And right now, something was better than nothing.
The clock hit 5:00 PM, and I was out of my chair before the second hand finished its sweep.
I grabbed my bag, ignoring my coworker’s curious looks, and practically ran to the elevator. Since I had not intended on agreeing to marriage with a mysterious billionaire before work, I hadn’t brought a change of clothes and was stuck wearing my work outfit: a simple blouse and black pants that had grown a little too tight around the hips.
I flagged down a taxi on the street, ignoring my bank account that screamed about the cost. My bank account was pathetic, and the cab ride alone would eat up half of it, but I couldn’t take the subway. I couldn’t handle the crowds, the noise, the feeling of being trapped underground. I needed air and movement, or my anxiety would spike, somehow more than it already had.
But before I could slide into the taxi pulling up to the curb, a man in a well tailored suit stepped out of the sleek sedan parked in front of me.
“Ms. Cruz? Mr. Falcone sent me to pick you up.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to form words before he opened the door, allowing me to slid into the back.
I sat quietly and watched as the city blur: tall buildings, honking horns, rushing people. I stared at my reflection: dark hair in a messy bun, circles under my eyes, determination on my face.
We arrived at a tall steel and glass skyscraper before I had a chance to fix the disaster that was my face.
This man’s lobby felt so New York: grand, polished, and intimidating in equal measure. Marble climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, gleaming beneath the warm glow of an enormous chandelier hanging at the center of the room like a piece of jewelry. Clusters of armchairs and low tables were scattered across the expansive floor, where well-dressed residents lingered over cocktails while muted conversation drifted from the bar tucked into the corner. And here I was in heels from Walmart and a knock-off purse.
Near the entrance stood the security desk, staffed by a man in a razor-sharp uniform whose broad shoulders looked like he could bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
“Hello, I’m here to see Mr. Falcone,” I said, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He didn’t ask for my name. He just nodded, as if he’d been expecting me. “Penthouse floor. Elevator to your right. You’ll need this keycard,” he said as he handed me a small plastic card.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my hands already beginning to tremble, a nervous tic I’ve had since my teens.
I tried to ground myself, practice the skills I’d relied on to help me, as the elevator rose. The numbers climbed: 10, 20, 30, 40, until the display read “Penthouse,” and the doors slid open with a soft chime. Stepping out of the elevator into, I was thrown right into Lorenzo’s foyer.
The penthouse was enormous.
I felt like I’d stepped into a magazine with floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far wall, dark hardwood floors polished toa gleam. Deep charcoal leather couches and moody abstract art lining the walls.
I was still standing there, frozen, when I heard a door open.
Lorenzo stood in front of me, leaning against the doorframe of what I assumed was his office. His arms were crossed, his eyes fixed on me as if I were the only thing in the room worth looking at. He was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong, corded forearms.
He was beautiful.
And terrifying.
And I couldn’t look away.
“Zara,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue as if he’d been savoring it all day.
“Lorenzo.” I swallowed. “This place is…beautiful.”
He let out a low chuckle, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking toward me. His steps were measured, unhurried.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, stopping a few feet away. “No, Zara,youare beautiful. This place does not compare.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “I don’t even know what to say. I’ve never been in a place like this.”
“Then let me show you around.”
He didn’t wait for my response. He just turned and started walking.
The penthouse was a masterpiece of design and money. A sprawling living room with a fireplace that looked like it had never been used. A kitchen that could have rivaled a restaurant, with stainless steel and marble countertops. A dining room with a table that could seat twelve. A balcony that wrapped around the entire floor, offering views that made my head spin.
