The city moved around Lana in a blur.
Yellow taxis. Honking horns. Pedestrians locked in their own chaos. She stood still on the sidewalk outside Vieri Global's glass-and-steel skyscraper, the newly signed contract tucked into her handbag like a ticking bomb.
The ink on her signature was barely dry, and already her pulse throbbed in her ears.
She hadn't slept. Again.
She'd spent the last few hours beside her brother's hospital bed, watching him sleep, memorizing every peaceful breath. It was the only part of her life that still felt real.
The rest? A surreal, high-stakes performance she hadn't auditioned for.
And it was only just beginning.
Her phone vibrated.
Dante: Car waiting out front. Bring only essentials. The staff will handle the rest.
Lana stared at the message.
No please. No are you okay?
Typical Dante.
The black sedan idled at the curb like it had been plucked from a spy film—sleek, tinted, anonymous. A suited driver stepped out and opened the rear door without a word.
"Ms. Brooks," he said politely.
It took effort not to flinch at her name. It would be the last time she heard it used that way.
Because from now on, to the world—she was Mrs. Vieri.
She slid into the car, clutching her small overnight bag like a shield. The leather seats were butter-soft. The smell of money and control.
Her control was already slipping.
She barely recognized the woman in the reflection of the tinted window.
Was she really doing this?
Yes. For Owen.
She closed her eyes and whispered a silent promise to herself: One year. No feelings. No mistakes.
The Vieri estate loomed at the edge of the Hudson River like something out of a luxury architecture magazine—sleek angles, steel, and stone. Brutally modern. Imposing. Cold.
Just like its owner.
Lana had seen it in glossy press photos before. But nothing prepared her for the size or silence of the place. The main gate opened without a word from the driver, the security camera panning to track her face.
Every inch was monitored. Controlled. Owned.
They drove along a winding private road flanked by manicured trees until the mansion emerged—a sprawling three-story fortress of glass and concrete.
Dante was waiting on the front steps, dressed in another impeccable black suit.
He looked like he hadn't slept either, though his face didn't show it. Not really.
"Welcome home," he said flatly.
Lana stepped out. "You mean prison."
One corner of his mouth twitched. "That's up to you."
They stared at each other for a beat longer than necessary. His gaze flicked over her outfit—simple jeans and a gray sweater. No makeup. Hair in a loose bun.
Completely unremarkable. And yet something in his eyes flickered—curiosity? Memory?
It vanished just as quickly.
"This way."
He turned and led her inside without another word.
The interior was even more intimidating than the outside.
Vaulted ceilings. Glass walls that opened to a view of the river. Abstract art in expensive frames. A staircase that spiraled like it belonged in a billionaire's dream catalog.
Lana followed him through the grand foyer to a long hallway lined with dark wood.
"You'll have the guest suite on the second floor," he said. "It's on the opposite wing from mine."
Of course.
"Staff have been instructed not to bother you. You'll be expected to attend three public events this month as my wife. Our calendar will be coordinated through my assistant, Camilla."
"Charming," she muttered.
Dante stopped suddenly. Turned.
His eyes were sharp as glass. "We made a deal, Lana. One year. Appearances. Discretion. In return, your brother gets the best care in the country. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"I didn't want to sell my soul to the man who ruined my life," she shot back, "but here we are."
Silence stretched between them. Long and brittle.
Then he spoke, voice quiet but iron-edged.
"You said yes."
Lana looked away. "For Owen."
"Then act like it."
Her room was a world apart.
It was bigger than her entire apartment—floor-to-ceiling windows, a king-size bed with ivory sheets, a private marble bathroom. Everything elegant, impersonal, and expensive.
She unpacked the few things she'd brought. A photograph of her and Owen. A worn paperback. A necklace from her mother.
She didn't cry.
Not until the door closed behind her and she heard the click of the lock from the outside.
Dinner that night was a silent affair in the formal dining room, served by a staff that didn't speak unless spoken to. Lana pushed food around her plate.
Dante didn't speak at all.
The silence between them was loud.
Eventually, he broke it.
"You'll be meeting my board in three days. Wear something classic. Pearl earrings, if you have them. My mother liked them."
Lana blinked. "You care what I wear now?"
"They care," he said simply.
"And what am I supposed to say when they ask how we fell madly in love?" she asked, voice sharp with sarcasm.
He met her eyes. "Just smile. I'll do the talking."
"I'm not a prop."
"No," he said softly. "You're a necessity."
His words stung more than they should have.
Later, Lana wandered the library—an actual library—with floor-to-ceiling shelves and a glass ceiling that revealed the stars. She trailed her fingers over the spines of rare books.
The house was beautiful. Empty. Loveless.
She wondered if it reflected its owner.
A quiet sound made her turn.
Dante stood in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened.
For the first time, he looked less like a billionaire and more like a man.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he said.
"Couldn't," she said simply.
A beat of silence passed.
Then he stepped into the room, moving toward the shelves.
He reached for a book.
"'The Count of Monte Cristo,'" he said. "One of my favorites."
"A story about revenge," she said, eyeing him. "Shocking."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You always were quick."
"I had to be. You trained me."
A long pause.
"We were good once, weren't we?" she asked suddenly, the question slipping out before she could stop it.
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "Yes."
Another silence.
"But good doesn't last in our world," he added quietly. "Only power does."
She didn't reply.
He turned to leave. "Get some rest, Mrs. Vieri. We have a role to play."
Three days later, Lana stood in front of a mirror wearing a white silk blouse and a pencil skirt Dante's assistant had selected. Pearl earrings glinted on her earlobes.
She looked like someone else.
Poised. Elegant. Rich.
Dante waited by the car. He gave her a once-over. Said nothing.
But the subtle nod told her he approved.
At Vieri Global's headquarters, the board members waited in the top-floor conference room—eight men and women with expensive watches and colder eyes.
Lana smiled on cue. Held Dante's arm. Let him lead.
He introduced her smoothly.
No one questioned their story—yet.
After the meeting, Dante's father, Alessandro Vieri, pulled her aside.
He was taller than Dante. Grayer. Harder.
"You're brave," he said quietly, eyes like steel. "Marrying into this family."
"I'm doing what I must," she replied.
He studied her for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"Good answer."
Back in the car, Lana exhaled.
"Did I pass?" she asked.
"For now."
She glanced at him. "And your father?"
"He'll never approve. But that's not his decision anymore."
There was something bitter in his voice.
And something… wounded.
She wanted to ask. Didn't.
Days passed in a blur of staged dinners, forced smiles, and cold silences.
But something was shifting.
Small things.
The way Dante lingered when she laughed at something dry and cynical.
The way his hand brushed her back, too gently, when guiding her into a room.
The way his eyes softened for a moment—just one—when he watched her say goodnight.
They were still strangers. Enemies, even.
But a storm was building between them.
And neither of them knew how to stop it.
One night, Lana returned from a press gala, exhausted. Her feet ached in her heels, her face sore from smiling.
She pushed open the library doors and froze.
Dante was there, shirt undone, drink in hand. Staring at the stars.
He didn't turn.
She hesitated.
Then walked in and stood beside him.
"I'm tired," she said.
"So am I."
She looked at him. "Why me?"
He looked at her now, eyes unreadable. "Because you were the only one who wouldn't ask for more."
The words cut deep.
She swallowed.
"Maybe I will."
A long silence.
Then he reached out.
Tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers lingered.
Lana's breath caught.
"Then I'll have to pay more," he said quietly.
And for one terrifying, electric second, she thought he might kiss her.
But he stepped back.
Left the room.
Left her trembling.
That night, she didn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
But because something dangerous was waking inside her.
And if she wasn't careful, it would destroy them both.