I glanced at the photos. Objectively, Valentina was stunning. Blonde, blue-eyed, slender frame but perfect proportions, every inch of her radiating that expensive upbringing—the kind of refinement you bought with the right food and the right schools. Her angle was calculated too, that luminous stretch of collarbone hitting right at the frame's golden ratio. She knew her best angles.
But I couldn't tell the difference between the two shots, so I just replied: Either one.
Three seconds later, my phone rang.
"Enzo Falcone," Valentina's voice drifted through, lazy, deliberately drawn out. "Are you seriously this dismissive of your fiancée? You could at least pick one."
I hated this pointless chitchat. Total waste of time.
"Square neck, then."
"Huh. I thought you'd be a V-neck guy."
Valentina laughed on the other end. "Oh, please, Enzo, you don't actually think I just wanted you to pick a dress, do you? Seeing your beautiful fiancée in wedding photos—you're not going to say anything else?"
"You don't need me to say those things. Do you?"
"You're right, I don't." Her tone shifted, dropping the fake girlfriend voice. "But playing along won't kill you. We've got three joint appearances next month—charity gala, the media group's anniversary,and that new gallery opening in the East Side. You need to act like a normal fiancé, Enzo. At least in front of the cameras."
"I know."
"Good." She paused, then blew softly into the receiver. "So you free tonight?"
I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, freeing my hands to organize the files on my desk. "No. Rounds tonight."
"I don't get you. Getting on my good side wouldn't hurt, would it?"
"I'd rather get on your father's good side." Didn't even look up, just squared the stack of papers and set them aside. Her flirting was background noise—audible, but not one word stuck.
"Enzo Falcone," clear annoyance crept into Valentina's voice, "do you know how many men in New York would kill to have a drink with me?"
"Go find them then. You know I don't mind."
Silence. Then a low laugh. "You really don't give me any face. Fine. I'll drink alone. Goodnight, fiancé."
"Goodnight."
Valentina hung up without hesitation. She was a smart society woman. I didn't fool myself into thinking she had real feelings for me.
And I felt the same about her.
Our relationship was pure transaction. Her family controlled three complete supply chains in the East Side, complementing the Falcone network in the West. The marriage meant consolidation of two major powers. Once complete, Julian and his old guard backers would lose their last leverage.
That was all we were. No love, no passion, barely any enthusiasm for pretending.
But that kind of relationship was easiest. No guessing what the other wanted—we both wanted the same thing. Power.
Everything was going according to plan. Company running smoothly, family opposition crushed one voice at a time, engagement announcement already public. Enzo Falcone's empire was expanding exactly as projected.
I stood, grabbed my coat, ready to leave. Slowed down passing thedesign department. After hours, most desks empty, half the lights off. But my eyes still drifted to that corner desk.
Now, a Black guy in frameless glasses sat there. Every time he caught my glance, he'd straighten up and pretend to work.
I figured my staring made him miserable. But I still found myself looking at that desk during my rounds through design.
And remembering another pair of eyes. Honey-colored. Bright.
The owner of those eyes had haunted my dreams repeatedly over two short months, showing up nightly like some tempting ghost testing my self-control.
