Chapter 1
Rafe
Facing my father always felt like walking to the gallows, but today, I had the distinct feeling he was tightening the noose himself.
The leather of my Italian shoes squeaked against the marble floors of Orologio Media as my stomach twisted into the familiar knot it always did before these meetings.
“He's expecting you,” my father’s secretary said without even looking up.
“Isn't he always?” I muttered and straightened my tie before pushing open the heavy door.
Vittorio de Luca sat behind his imposing desk like a monarch on his throne. Silver hair perfectly combed, not a wrinkle in his custom Armani suit, dark eyes calculating and cold as they tracked my entrance.
“Rafael.” My full name, never Rafe. A reminder that I was his creation, his legacy, not my own person.
“Father.” I kept my voice neutral, taking the seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. Small rebellions were the only ones I could usually afford.
He adjusted his platinum cufflinks, a tell that warned me something was coming that I wouldn't like. “You're aware we've been in negotiations with the Hastings account.”
“Yes. Though I've advised against it multiple times.”
“Your advice has been noted and dismissed.” He folded his hands on the polished surface of his desk. “Brandon Hastings brings considerable influence and connections that outweigh his... personal complications.”
I bit back a laugh. “Personal complications? The man's been accused of sexual harassment by three former employees and has cocaine residue on his nose in half the photos the tabloids run.”
“Allegations without charges,” my father replied dismissively. “And recreational habits that can be managed with the right guidance.”
The way he said it made my skin crawl. This was the Vittorio de Luca method: reduce morality to metrics, humanity to assets and liabilities. I'd spent my entire life watching him operate this way, and still, it caught me in the ribs sometimes.
“I've made a decision that will secure the Hastings account while solving another matter that has become... tiresome.” He leaned back slightly, studying me with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen. “You're thirty-nine, Rafael. Your reputation as a bachelor is becoming problematic for the company image.”
My blood went cold. I knew exactly where this was headed. “Don't.”
“His daughter, Samantha, is twenty-six. Attractive and educated at Vassar.” He continued as if I hadn't spoken, sliding a folder across the desk. “The marriage would create a personal connection that would bind the Hastings family to Orologio Media beyond mere business arrangements.”
I stared at the folder but didn't touch it. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Watch your language,” he said, more annoyed at the profanity than my rejection. “This isn't a negotiation. The arrangement benefits everyone involved. The Hastings get the connection to our family name and reputation, we secure their business, and you finally start acting like the heir to this company instead of—” he waved his hand dismissively “—whatever this perpetual adolescence is.”
My jaw clenched so tight I could feel a headache building at my temples. “I'm not marrying a stranger to secure your client list.”
“She's hardly a stranger. You've met at several functions.”
“Right. I remember the charity gala last month where she was so high she fell into the chocolate fountain, and that time she tried to proposition my driver in the coat check room at the New Year's party?” I leaned forward. “The answer is no.”
My father's expression didn't change, but his fingers tapped once against the desk—another tell. He was about to escalate. “You seem to be under the impression that you have options here, Rafael. Let me be clear: you will marry Samantha Hastings by the end of the year, or your position at this company, your trust fund, and your standing in this family will be reconsidered.”
I'd heard variations before but never delivered with such cold finality. Before I could respond, the door opened behind me, and the familiar scent ofChanel No. 5and barely contained malice filled the air.
“Am I interrupting?” My mother's voice was honey over ice—sweet on the surface, frozen beneath.
“Not at all, Gia,” my father replied, his tone softening just slightly. “I was just explaining Rafael's engagement to Samantha Hastings.”
I turned to face her, searching for any hint of maternal protection. There was none. Gia de Luca glided into the room like a ghost, her raven hair—the same as mine—streaked with silver and pulled into an immaculate chignon. Her eyes, also like mine, revealed nothing as they swept over me.
“Wonderful news,” she said, not to me but to my father. “The Hastings girl comes from good stock, despite her... youthful indiscretions.” She settled into the chair beside me, her posture perfect, as if she'd been born with a steel rod in place of a spine. “I've already spoken with their family about venue options.”
The betrayal shouldn't have stung—I'd long ago stopped expecting warmth or support from my mother—but the revelation that they'd planned this ambush together twisted the knife.
