The Moretti Contract

By Friday afternoon, the pretense had officially become our reality.

We stepped out of Adrian’s private helicopter onto the manicured lawn of the Moretti estate in Southampton, the crisp Atlantic breeze whipping my hair across my face. The estate was a sprawling compound of shingle-style architecture, white picket fences, and hydrangeas blooming in bursts of brilliant blue against emerald grass.

As we walked toward the grand front veranda, the heavy oak doors swung open, and a woman who clearly possessed Adrian’s striking bone structure stepped out to greet us.

Elena Moretti was sixty-nine years old, draped in a cream cashmere cardigan, with sharp silver-streaked hair and eyes the exact same piercing green as her son's. Despite her refined posture, there was an undeniable warmth radiating from her smile as she hurried down the stone steps.

"Adrian!" she called out, throwing her arms around his neck the moment he reached her.

"Happy early birthday, Mother," Adrian murmured, kissing her cheek with genuine tenderness—a side of him I had never witnessed in the sterile corporate offices of Manhattan.

Then Elena pulled back, turning her sharp, assessing gaze directly onto me standing a step behind him.

My heart did a violent backflip against my ribs. This is it, I thought. The moment the illusion shatters.

"And you must be Emily," Elena said, her voice melodic and sharp as she stepped forward and took both of my hands in hers before I could even introduce myself.

"Mrs. Moretti, it's an absolute honor," I managed, flashing what I hoped was a convincing, radiant smile.

"Call me Elena, dear," she corrected gently, her green eyes scanning my face with a terrifyingly thorough scrutiny. She looked at the way my hand rested comfortably in Adrian’s arm—a position he had subtly guided me into the second we stepped off the helicopter. She looked at the way Adrian’s body angled protectively toward mine, shielding me from the coastal wind.

A slow, knowing smile bloomed across Elena’s face.

"Well," Elena declared, patting my hand warmly. "My son has spent ten years running from every debutante and corporate heiress in New York, swearing he was too busy building an empire to care about romance. And yet, the moment he brings someone home, he finally looks like a man who can breathe."

I felt a sudden, traitorous flush of heat rise up my cheeks, knowing full well our relationship was a fifty-thousand-dollar business transaction.

Adrian stepped in smoothly, his arm wrapping securely around my waist, his warm palm pressing against the silk of my dress.

"I told you, Mother," Adrian said, his voice smooth, confident, and dangerously convincing. "Emily is different. She doesn't care about the empire. She just tolerates me."

Elena laughed, a rich, musical sound that echoed across the lawn. "Good! God knows someone in this family needs to keep you humble. Come inside, both of you. Dinner is waiting, and I want to hear every single detail of how my stubborn son finally got caught."

As we walked up the stone steps into the sprawling Moretti manor, Adrian leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.