"Thank you, Edward." She smiled at him with genuine warmth as she slipped her arms into the sleeves. I watched his professional mask soften in response to that smile.
And yet another victim falls under her spell.
I'd witnessed it before—at functions, at dinners, the way people gravitated toward her. She was magnetic in a way thathad nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with the authenticity she couldn't seem to hide no matter how hard she tried.
"We won't be late," I told Edward. "If any deliveries arrive, hold them until morning."
His eyes flicked to Cecelia before returning to me. "Of course, sir."
Something in that exchange felt off, but I didn't have time to analyze it as Cecelia stepped into the elevator beside me. The small space amplified everything about her—her scent, her warmth, the sound of her breathing. I watched our reflections in the polished doors, the contrast striking: me in my tailored suit, her in that sinful dress, both of us pretending this was normal.
When the doors opened to the parking garage, she looked confused. "I thought there would be a car waiting."
"I always drive myself." I guided her toward the far corner where my Aston Martin waited. "It's one of the few things I insist on."
"Let me guess… control issues?"
I glanced at her, surprised by the accuracy of her assessment. "Something like that."
The car beeped as we approached, lights flashing once in welcome. I opened her door, painfully aware of how the dress rode up her thighs as she lowered herself into the passenger seat. The sight of her bare legs disappearing into the leather interior would haunt my dreams for weeks.
Rounding the hood, I slid behind the wheel and couldn’t hide my grin when the engine roared to life with the mere push of a button.
"This car…it's very... you," she commented as we pulled out of the garage. "Expensive, powerful, showing off without being too flashy."
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Both, probably."
Traffic moved steadily as we wound through Manhattan streets. Cecelia watched the city pass by, her profile highlighted by the glow of passing streetlights. I kept my eyes on the road or tried to. They kept drifting to the curve of her neck, the way her hands rested in her lap, the slight parting of her lips as she exhaled.
"So," she said eventually. "Tell me about your grandparents."
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, searching for words. "They're... not what you might expect."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they're not like my parents." The comparison alone felt like blasphemy. "My mother's family threatened to disown her when she married my father. Thought it was beneath her to marry an Italian immigrant's son, even if he was rapidly climbing the social ladder."
"That's awful."
I shrugged, the gesture dismissive even as the old wound throbbed. "My father wanted the connection to old money. My mother wanted access to new money. It was a transaction, not a marriage."
Cecelia shifted in her seat, the movement drawing my eye to the place where the hem of her dress met her thigh. "And your father's parents?"
"They came from Naples with nothing but a dream to open a restaurant in Little Italy. They succeeded, but not at the scale my father wanted. He considered their modest success an embarrassment." The old bitterness coated my tongue. "When he married into Manhattan high society, he distanced himself. Kept them away from company events, social functions. Anything where their humble background might embarrass him."
"But you didn't."
I glanced at her, struck by the quiet understanding in her voice. "No. They were the only people who ever..." I trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.
"The only people who ever what?" she pressed gently.
"Who ever loved me without conditions," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw.
Her sharp intake of breath told me I'd revealed more than I intended. We drove in silence for a block, then two as my confession hung between us.
"Do they know?" she finally asked. "About our arrangement?"
