The next morning, a sleek black car idled outside her apartment. The driver stepped out, rain beading on his coat, and handed her a cream-colored card embossed in gold:
“Mr. Antonio DiLorenzo requests your presence.”
Vivian’s instincts screamed caution, yet curiosity tugged stronger. Hours later, she found herself standing in a marble-floored mansion that felt more like a museum than a home.
Antonio was there — tie loosened, eyes still sharp but softened by exhaustion.
“You did well last night,” he said quietly. “I owe you.”
“I did it to survive the evening,” she replied, folding her arms.
He took a step closer. “Unfortunately, those who were watching now believe you are my wife. If they think otherwise, they will act. I can’t allow that.”
The weight of his words settled over her. Vivian’s world had always been small — work, home, her son’s laughter echoing through their modest apartment. Now, she was part of something shadowed, dangerous, and strangely intoxicating.
Days turned into weeks. Bodyguards shadowed her every move. At first, she bristled at their presence, but as she watched Antonio move through his world — with quiet authority and unexpected gentleness — something within her softened.
