Chapter 1 - The Lie That Was Already True
At 11:45 on a Friday night, Manhattan’s most intimidating man asked me to spend seven days pretending I was hopelessly in love with him.
The terrifying part wasn’t the request.
It was knowing I wouldn’t have to pretend.
Twenty minutes earlier, I had been standing barefoot in my bathroom with shampoo still tangled through my hair when my phone began vibrating violently against the marble counter.
I almost ignored it.
Then I saw the name.
Marco Ricci.
My heart performed the same humiliating little stumble it had been performing for almost two years.
“Mr. Ricci?”
“Emily.”
His voice was low, controlled, and unmistakably serious.
“I need you in my office. Now.”
No explanation.
No apology for calling near midnight.
That was Marco.
A man accustomed to the world rearranging itself when he spoke.
Twenty minutes later, his private elevator opened directly into the penthouse occupying the top two floors of one of Manhattan’s most expensive residential towers.
I was wearing jeans, a gray hoodie, and two sneakers that absolutely did not match.
One was white.
One was cream.
I’d discovered the mistake halfway there.
My damp blonde hair stuck to my neck, and I hated myself for having applied lip balm in the elevator.
Marco opened the office door before I knocked.
And suddenly mismatched shoes seemed like the least embarrassing thing about me.
He looked unfairly good.
Black button-down shirt.
Sleeves rolled casually toward his elbows.
Dark trousers.
No jacket.
His thick dark hair looked like he had been running his fingers through it for hours.
“Come in.”
I followed him.
Marco’s office overlooked Manhattan through floor-to-ceiling windows. At night, the city seemed less like a city and more like his personal kingdom.
People were afraid of Marco Ricci.
He owned restaurants, luxury buildings, private clubs, and companies whose names appeared on contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars.
Rumors followed him everywhere.
Some people called him a businessman.
Others used darker words.
Nobody had ever proven anything.
I knew another version of Marco.
I knew he sent his mother flowers every Sunday.
I knew he remembered every employee’s birthday even though he pretended his assistant reminded him.
I knew he had once overheard a dishwasher worrying about his daughter’s college tuition and quietly arranged a scholarship three weeks later.
And I knew exactly how his mouth tightened when he was worried but didn’t want anyone to know.
That was the man I had fallen in love with.
Unfortunately, he was also my boss.
Marco leaned against his desk.
“I have a problem.”
“That sounds promising.”
His eyebrow lifted.
I immediately regretted speaking.
But Marco surprised me.
The corner of his mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“My mother turns seventy next Saturday,” he said.
“I know. I planned the celebration.”
“You planned everything.”
“That is technically why you pay me.”
His gaze remained on me a second too long.
Then he looked away.
“The entire family is staying at the Hamptons estate for the week.”
I nodded.
His mother, Sofia Ricci, had spent months planning what she called a quiet family celebration.
Apparently, “quiet” in Ricci language meant one hundred thirty guests, imported flowers, a string quartet, and enough Italian food to feed half of New York.
Marco rubbed his jaw.
“Last month, my mother asked whether I was seeing anyone.”
My stomach tightened.
I hoped my expression stayed neutral.
“And?”
“I said yes.”
There it was.
The sentence I had spent two years expecting and somehow still wasn’t prepared to hear.
Of course Marco had someone.
He had been photographed with models, heiresses, actresses, politicians’ daughters.
Women who looked like they had never spent midnight answering emails about restaurant suppliers.
I forced myself to smile.
“Do you need me to arrange her accommodations?”
“No.”
“Transportation?”
“No.”
I waited.
Marco looked directly at me.
“I need you to be her.”
For a moment, I was certain I had misheard him.
“Be who?”
“My girlfriend.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Marco didn’t.
My laughter disappeared.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You want me to pretend we’re dating?”
“For seven days.”
“In front of your entire family?”
“My mother. My sisters. My cousins. My uncles.”
He paused.
“And probably half the Hamptons by Sunday afternoon.”
I stared at him.
Seven days.
Seven days of sitting beside Marco at breakfast.
Seven days of having his family believe the way I looked at him meant something.
Seven days of possibly holding his hand.
And then we would return to Manhattan.
He would resume being Marco Ricci.
I would resume being Emily Carter, executive assistant.
And I would have to pretend those seven days hadn’t destroyed me.
“Why me?” I asked.
Something changed in Marco’s expression.
It was small.
Almost invisible.
But after two years of studying him, I saw it.
Hesitation.
Marco Ricci did not hesitate.
He walked toward the windows.
“Because my mother knows me.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“She knows the women I date.”
My stomach twisted again.
“And apparently none of them are convincing?”
“No.”
He turned.
“You are.”
I swallowed.
“I’m your assistant.”
“You know everything about me.”
“Professionally.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You know how I take my coffee.”
“Black.”
“You know what food I hate.”
“Anything involving mayonnaise.”
“You know which side I sleep on.”
My eyebrows shot upward.
Marco froze.
I folded my arms.
“I know because you made me book hotel suites in Europe and complained when they put the charging station on the wrong side of your bed.”
His expression relaxed.
“Right.”
Was Marco Ricci embarrassed?
Impossible.
“You know my family,” he continued. “They already like you.”
“That still doesn’t explain why they would believe you’re in love with me.”
Marco went silent.
Outside, Manhattan glittered beneath us.
Finally he spoke.
“Because you’re the only woman my family might actually believe I love.”
I forgot how to breathe.
There are sentences you hear.
There are sentences you understand.
And there are sentences that go directly through your ribs and rearrange your entire heart.
That one did the third.
Marco seemed to realize what he had said.
His jaw tightened.
“For the performance to work,” he added.
Of course.
The performance.
I looked down.
“How exactly would this work?”
“You come with me tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?”
“The family expects us by lunch.”
“And when were you planning to tell me?”
“Tonight.”
“That’s not planning. That’s ambushing.”
Another almost-smile.
“You can say no.”
That surprised me.
Marco was powerful enough to make most people forget that “no” existed.
But he waited.
No pressure.
No threat.
Just a choice.
It would have been smarter to refuse.
I should have gone home, washed the rest of the shampoo out of my hair, and started updating my résumé before my heart became even more attached to a man who had no idea what he did to me.
Instead, I asked, “What are the rules?”
Marco’s eyes changed.
“Rules?”
“If we’re pretending, there should be rules.”
He walked back toward the desk.
“No kissing unless necessary.”
My traitorous heart protested.
“Agreed.”
“No separate stories. We decide how we supposedly started dating tonight.”
“Fine.”
“My family cannot know it’s fake.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you’re uncomfortable at any point, you tell me.”
That caught me off guard.
“Marco—”
“I mean it.”
His voice had softened.
“If anyone makes you uncomfortable, including me, it stops.”
I nodded.
“Then I have one condition.”
“What?”
“When the week ends, everything returns to normal.”
Something unreadable flickered through his eyes.
“Of course.”
That should have reassured me.
Instead, it hurt.
Marco opened a drawer and removed a small velvet box.
I stared at it.
“Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”
“Relax.”
He opened it.
Inside was a delicate gold bracelet with a tiny emerald set into the center.
“My mother has seen photographs of me leaving events with enough women to know I don’t buy jewelry casually.”
“You bought this?”
“This afternoon.”
I touched the bracelet.
“That’s before you asked me.”
“Yes.”
“You assumed I’d agree?”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Something about that bothered me.
He stepped closer.
“May I?”
I held out my wrist.
Marco fastened the bracelet.
His fingers brushed my skin.
The contact lasted less than two seconds.
My entire nervous system noticed.
He noticed too.
I knew because his hand stopped.
Our eyes met.
For one dangerous moment, neither of us moved.
Then Marco stepped away.
“The car leaves at nine.”
I exhaled.
“Anything else?”
He looked at my shoes.
His mouth twitched.
“Bring matching footwear.”
I glared at him.
This time he actually smiled.
And that smile nearly made me reconsider every intelligent decision I had ever made.
The following morning, I stood outside my apartment with a suitcase and enough anxiety to power Manhattan.
Marco’s black SUV waited at the curb.
He stepped out personally.
That alone was strange.
Normally, Marco’s driver handled everything.
Marco took my suitcase.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He placed it in the vehicle.
During the drive east, we practiced our story.
We had supposedly started dating three months ago after a late night working at one of his restaurants.
“We had dinner,” Marco said.
“You never eat dinner before ten.”
“Then it’s believable.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re always there at ten.”
I stared at him.
“That sounded suspiciously romantic.”
“It was logistics.”
“Obviously.”
By the time we reached Southampton, my nerves had become unbearable.
The Ricci estate sat behind iron gates and acres of manicured gardens.
The house itself looked like something from another century.
Cars already lined the circular drive.
Marco glanced at me.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I frowned.
“How is that good?”
“It means you look nervous.”
“And?”
“My mother will assume it’s because you care what she thinks.”
Before I could respond, the front door opened.
A petite woman with silver-streaked dark hair appeared.
Sofia Ricci.
Marco barely got out of the SUV before she hurried down the steps.
“My son!”
Marco hugged her.
The transformation was immediate.
The feared businessman disappeared.
He became someone’s boy.
Then Sofia saw me.
Her eyes widened.
“Emily?”
I smiled uncertainly.
“Happy early birthday, Mrs. Ricci.”
Sofia looked at Marco.
Then back at me.
Then at Marco again.
Slowly, delight spread across her face.
“Oh.”
That single syllable terrified me.
Marco came beside me.
His hand settled naturally against my lower back.
Every thought disappeared from my brain.
“Mom,” he said, “Emily and I have something to tell you.”
Sofia’s gaze dropped immediately to Marco’s hand.
Then she saw the emerald bracelet.
Her expression changed.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Her eyes lifted sharply to Marco.
And for the first time since I had known her, Sofia Ricci looked frightened.
“Where,” she whispered, “did you get that bracelet?”
Marco frowned.
“I bought it yesterday.”
Sofia shook her head slowly.
“No, you didn’t.”
Silence fell between us.
She reached for my wrist with trembling fingers.
“This bracelet belonged to your grandmother.”
Marco stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
Sofia looked directly at her son.
“No, Marco.”
Her voice broke.
“You gave it to me two years ago.”
I stopped breathing.
Two years.
The exact length of time I had secretly loved him.
Marco’s face went completely still.
Sofia tightened her fingers around my wrist.
Then she whispered the words that changed everything.
“You told me to keep it safe until you finally had the courage to give it to Emily.”
May you like
And when I looked at Marco Ricci, the man who had asked me to fake loving him was staring back at me like his mother had just exposed the one secret he had never intended me to discover.
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