Monday morning, she'll walk into Redthorne Holdings expecting to meet a stranger.
Monday, I start making amends for sins she doesn't even know I committed.
I pocket my phone and head for the elevator, already planning my next move. The doors close behind me with a soft hiss, sealing me in with my racing thoughts. By the time the elevator reaches the ground floor, the shock has crystallized into something far more dangerous.
Purpose. And the stubborn, possibly delusional belief that I can become the man she deserves before she finds out what I really am.
Six
Ilona
The elevator doors slide open, and I step into a world that smells like money and power.
Redthorne Holdings occupies the top floors of one of Chicago's most imposing skyscrapers, all polished marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that make the city look like a kingdom waiting to be conquered. My heels click against the stone with each step, the sound too loud in the hushed reverence of the reception area. Everything gleams. The brass fixtures. The crystal vase overflowing with white orchids on the curved reception desk. Even the air feels expensive, filtered and faintly perfumed with orchids and ambition.
I don't belong here. Not that I can't hold my own in surroundings like these, but my twenty-two years on this earth have been spent in either classrooms or my father's mansion. I’ve never walked somewhere without bodyguards stuck to my ass or my father breathing down my neck.
Change is hard to handle, but it’s welcomed.
But still, I can’t shake how wrong this feels.
The thought slithers through my mind unwanted, and I straighten my spine against its poison. I belong wherever I decide to belong. That's the whole point of this new life I'm trying to build. The life growing inside me deserves a mother who walks with her chin up, not one who cowers in corners.
Luna's clothes fit well enough. The black dress slacks hug my hips and fall in a clean line to my ankles, and the black button-up blouse is silk, expensive, the kind of fabric that whispers wealth without screaming it. I pulled my hair into a neat French twist this morning, fingers trembling as I tucked away the blue tips that would mark me as rebel rather than professional. My makeup is minimal because minimal is all I had. Lipstick in a muted rose and powder borrowed from Luna's bathroom drawer, applied in the soft morning light while she assured me everything would be fine.
Everything will be fine. I just need this job. One thing in my life needs to go right.
The receptionist looks up with a practiced smile, her blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon. "You must be Miss Marchetti. Mr. Valentina is expecting you."
Mr. Valentina. Luca Valentina. The man who holds my future in his hands.Please don’t let him be an asshole.I’ve dealt with enough of those in my life already.
"Right this way." The receptionist rises with fluid grace and guides me down a hallway lined with abstract art worth an ungodly amount of money. I know the artist because my mother loves her art just as much as whoever decorated this space.
But that is trivial material that doesn’t matter. My stomach churns with every step, and I press my hand discreetly againstmy abdomen, willing the nausea to stay at bay. Morning sickness has been unpredictable, striking at the worst moments, and the last thing I need is to vomit on this man's Italian leather shoes. At least I assume he’ll have Italian leather shoes. He could be in a Hawaiian shirt and flipflops for all I know.
There I go letting my mind run with ridiculous thoughts, but it's helping me take my mind off the wave of upheaval my stomach is going through.
Losing my limited amount of breakfast in the near future would be disastrous. That would be a fantastic first impression. Hi, I'm Ilona, and I come with a hair-trigger gag reflex and zero dignity.
We stop before heavy wooden doors with brushed gold handles that catch the light like warnings.
"Mr. Valentina's office." The receptionist knocks twice, then pushes the door open without waiting for a response. "Your nine o'clock is here, sir."
I step inside, and his scent hits me like a freight train.
Sandalwood. Black pepper. Smoke.
My heart stops. My feet freeze mid-step on the expensive lush carpet. Recognition slams through me with the force of a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending ice cascading down my spine.
But how? My mind races through multiple possibilities. No. No, no, no.
The receptionist urges me inside and I step through before the door closes behind me.
The click of the door closing behind me seals my fate.
The office is massive, all dark wood and leather and windows spanning the entire back wall, flooding the space with October morning light. But I barely register any of it. My attention narrows to the man standing at those windows, his back to me, broad shoulders filling out a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Long dark hair gathered at his nape with a leather cord. That familiar stance. That commanding presence.
I know that silhouette. My gaze drifts lower. I know those hands. Those tattoos. I know the way he holds himself like the world exists at his pleasure.
