Chapter 2 - Secrets Beneath the MistletoeThe warmth of the ballroom suddenly felt suffocating. Around us, the polite murmurs of Manhattan’s elite resumed, but the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted. Whispers rippled through the crowd like electricity through a wire, eyes darting between Luca, myself, and the furious blonde woman in the red dress standing near the grand piano.
Her name was Francesca Rossi, the daughter of a rival syndicate-linked shipping magnate in Brooklyn. For months, gossip columns had paired Luca and Francesca together as an inevitable corporate merger of bloodlines and power.
Luca’s grandmother lingered for another beat, her sharp gaze searching my face for any sign of deception. Apparently finding none in my wide, startled eyes, she gave a slow, approving nod. "Well, she has better posture than the last girl you brought around, Luca. Dinner is served in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
With a rustle of heavy silk, she turned away.
I let out a shaky breath I hadn't realized I was holding, pulling my hand gently from his grip. "You didn't have to go that far, Luca. Your grandmother nearly had a stroke."
"My grandmother is tougher than you think," Luca replied smoothly, taking a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handing it to me. "And I meant every word."
I stared at him over the rim of the glass. "You're laying it on a bit thick for a fake relationship, don't you think? What if your family expects a wedding by spring?"
"Let them expect it," he murmured, his dark eyes darkening with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher.
Before I could question him further, Francesca Rossi intercepted us, her high heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. Her smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Luca, darling!" she purred, ignoring me completely as she stepped directly into his personal space, her hand resting familiarly on his lapel. "I didn't realize you were bringing your secretary as a holiday charity case this year. How sweet of you to give her a night out."
The casual cruelty in her tone made my spine stiffen. I opened my mouth to deliver a sharp corporate reprimand, but Luca spoke first.
"Francesca," Luca’s voice dropped into a register so chillingly cold that the surrounding temperature in the room seemed to plummet. "Remove your hand from my jacket."
Francesca blinked, her smile faltering. "Darlin', I was just joking—"
"Emma is not a charity case," Luca continued, stepping forward so that his massive frame completely blocked Francesca from my view, shielding me with quiet, absolute authority. "She is my partner. And if I ever hear you speak to her with that disrespect again, your father’s shipping contracts at the Port of New Jersey will be terminated before midnight."
The blood drained entirely from Francesca’s face. In our world, a threat from Luca Moretti wasn't an empty warning; it was a death sentence for a family business. She glared at me with pure hatred, muttered an incoherent apology, and practically fled toward the bar.
I stood frozen, staring up at Luca’s hard profile. "You didn't have to threaten her empire over a snide remark."
"She insulted you," he said simply, turning his gaze back down to me, the ice in his eyes instantly melting into something warm and devastatingly tender. "Nobody insults you in my presence, Emma. Not tonight. Not ever."
The sincerity in his tone sent a shiver straight down my spine. To distract myself from the dangerous fluttering in my chest, I excused myself to find the powder room, needing a few moments of solitude to process the madness of the evening.
The Moretti estate's downstairs powder room was a masterpiece of Victorian design, smelling of expensive white gardenia potpourri. I splashed cold water on my face, staring into the gilded mirror to make sure my mascara hadn't smudged.
As I dried my hands with a linen towel, the heavy oak door clicked open.
Francesca Rossi stepped inside, locking the door behind her with a sharp click. She leaned against the wood, crossing her arms and looking at me with undisguised venom.
"You think you've won something, don't you?" Francesca sneered, taking a slow step toward me. "A little peasant girl from Brooklyn playing dress-up in a designer gown paid for by Moretti money."
I kept my voice calm, channeling every ounce of corporate composure I had learned working by Luca’s side. "If you have something to say, Francesca, save it for the boardrooms where you actually belong."
"Listen to me very carefully," she hissed, stepping right into my personal space. "Luca Moretti does not marry secretaries. Men like him marry for territory, power, and bloodlines. You are a temporary holiday distraction. The moment his family pressure eases, he will drop you back into that miserable little apartment where he found you."
Her words stung—not because I believed she cared about my well-being, but because deep down, the logical part of my brain whispered the exact same terrifying truth.
I squared my shoulders, lifting my chin. "If Luca is as dangerous as everyone in this city says he is, Francesca, you might want to rethink cornering the woman he just threatened an empire to protect."
Francesca’s face twisted with rage, but before she could lunge forward, a heavy, authoritative knock echoed on the bathroom door.
"Emma?" Luca’s deep voice resonated through the wood, laced with an unmistakable edge of impatience. "Open the door."
Without breaking eye contact with Francesca, I turned the lock and pulled the door open. Luca stood in the hallway, his dark eyes scanning my face instantly for any sign of distress.
"Is everything alright?" he demanded, his hand resting protectively on my shoulder.
"Everything is fine," I murmured, stepping past him into the hallway. "Just catching my breath."
Luca glanced past me into the powder room, where Francesca stood trembling with fury. He didn't say another word to her, but the look he gave the other woman was enough to make Francesca back away into the shadows.
May you like
He pulled me against his side, his thumb brushing reassuringly against my hip as we walked back toward the glittering ballroom. But as the string quartet began to play a slow waltz, I couldn't shake Francesca’s warning from my mind.
Because beneath the glittering lights, the expensive champagne, and the intoxicating illusion of being cherished by a billionaire, I knew the clock was ticking down toward midnight—and reality was waiting outside in the cold.
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