marco said, his voice dropping back into that gravelly intimacy.

“He was insulting us,” I replied hotly, my heart still hammering against my ribs. “And more importantly, he was trying to undermine you.”

Marco closed the remaining distance between us in two strides. He reached out, his large hands gripping my waist, lifting me effortlessly until my back pressed gently against the cool stone of the fountain.

“You’re something else, Emily,” he murmured, staring down at me with an intensity that made the surrounding hedges blur into green streaks. “You stand beside me in the boardroom, you out-maneuver my rivals in a garden at midnight, and you make me forget every rule I ever set for myself.”

“Marco, we need to go back inside,” I whispered, though my hands had instinctively found their way to his shoulders, clinging to the lapels of his vest. “Your mother’s party—”

“My mother’s party can wait,” Marco interrupted softly.

He didn't give me a chance to argue. His lips captured mine in a kiss that erased every shadow, every rival, every doubt. It wasn't rushed or desperate like the one on the boat; it was deep, possessive, and absolute. It was the kiss of a man who had finally stopped running from what was right in front of him.