Chapter 2 - The Woman He Had Watched for Three Years
Aria did not sleep.
At seven the next morning, she entered the breakfast room carrying the black marriage contract.
Lucian was already there.
She dropped it beside his espresso.
“Explain.”
Lucian folded his newspaper.
“Sit.”
“I’d rather stand.”
“Then stand.”
That infuriating calm nearly broke her composure.
“You knew me three years before my father borrowed from you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lucian looked toward the windows.
“Three years ago, the Moretti Foundation purchased a painting for one of its hotels.”
Aria remembered immediately.
“The Bellini.”
“You discovered it was stolen.”
“Misappropriated during probate.”
“You cost my foundation four hundred thousand dollars.”
“You’re welcome.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“You refused to stay quiet even after your employer asked you to.”
“Because it belonged to the artist’s daughter.”
“You returned it to her.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you investigated me.”
Lucian leaned back.
“Most people become flexible when money becomes uncomfortable. You did not.”
“So you became obsessed?”
“Interested.”
“That’s not better.”
“I did nothing.”
“You collected my medical history.”
“Recently.”
“You read my thesis.”
“Yes.”
“You bought a painting I wrote about.”
Lucian said nothing.
Aria stared at him.
“You did.”
“I liked the painting.”
“You hate sentimental work.”
“It is not sentimental.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you signed the contract.”
Her expression hardened.
“Because you had my father.”
Regret crossed his face so quickly she almost missed it.
“Aria—”
“No.”
She picked up the folder.
“If you knew me already, then tell me the truth. Did you deliberately lend my father that money?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“Thomas approached one of my construction companies through an intermediary. I did not know he was involved until the second financing request.”
“And after you knew?”
Lucian was silent.
That silence answered her.
“You allowed it.”
“I allowed the project to continue.”
“Knowing he would fail?”
“I suspected he might.”
Aria stepped backward.
“You built the trap.”
“No.”
“You just left the door open.”
Lucian stood.
“Your father made every decision that created his debt.”
“And you used those decisions to get me.”
“Yes.”
There it was.
No excuse.
No polished lie.
Just one brutal word.
Aria’s anger suddenly became something more dangerous.
Fear.
“What exactly am I to you?”
Lucian looked at her for a long moment.
“The woman I chose.”
“That sounds romantic when you leave out the extortion.”
“I am not asking you to forgive how this began.”
“Good.”
“I am asking you to understand that I will honor every condition we agreed upon.”
Aria left without answering.
For the next week, she avoided him.
She worked late.
Ate dinner in her suite.
Painted until midnight.
Lucian never entered without permission.
Never summoned her.
Never mentioned the contract.
That somehow made things worse.
Their wedding arrived beneath gray November skies.
It was intentionally private.
Forty guests.
A historic chapel.
Security disguised as chauffeurs and ushers.
Aria wore ivory silk.
Lucian wore black.
When she reached the altar, she expected triumph in his expression.
Instead, she saw something disturbingly close to uncertainty.
The officiant asked Lucian whether he accepted Aria as his wife.
“I do.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Absolute.
When it was Aria’s turn, she hesitated.
Everyone noticed.
Especially Lucian.
He did not reach for her.
Did not warn her.
Did not even change expression.
He simply waited.
Aria remembered her father walking free.
She remembered the forged signatures.
She remembered Lucian’s confession.
The woman I chose.
“I do.”
The reception took place at the Moretti mansion.
Aria expected strangers to treat her like property.
Instead, she discovered something more complicated.
Lucian’s employees respected him.
Some feared him.
But many seemed genuinely loyal.
Carlos, his security chief, introduced Aria to his wife and teenage daughter.
An elderly housekeeper named Rosa kissed Aria’s cheek and whispered, “He has needed someone to argue with him for twenty years.”
Aria nearly smiled.
Later, she escaped to the balcony.
Lucian found her there.
“You disappeared.”
“I needed air.”
He removed his jacket and placed it around her shoulders.
Aria stiffened.
Lucian immediately withdrew his hands.
“Sorry.”
That one word unsettled her.
“Do you always apologize this quickly?”
“No.”
“Why start now?”
“Because I gave you my word.”
They stood overlooking the city.
“Lucian.”
“Yes?”
“What happens tonight?”
“Whatever you choose.”
She studied him.
“The contract says—”
“I know what the contract says.”
“And?”
“And you are tired.”
“You waited three years.”
“I can wait another night.”
Something inside Aria shifted.
She hated it.
She hated that restraint could affect her more than pressure ever would.
Weeks passed.
The marriage gradually became stranger and more ordinary at the same time.
They argued over breakfast.
Attended charity dinners.
Discussed paintings.
Lucian began coming to Aria’s gallery.
Not with bodyguards surrounding him visibly.
He simply appeared one afternoon and stood quietly before a massive blue canvas.
“You hate it,” Aria said.
“Deeply.”
“You’ve been staring at it for ten minutes.”
“I am trying to determine why someone would pay eighty thousand dollars for something resembling an accident involving a paint truck.”
The artist was standing six feet away.
Aria dragged Lucian into another room before she started laughing.
He looked at her.
Not at the artwork.
At her.
And Aria realized she had never seen Lucian Moretti look genuinely happy before.
That frightened her more than his reputation.
Because she was beginning to like the man hidden beneath it.
Then his illness returned.
It happened during dinner.
Lucian reached for his glass and suddenly stopped.
His hand trembled.
“Lucian?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re obviously not.”
He stood too quickly.
The room tilted beneath him.
Aria caught his arm.
For one second, Chicago’s most feared man leaned against her because he had no choice.
Then Carlos appeared.
Within twenty minutes, they were inside a private oncology clinic.
Lucian refused to let Aria enter the examination room.
She waited anyway.
Two hours later, his doctor emerged.
“Mrs. Moretti?”
Aria stood.
“How bad?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Your husband needs additional imaging.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“He has been experiencing symptoms he did not report.”
Aria’s anger returned instantly.
Lucian emerged wearing his coat.
“We’re leaving.”
“In a minute.”
She turned toward him.
“You hid symptoms?”
“They were insignificant.”
“The oncologist disagrees.”
“This conversation is finished.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Carlos quietly disappeared down the hallway.
Lucian looked annoyed.
Aria folded her arms.
“If I’m supposed to give you this precious heir, perhaps I deserve to know whether you plan to survive long enough to meet them.”
Something broke in Lucian’s expression.
Not anger.
Pain.
He looked away.
“I do not know.”
Those four words changed the entire argument.
Aria stepped closer.
“When do you get the results?”
“Tomorrow.”
She went with him.
The scan showed a suspicious mass.
Not confirmation.
Not yet.
But enough to terrify them both.
That evening, Lucian sat alone in the dark library.
Aria found him holding a photograph.
A woman.
Beautiful.
Dark-haired.
Pregnant.
“Your first wife?”
“Isabella.”
Aria sat beside him.
For the first time, Lucian told her everything.
The difficult pregnancy.
The emergency delivery.
The daughter who lived six days.
The wife who never woke up.
“I held my daughter while she died,” he whispered.
Aria’s throat tightened.
“That was why you wanted an heir.”
“It was why I refused to want one for thirty years.”
She looked at him.
“Then why now?”
“Because dying makes cowards sentimental.”
“You’re not a coward.”
Lucian gave a humorless smile.
“You know very little about me.”
“Then tell me.”
His eyes met hers.
For one dangerous moment, the contract disappeared.
The age difference disappeared.
The debt disappeared.
There were only two lonely people sitting in a dark room.
Aria touched his hand.
Lucian looked down at her fingers.
He did not move.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
Aria’s heart pounded.
He had purchased the right to call her his wife.
Yet he was asking permission for a kiss.
“Yes.”
It was gentle.
Almost painfully so.
When they separated, Lucian rested his forehead against hers.
“This is a mistake.”
“Probably.”
“You should go upstairs.”
“Do you want me to?”
His eyes closed.
“No.”
That night changed their marriage.
Not because of what happened physically.
But because, for the first time, Aria stayed because she wanted to.
Three weeks later, she stood alone in her bathroom holding a pregnancy test.
Two lines.
She stared at them until her vision blurred.
Then someone knocked.
“Aria?”
Lucian.
She opened the door.
He saw her expression.
Then the test.
For the first time since she had met him, Lucian Moretti looked completely defenseless.
But before either could speak, Carlos appeared behind him.
His face was grave.
“Boss, we have a problem.”
Lucian turned.
“What?”
Carlos looked at Aria, then back at Lucian.
“Someone accessed Mrs. Moretti’s medical records yesterday.”
Lucian’s expression hardened.
“Who?”
“We don’t know.”
Carlos hesitated.
“But whoever did it already knows she’s pregnant.”
And less than twenty-four hours later, a photograph of Aria’s positive pregnancy test arrived at the mansion with three words written beneath it:
May you like
HE ISN’T YOURS.
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