Chapter 1 - The Woman in the Forbidden Room
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a black wolf moving across a man’s arm.
For one confused second, I thought I was still dreaming.
Then the muscular forearm around my waist tightened.
My entire body went rigid beneath the expensive white comforter.
There was a platinum watch inches from my face, a long pale scar running down the man’s forearm, and enough warm skin pressed against my back to make one fact terrifyingly clear.
I was not alone.
I slowly turned my head.
And nearly stopped breathing.
Adrian Moretti was lying beside me.
Everyone who worked private events in Boston knew that name.
Most people pretended they didn’t.
The Morettis owned restaurants, shipping companies, construction firms, nightclubs, and enough commercial property to turn half the city skyline into a family portrait.
Officially, Adrian Moretti was an investor.
Unofficially, people lowered their voices when he entered a room.
Two years earlier, one of Boston’s wealthiest developers had publicly accused the Moretti family of extortion. Three days later, he withdrew every accusation, sold his company, and moved to Switzerland.
Nobody ever explained why.
And I, Elena Brooks—assistant event coordinator, owner of exactly fourteen dollars in cash, and woman currently terrified of being fired before breakfast—had somehow fallen asleep in Adrian Moretti’s private bedroom.
My last memory came back in miserable pieces.
The Belladonna estate had hosted a charity gala the night before.
Four hundred guests.
Sixteen musicians.
Nine florists.
Three kitchens.
One senator.
Two television personalities.
And my supervisor, Lydia Crane, who had spent eighteen hours reminding me that I was replaceable.
At two in the morning, Lydia had sent me upstairs for replacement table linens.
I had found an empty bedroom.
My heels had rubbed both feet bloody.
I’d sat on the mattress.
Five minutes, I’d promised myself.
Apparently, five minutes had lasted until sunrise.
That still didn’t explain Adrian.
Or why I was wearing a black shirt that definitely hadn’t belonged to me.
I pulled the comforter higher.
Adrian’s eyes opened.
Pale gray.
Calm.
Far too calm.
“I can explain,” I whispered.
His gaze moved over my face.
“I hope so.”
“I was working.”
“I gathered that.”
“I didn’t know this was your room.”
“That part was obvious.”
I swallowed.
“And the shirt?”
“You spilled red wine on your blouse.”
Memory flashed.
A tray tipping.
Glass shattering.
A server apologizing.
I looked down.
“Oh.”
“My housekeeper changed you.”
My panic decreased by approximately three percent.
“Why are you here?”
One eyebrow lifted.
“This is my bedroom.”
“No. I mean why did you—”
“Sleep in my bed?”
I nodded.
“You were in it.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
A faint, almost invisible hint of amusement touched his mouth.
“You were exhausted.”
“You could’ve moved me.”
“You woke up when Mrs. Russo tried.”
“I did?”
“You threatened to stab her with a centerpiece.”
My eyes widened.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Oh God.”
“She likes you.”
I covered my face.
“This is the worst morning of my life.”
“It’s only seven twelve.”
“That isn't comforting.”
I started moving toward the edge.
His expression changed.
“Wait.”
Something hit the bedroom door.
Not a knock.
Something heavier.
Adrian sat up instantly.
The sleepy man vanished.
His shoulders tightened.
His attention locked on the doorway.
“What was that?” I whispered.
He didn’t answer.
His hand moved beneath the pillow.
I realized with a cold rush what might be under there.
“Adrian?”
“Stay where you are.”
The door opened.
An elegant woman with silver-white hair stepped inside.
She wore deep purple from collarbone to ankle, pearls at her throat, and the expression of someone who had never asked permission in her life.
A silver cane clicked against the hardwood floor.
Two enormous men in black suits followed her.
Her eyes went first to Adrian.
Then to me.
Then to Adrian’s shirt hanging on my body.
Silence.
I wanted the earth to open beneath the mattress.
Instead, the elderly woman smiled.
“So,” she said. “This is the woman.”
I stared at her.
“What woman?”
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
“Nonna.”
“What?” she asked innocently.
“There is no woman.”
She looked at the arm he still had positioned protectively across my body.
“Of course.”
I scrambled upright.
“This is completely innocent.”
“That is disappointing,” she replied.
My mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Adrian muttered something in Italian.
Then rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor.
One of the guards turned.
A younger man appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.
“Boss.”
Adrian’s expression sharpened.
“What?”
The man glanced at me.
He hesitated.
Adrian’s voice went colder.
“Speak.”
“They know she’s here.”
Every trace of humor disappeared.
I looked from one man to another.
“Who knows I’m here?”
Nobody answered.
My chest tightened.
“Adrian.”
He looked at me.
There was something different in his eyes now.
Calculation.
Concern.
And beneath both, anger.
“Last night,” he said carefully, “did you leave the west wing after you came upstairs?”
“No.”
“Did anyone see you enter this room?”
“I don't think so.”
The guard interrupted.
“Someone took photographs.”
My stomach dropped.
“Photographs of what?”
“You entering this corridor.”
Adrian stood.
The bedroom suddenly seemed smaller.
“Who?”
“We’re tracing it.”
I crossed my arms over the oversized shirt.
“Why would anyone photograph me?”
Adrian didn’t answer quickly enough.
That frightened me more than any explanation could have.
His grandmother moved toward the windows.
“Because,” she said, “someone has been trying to learn what Adrian cares about.”
“I’m an event planner.”
“People rarely care about facts when fear is more useful.”
I looked at Adrian.
“I don’t understand.”
He crossed the room and opened a drawer.
Inside were three phones, a gun, and several envelopes.
I decided not to look at the gun again.
He picked up one phone.
“Cancel every outside appointment.”
The guard nodded.
“Double security at the south gate.”
Another nod.
“And find Lydia Crane.”
I froze.
“My boss?”
Adrian looked at me.
“She left the estate before midnight.”
“No, she didn’t. She was here after two.”
“We have gate logs.”
“Then your logs are wrong.”
His face changed slightly.
“Are you certain?”
“She sent me upstairs.”
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“For linens?”
“Yes.”
Adrian and his grandmother exchanged a look.
That single look made my palms cold.
“What?”
Adrian came closer.
“What linens?”
“Replacement ivory napkins for table seventeen.”
“There was no table seventeen.”
I laughed nervously.
“There were forty-six tables.”
“Not numbered.”
“What?”
“My events are arranged by family names.”
I stared at him.
I’d been handed a laminated seating diagram.
Numbers.
One through forty-six.
Adrian continued.
“And replacement linens were stored in the ballroom service corridor.”
“No. Lydia said—”
“She sent you upstairs.”
His grandmother’s voice had lost its humor.
“To this wing.”
I remembered Lydia standing near the kitchen entrance.
Her red lipstick.
Her impatient expression.
The way she'd practically shoved the linen-room key into my hand.
West wing.
Second floor.
End of hall.
Hurry.
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
Adrian didn’t answer.
The guard’s phone rang.
He stepped aside.
I watched his expression darken.
Then he returned.
“We found Crane’s car.”
“Where?” Adrian asked.
“Airport parking.”
“And Crane?”
“No sign of her.”
I slid out of bed.
My legs almost failed me.
“I’m leaving.”
Adrian turned.
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“Elena—”
“I don't know what kind of family drama or criminal nonsense this is, but I have student loans, an apartment with a leaking radiator, and a cat who will eat my furniture if I’m gone more than twenty-four hours.”
His grandmother blinked.
“You have a cat?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Nonna,” Adrian said.
She sighed.
“Continue.”
“I came here to organize centerpieces. I am not getting involved in whatever this is.”
I walked toward the bathroom.
“Mrs. Russo washed your clothes,” Adrian said.
“Great.”
“You cannot leave.”
I turned.
“You cannot keep me here.”
“No.”
He said it quietly.
“You’re right.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“But the moment you drive through those gates, whoever arranged this will know you're unprotected.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“It became yours when someone photographed you entering my bedroom wing.”
“I was tricked into coming here.”
“Exactly.”
I stopped.
His words settled heavily.
Someone had intentionally directed me into Adrian’s private hallway.
Someone had photographed me.
His grandmother tapped her cane once.
“They wanted Adrian to believe you were spying on him.”
I looked at her.
“Or,” Adrian said, “they wanted someone else to believe Elena matters to me.”
My heart began beating faster.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell them I don’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“It may already be too late.”
The guard approached Adrian and whispered something.
Adrian’s eyes snapped toward me.
“What?”
He didn’t respond.
“Adrian, what did he say?”
The guard finally answered.
“Your apartment was entered at five fourteen this morning.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Nothing appears stolen.”
“My cat?”
The absurd question escaped before I could stop it.
The guard hesitated.
“There was no animal inside.”
“My neighbor has him. Thank God.”
Adrian reached for his jacket.
“I’m sending people to retrieve him.”
“You are not kidnapping my cat.”
His grandmother almost smiled again.
Adrian didn’t.
“Someone broke into your home within hours of you being seen in my private wing.”
My anger vanished.
“What did they want?”
“We don’t know.”
“And Lydia?”
“Gone.”
I hugged myself.
This was no longer embarrassing.
It was terrifying.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Adrian looked through the doorway where more guards had gathered.
Then he looked at his grandmother.
She understood something before I did.
“No,” she said.
Adrian ignored her.
“What?” I demanded.
“Your photograph may already be circulating.”
“So correct the misunderstanding.”
“That would confirm you're vulnerable.”
“I don't follow.”
“If I announce that you mean nothing to me, I tell whoever is watching that there will be no consequences for hurting you.”
My stomach twisted.
“And if you say I do mean something?”
“They hesitate.”
“For how long?”
“Long enough for me to find who started this.”
The room went quiet.
I looked at him.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
His jaw worked once.
Then Adrian Moretti—the most feared man I had ever met—reached for my hand.
“Tell everyone Elena Brooks is my fiancée.”
I yanked my hand away.
“No.”
His grandmother gave a sharp laugh.
It was the first sound anyone made.
Adrian stared at me.
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Someone invaded your home.”
“And your solution is fake marriage?”
“Engagement.”
“Oh, that's much more reasonable.”
“Elena.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
I could smell cedar and soap.
“I can protect you.”
“You caused this.”
His eyes hardened.
“No. Someone used you to get to me.”
“And you expect me to trust you?”
“No.”
That stopped me.
“I expect you to question everything I tell you. I expect you to hate this house before lunch. I expect you to try escaping twice before dinner.”
His grandmother nodded approvingly.
“But until I know who sent you upstairs,” Adrian continued, “I expect you to stay alive.”
A guard appeared with a tablet.
“Boss.”
He held up the screen.
My photograph filled it.
Me entering the west wing.
Beneath it was another image.
Adrian carrying me from the hallway after I had apparently fallen asleep standing against a linen cart.
And a third image.
Adrian entering his bedroom.
The caption beneath the photographs consisted of six words.
MORETTI FINALLY HAS SOMETHING TO LOSE.
My knees went weak.
Adrian caught my elbow.
I stared at the screen.
“How many people have seen this?”
The guard looked uncomfortable.
“Enough.”
Adrian turned toward the windows.
The winter sun was rising over the frozen gardens.
His face had become unreadable.
Then his phone buzzed.
He looked at the message.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear cross Adrian Moretti’s face.
He handed me the phone.
There was a photograph of my mother leaving her apartment in Connecticut that morning.
Underneath was a message.
Pretty family.
My breath disappeared.
Adrian took the phone back.
“Now,” he said quietly, “will you let me protect you?”
I looked at the armed guards.
At his grandmother.
At the photograph of my mother.
Then at the black wolf tattoo that had been the first thing I saw when I woke.
Less than fifteen minutes earlier, my biggest problem had been getting fired.
Now someone knew where my mother lived.
I closed my eyes.
“How long?”
“Until I end this.”
“And after?”
“You walk away.”
“No strings?”
“None.”
I opened my eyes.
“Then we make rules.”
Something almost resembling admiration appeared in his expression.
“Of course we do.”
I pointed at him.
“No kissing.”
His grandmother groaned.
“No sleeping together.”
“Agreed.”
“No lying to me.”
That one made his expression change.
“Elena—”
“No lying.”
After a long silence, he nodded.
“I’ll tell you the truth when I can.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“In my world, it’s as close as anyone gets.”
I should have walked away.
I should have called the police, grabbed my clothes, and run.
Instead, I thought about my mother’s photograph.
And I held out my hand.
Adrian looked at it.
“Fine,” I whispered. “For now, I'm your fiancée.”
He took my hand.
His grip was warm and steady.
A guard immediately lifted his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Making it official.”
Adrian’s grandmother smiled.
Somewhere beyond the gates, engines started.
Security teams moved.
Phones rang.
Orders spread across Boston.
And before I had even put my shoes on, the city’s most dangerous families received the same message.
Adrian Moretti was engaged.
Nobody knew the relationship was fake.
May you like
Nobody except us.
And neither Adrian nor I understood yet that the lie meant to keep me alive was about to uncover a betrayal that had been waiting inside his family for nearly twenty years.
