Chapter 1 - ONE NIGHT, ONE LIE, AND THE BOSS WHO WASN’T SUPPOSED TO GET JEALOUS
“Tonight, you’re my girlfriend.”
My boss said those words at 6:15 p.m. while placing a black velvet jewelry box worth more than my annual salary on my desk.
By midnight, some of Manhattan’s most powerful men were trying to get my number.
And Luca Moretti—the man who insisted our relationship was fake—looked increasingly furious every time another man came near me.
My fingers froze over the keyboard as silence settled across the forty-story office.
Most of the employees had already gone home. Manhattan glittered beyond the windows, thousands of lights suspended beneath a dark December sky.
Luca stood opposite me in a perfectly tailored black suit, looking as calm as if he had changed a meeting instead of asking his executive secretary to become his girlfriend.
“The Bellamy Foundation Gala,” he said. “Eight o’clock. You’re coming.”
“As your secretary?”
“As my date.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
“No?”
“You’ve apparently forgotten that I stop being paid to obey you at six.”
“You’re paid to work for me, Sophia. Not obey me.”
“Excellent distinction. The answer is still no.”
Luca Moretti was thirty-eight years old, six-foot-two, annoyingly handsome, and the chief executive of a business empire that had made the Moretti name synonymous with luxury hotels, commercial real estate, shipping, and enough Manhattan property to make ordinary people resent the existence of Monopoly.
He was also the most controlled human being I had ever met.
I had worked for him for four years.
I had seen him negotiate a two-hundred-million-dollar acquisition without raising his voice.
I had seen a senior vice president accidentally spill coffee on his jacket before an investor meeting and nearly faint from terror.
Luca had simply removed the jacket and continued talking.
I had once informed him that his proposed schedule was “physically impossible unless he learned teleportation.”
He had stared at me for three seconds.
Then canceled two meetings.
That was our relationship.
I told him the truth.
He pretended not to appreciate it.
Then usually listened.
Tonight, however, he seemed determined to test the limits of my patience.
“There are rumors,” he said.
“There are always rumors.”
“About me.”
“There are especially always rumors about you.”
His mouth tightened.
“People are speculating about who has influence over Moretti Holdings.”
“And your solution is pretending your secretary is sleeping with you?”
His expression did not change.
Mine probably did.
“Dating,” he corrected.
“Much more respectable.”
“Sophia.”
“Luca.”
I only used his first name when nobody else was around.
His eyes always changed slightly when I did.
I tried not to notice.
He leaned one hand against my desk.
“The board is becoming distracted by gossip about potential alliances.”
“Romantic alliances?”
“Apparently.”
“This sounds like a problem created by rich people having too much free time.”
“It is.”
“And you want me to solve it?”
“For one night.”
“Why me?”
That question made him pause.
Luca Moretti did not pause.
Not unless he was deciding how much truth to reveal.
“You know how to behave in that room.”
“So does your public-relations director.”
“She talks too much.”
“Your attorney?”
“Married.”
“Your cousin Bianca?”
“She would spend the evening telling everyone we were related.”
“That would certainly ruin the girlfriend story.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then his eyes met mine.
“I trust you.”
Two words.
That was all.
Unfortunately, they worked.
I hated that they worked.
Luca pushed the velvet box toward me.
I opened it.
Diamonds blazed beneath my desk lamp.
I immediately closed it.
“Absolutely not.”
“The necklace comes back afterward.”
“That isn’t the problem.”
“It’s insured.”
“Still not the problem.”
For once, Luca sat across from my desk instead of issuing another command.
“Name your terms.”
I leaned back.
“No diamonds.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I have jewelry.”
“That necklace is appropriate for the dress.”
“What dress?”
Another box appeared.
I stared at him.
“You bought me a dress?”
“My stylist selected one.”
“No.”
“Sophia—”
“I choose my own clothes.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“It was simply practical.”
“That sentence explains at least sixty percent of what’s wrong with you.”
His eyes narrowed.
I continued.
“I wear my own dress. My own jewelry. You don’t answer questions for me. You don’t invent some ridiculous story about meeting me in Monaco. And wearing a dress doesn’t give you permission to order me around.”
A faint smile appeared.
“Agreed.”
“One night.”
“One night.”
“No pretending tomorrow.”
“No pretending tomorrow.”
“And if this becomes embarrassing, I leave.”
“You won’t be embarrassed.”
“You cannot possibly guarantee that.”
“I can guarantee nobody will disrespect you.”
There was something in his voice that made me look at him differently.
Luca had never been openly protective of me.
He had never needed to be.
I was good at protecting myself.
Maybe that was one of the reasons I had lasted four years in his office.
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine?”
“One night.”
His gaze held mine.
“One night.”
At 7:43, our black sedan stopped outside the Beaumont Hotel.
I had refused Luca’s diamonds and chosen my own midnight-blue gown.
It was elegant without being dramatic, fitted through the waist and falling softly to the floor.
My dark hair was swept away from my face.
The earrings had belonged to my mother.
They were not diamonds.
They were worth almost nothing.
I would not have traded them for Luca’s entire jewelry box.
He looked at me.
And kept looking.
“Problem?” I asked.
“No.”
“You’ve been staring for seven seconds.”
“I was reconsidering something.”
“What?”
Before he could answer, the driver opened my door.
Camera flashes exploded around us.
Luca stepped out first.
Then he offered his hand.
I looked at it.
He looked at me.
“We need to appear convincing.”
“Your hand?”
“It’s traditional.”
“I know how hands work.”
I placed mine in his.
His fingers closed around mine.
Warm.
Steady.
A completely ordinary human hand.
That should not have surprised me.
But Luca existed in my mind as suits, schedules, signatures, conference calls, and perfectly controlled expressions.
Touching him made him suddenly, inconveniently real.
We climbed the hotel steps.
“Sophia.”
“What?”
“You’re gripping my hand.”
I released it immediately.
He smiled.
I hated him.
Inside the ballroom, conversations actually stopped.
Maybe that sounds dramatic.
It wasn’t.
I watched three people stop speaking midsentence.
Luca Moretti almost never brought dates to public events.
When he did, they were actresses, models, heiresses, or women whose names appeared in magazines.
Not executive secretaries who spent Monday mornings explaining why he could not schedule three breakfasts at the same time.
A photographer called his name.
“Mr. Moretti! Who’s your guest?”
Luca glanced at me.
He remembered the rule.
I answered.
“Sophia Bennett.”
“And how do you know Mr. Moretti?”
“I manage his office.”
The photographer blinked.
I smiled.
“I’m his executive secretary.”
That answer traveled through the ballroom faster than champagne.
Daniel Mercer approached first.
Daniel was forty, charming, divorced, and responsible for one of Manhattan’s fastest-growing private-equity firms.
I had spoken with him on the phone dozens of times.
He had never met me in person.
“So you’re Sophia.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I’ve spent three years hearing, ‘Mr. Moretti is unavailable, Mr. Moretti moved the meeting, Mr. Moretti wants the documents by Thursday.’”
“That does sound like me.”
Daniel smiled.
“Then you’re probably the most important person in his building.”
“Don’t tell Luca. He thinks it’s him.”
Daniel laughed.
Luca didn’t.
Within twenty minutes, I met a real-estate investor, a Boston attorney, two hedge-fund managers, a venture capitalist, and a technology founder who had personally called my desk eleven times during a merger.
Suddenly they all wanted to know where I went to college.
What books I read.
Whether I enjoyed skiing.
Whether I was attending the New Year’s benefit.
It was fascinating.
Not flattering.
Fascinating.
For four years, many of these men had treated me as a pleasant voice guarding Luca’s calendar.
Put me in a blue dress beside the right billionaire and suddenly I had opinions worth hearing.
The venture capitalist, Andrew Shaw, handed me his card.
“If Moretti ever lets you escape, call me.”
“She isn’t looking for work,” Luca said.
I slowly turned toward him.
His face changed.
He remembered.
“You’re right,” he said. “You can answer.”
That surprised me more than the jealousy in his voice.
I took Andrew’s card.
“I’m not looking for work.”
Luca relaxed.
“But I’ll keep the card.”
His jaw tightened again.
I smiled.
I was beginning to enjoy myself.
Later, a photographer asked us to stand near the ballroom staircase.
“Closer, please.”
Luca raised his hand toward my waist.
Then stopped before touching me.
I looked down at the space between his hand and my dress.
Then up at him.
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You asked permission without asking.”
“I’m learning.”
I stepped closer myself.
His hand settled against my waist.
Something warm traveled up my spine.
I blamed the champagne.
The photographer took several pictures.
“Look at each other.”
I turned.
Luca was already looking at me.
The room disappeared for half a second.
No cameras.
No investors.
No chandeliers.
Just dark eyes and the realization that my boss was holding me in a way that felt considerably less fake than it should have.
Then someone behind us said my name.
“Sophia.”
I stepped away.
Luca’s hand fell.
I turned and found Ethan Cole.
He was handsome in an easy way Luca never was.
Where Luca looked constructed from control, Ethan looked like he had just arrived from somewhere more interesting.
Navy tuxedo.
Brown hair.
Warm smile.
I had met him six months earlier at a hospitality conference in Chicago.
“You remembered me,” I said.
“Hard not to.”
Something changed in Luca’s expression.
Ethan noticed.
Of course he noticed.
Men like Ethan survived rooms like this by noticing everything.
“You’re with Moretti?”
“For tonight.”
I felt Luca’s eyes on me.
Ethan picked up two champagne glasses and offered me one.
“There’s dancing after dinner. Save me one.”
Instead of looking at Luca, I lifted my glass.
“Ask me when the music starts.”
Ethan smiled.
“I will.”
He walked away.
Luca watched him disappear into the crowd.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“Champagne?”
“This.”
I looked around at men who had ignored me for years.
Then back at the man who had brought me because he thought I would make his evening predictable.
“You asked me to play your girlfriend, Mr. Moretti.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“You never said everyone else had to believe I belonged to you.”
The music started behind us.
Then I saw Ethan walking straight toward me, hand extended.
Luca remained beside me with his jaw clenched and absolutely no right to stop him.
“Dance with me?” Ethan asked.
I put down my glass.
“Yes.”
Luca said nothing.
That was probably the most impressive display of self-control I had witnessed all evening.
Ethan led me onto the dance floor.
“You’re trying to make him jealous,” he said.
“I’m dancing.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
“I’m not responsible for Luca’s emotions.”
Ethan smiled.
“So he does have emotions.”
“Unconfirmed.”
We danced.
Ethan was good company.
He asked questions and actually listened to the answers.
He remembered that I had mentioned my younger sister, Natalie, at the Chicago conference.
He remembered I had wanted to travel through Italy.
He remembered I preferred old hotels to new ones because I liked buildings that had survived something.
Then he said, “I’m opening a hospitality investment firm.”
“That explains why you’re here.”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
“You.”
I laughed.
“Very smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
His hand remained respectfully at my back.
“I tried to get your number in Chicago.”
“You did not.”
“I asked your coworker.”
“Which one?”
“Tall guy. Glasses.”
“Peter?”
“He told me you were dating someone.”
I frowned.
“I wasn’t.”
Ethan glanced toward Luca.
“Interesting.”
I followed his gaze.
Luca stood beside the bar.
Watching us.
“Very interesting,” Ethan said.
The song ended.
“Another?”
Before I could answer, Luca appeared.
“Sophia.”
“Yes?”
“I need you.”
Three words.
His voice was calm.
His eyes were not.
“For work?”
He hesitated.
Ethan almost smiled.
Luca said, “For a conversation.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
Luca led me toward a quiet balcony.
The moment the doors closed, I folded my arms.
“What conversation?”
“Cole.”
“What about him?”
“You should be careful.”
“Why?”
“He’s ambitious.”
“So are you.”
“He wants something.”
“So do you.”
His expression darkened.
“You don’t know him.”
“I know him well enough to dance with him.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
Luca looked through the glass doors.
Ethan was talking to another guest.
Then Luca said something extraordinary.
“I don’t like him looking at you.”
Silence.
I blinked.
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It probably is.”
Another surprise.
Luca was admitting things tonight.
Dangerous things.
“Why did Peter tell Ethan I had a boyfriend?”
Luca’s face became completely unreadable.
That was answer enough.
“Oh my God.”
“Sophia—”
“You told Peter?”
“No.”
“You told someone to tell Peter?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He looked irritated.
“At the Chicago conference, Cole asked me whether you were seeing anyone.”
“And?”
“I told him I believed you were.”
“You knew I wasn’t.”
“I suspected you might be.”
“You approve my vacation requests, Luca. You knew exactly how nonexistent my personal life was.”
His mouth tightened.
“That sounded worse than intended.”
“It sounded exactly as intended.”
I stared at him.
“Were you jealous six months ago?”
“No.”
Too fast.
I laughed.
“You were.”
“I was not.”
“Luca Moretti.”
“Lower your voice.”
“Were. You. Jealous?”
He stepped closer.
The balcony suddenly felt smaller.
“I noticed him noticing you.”
“That is the definition of jealousy.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“What is your definition?”
His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth.
Then returned to mine.
“Something I have no intention of discussing on a hotel balcony.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Why?”
“Because this was supposed to be simple.”
“One night.”
“Yes.”
“One lie.”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you look like you want to throw Ethan Cole through the window?”
His jaw flexed.
Before he could answer, the balcony door opened.
A silver-haired man stepped outside.
Charles Moretti.
Luca’s uncle.
I had met him twice.
He served as vice chairman of Moretti Holdings and possessed the kind of smile that never seemed connected to anything happening behind his eyes.
“There you are,” Charles said.
Luca immediately moved half a step away from me.
Interesting.
Charles looked between us.
“The famous Sophia.”
“Famous?”
“You control my nephew’s calendar. Half Manhattan fears you.”
“Only half?”
He laughed.
Luca did not.
Charles’s gaze lingered on me.
“I didn’t realize the relationship had become personal.”
“It hasn’t,” I said.
Luca looked at me.
Charles smiled.
“Of course.”
Something about him made my skin tighten.
He turned to Luca.
“The Bellamy people want a photograph downstairs.”
“I’ll be there.”
Charles left.
I looked at Luca.
“You don’t trust him.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You moved away from me when he arrived.”
Luca’s expression sharpened.
I had spent four years learning his habits.
He should have remembered that.
“Go back inside,” he said.
“That’s an order.”
“A request.”
“Why?”
“Because tonight may not be what I thought it was.”
I stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Before he could answer, his phone vibrated.
He read the message.
All the color left his face.
“Luca?”
He locked the screen.
“We’re leaving.”
“What happened?”
“Now, Sophia.”
This time I followed.
Something in his voice had changed.
Not jealousy.
Fear.
We crossed the ballroom.
Charles was nowhere in sight.
Neither was Ethan.
Luca kept one hand near my back without touching me.
When we reached the coatroom, a waiter approached.
“Ms. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
He handed me an envelope.
“A gentleman asked me to give you this.”
“Which gentleman?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
Luca reached for it.
I pulled it away.
“My envelope.”
His eyes flashed.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Me.
Leaving Luca’s office three nights earlier.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK LUCA WHY YOU WERE REALLY INVITED TONIGHT.
Below that was another sentence.
AND ASK HIM WHAT HAPPENED TO THE LAST WOMAN WHO PRETENDED TO LOVE A MORETTI.
I looked up.
Luca had gone completely still.
“Who was she?”
“Sophia—”
“Who?”
He looked at the photograph.
Then at me.
“My fiancée.”
I stopped breathing.
“You were engaged?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
May you like
His answer was nearly lost beneath the music.
“She disappeared.”
