Chapter 1 - The Midnight Summons
Steam had just begun fogging the glass of the bathroom mirror, curling in lazy white tendrils against the cool tile, when the sharp vibration of my phone cut through the quiet hum of the apartment. I froze, a towel half-wrapped around my damp hair, and stared at the screen resting on the marble counter.
The name glowing in white letters against the dark display was enough to make every relaxed thought in my head evaporate instantly.
Adrian Moretti.
At 11:45 on a rainy Friday night, a text or call from Adrian meant only one thing: crisis management. But calling me at this hour—personally, from his private line—broke every protocol of the working relationship we had carefully maintained for two years.
My finger hovered over the glass before I swiped to answer.
"Mr. Moretti?" I asked, my voice carrying a cautious edge.
"Emily." His voice came through the speaker low, clipped, and charged with an unmistakable urgency that brook no argument. "I need you in my office. Now."
Before I could ask a single question, the line went dead with a sharp click.
Twenty-three minutes later, I stood outside the heavy double oak doors of his penthouse office on the thirty-eighth floor of the Moretti Tower in Midtown Manhattan. The rain was drumming a furious rhythm against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows behind me, turning the city lights below into a blurred watercolor smear of gold and silver.
I looked down at my reflection in the polished brass door handles: old jeans, worn-out white sneakers, and a cream-colored cotton hoodie pulled up over still-damp hair. I looked less like an executive assistant and more like a college student caught in a thunderstorm.
For one irrational second, my hand hovered over the wood, tempted to turn around, take the private elevator back down to the lobby, and pretend my phone had died.
Then the heavy oak door swung open before I could even knock.
Adrian filled the doorway, standing tall and imposing in a black dress shirt with the collar undone and the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing the taut, corded muscles beneath his skin. At six-foot-three, with dark, slightly tousled hair and piercing green eyes, he looked far less like my boss and much more like the formidable figure Manhattan whispered about after dark when the corporate suits went home.
Officially, Adrian ran Moretti Security and Logistics—a multi-billion-dollar empire handling secure shipping lanes, high-end warehousing, and private executive protection across the globe. Unofficially, his name carried enough weight in the underground arteries of the city that rival syndicates and ambitious politicians lowered their voices whenever they spoke of him.
"Come in," he said, stepping aside.
I swallowed hard and stepped past him, the thick wool rug muffling the sound of my sneakers.
For two years, my job had been defined by precision. I managed his impossible calendar across three time zones, anticipated his coffee orders before he spoke them, remembered birthdays of foreign dignitaries he barely tolerated, and intercepted corporate fires before they ever reached his desk. I knew his routines, his preferences, and his professional boundaries.
But I had never, in all that time, been alone with him in this cavernous office after midnight.
The room was a study in masculine power: dark mahogany bookshelves lining the walls, rich leather armchairs, and a minimalist glass-and-steel desk positioned before the panoramic windows overlooking the stormy Manhattan skyline. It felt less like a workspace and more like the command center of a man accustomed to bending the world to his absolute will.
"Sit," he instructed, gesturing to the leather chair opposite his desk.
I walked over and lowered myself into the seat, folding my hands neatly in my lap to hide the slight tremor in my fingers.
Adrian moved around the desk, but instead of taking his high-backed leather chair, he leaned against the front edge directly across from me. Up close, the ambient city light caught the sharp angles of his jaw, and I could trace the faint lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. His broad shoulders—normally squared with effortless authority—carried a distinct, rigid tension.
"I have a problem," he said bluntly.
I blinked, my professional instincts kicking in automatically despite my rattled nerves.
"Of course," I replied, my voice steadying. "What do you need? Is it the European shipping manifests? Or the security audit for the London branch?"
His gaze lingered on me, dark green and unreadable, cutting straight through my rehearsed corporate calm.
"My mother turns seventy next Saturday."
I blinked again, thrown completely off balance by the abrupt shift in topic. I had spent the last two years tracking every corporate merger, legal dispute, and security threat on his desk, yet my brain momentarily stalled at the mundane reminder of a family milestone.
"I know," I said slowly. "I confirmed the guest list for the estate in the Hamptons this afternoon. Three hundred guests, catering by Le Bernardin, and the string quartet you requested."
"She believes I’m bringing someone."
That made me hesitate. A cold drop of caution pooled in my stomach.
"A date?" I asked carefully.
"A woman I’m serious about."
I stared at him, my mouth parting slightly before I could stop myself. "You’re serious about someone?"
"No."
Of course he wasn't. Adrian Moretti barely tolerated dinner meetings that exceeded forty-five minutes. The idea of him maintaining a romantic relationship, let alone falling in love, bordered on science fiction. In the two years I worked for him, I had never once seen him bring a woman to a corporate gala or an industry event. He was married entirely to his empire.
"So what exactly is the problem?" I asked, crossing my legs.
"My mother has been asking me to settle down for years," Adrian said, his jaw tightening slightly. "She’s convinced this seventieth birthday might be the last time the entire family is together under one roof. Her health hasn't been great over the past six months, Emily. She wants to see me happy before..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but something in his deep, resonant voice softened—a crack in the impenetrable armor that revealed the devoted son beneath the ruthless corporate titan.
Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened back into stone.
"So I lied to her," he continued.
My stomach dropped into freefall.
"Oh no," I whispered.
His dark eyebrow lifted in a sharp, sardonic arch. "You lied to your mother?"
"Yes."
"And now you need me to find you a professional dating service? Or vet a socialite who can play the part for a weekend?"
"No."
Adrian reached deliberately into the center drawer of his desk, pulled out a crisp piece of heavy cardstock, and placed a check flat on the dark wood directly in front of me.
My eyes landed instantly on the numbers written across the line.
Fifty thousand dollars.
My breath caught in my throat, and my mouth went bone dry. I stared at the zeroes as if the ink might magically rearrange itself into something more sensible.
"I need you," Adrian said, his green eyes holding mine with unyielding, terrifying intensity, "to be my girlfriend for one week."
I looked up slowly from the check to his face, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"You want to pay me fifty thousand dollars," I repeated, each word tasting surreal on my tongue, "to pretend I’m in love with you?"
"Yes," he replied without a single second of hesitation.
May you like
Then he leaned in closer, invading my personal space, adding the final clause that made my pulse stumble and completely shatter any illusion of safety I had left.
"And by Saturday night, my entire family has to believe you’re the woman I intend to marry."
