One evening, as rain whispered against the mansion windows, she found him by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.
“Why me?” she asked quietly. “You could have chosen anyone.”
His gaze lifted to hers, steady and unguarded for once.
“Because you have nothing left to lose,” he said. “And because you didn’t run.”
Vivian’s chest tightened. There was no seduction in his tone, only truth — raw and unvarnished.
Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then his hand brushed hers, tentative yet sure.
“Stay,” he murmured. “Just until this ends.”
The lie of marriage became their strange truth. Rumors swirled in elite circles — whispers that Antonio DiLorenzo had secretly wed. Vivian learned his habits, his silences, his moods. She saw the weariness behind his strength, the loneliness hidden behind his control.
And somewhere between pretense and proximity, her heart stopped pretending.
