Rain blurred Manhattan beyond the windows when Isabella Cruz arrived for her first day at Moretti Holdings. She carried a leather folder containing her résumé, references, and the careful confidence she had assembled on the subway. Her shoes were still damp from the walk across the avenue.
Patricia, the executive administrator, escorted her through double doors. Behind a black desk stood Damian Moretti, thirty-two, impeccably dressed, and finishing a phone call that made a contractor somewhere sound close to tears.
“Friday,” he said. “Send me an honest timeline by Friday.”
He ended the call and looked at Isabella.
“You’re punctual.”
“You said nine.”
“Most people explain why they’re late before they sit down.”
“I thought I’d try something different.”
One corner of his mouth moved. He gestured toward a chair, and she sat, keeping her folder on her lap.
For six months, Isabella had watched her savings disappear after the consulting firm where she worked eliminated her department. This position paid enough to stop calculating groceries against rent. Whatever her cousin Maria had heard about the Moretti family, Isabella had told herself rumors were not employment terms.
Damian studied her résumé.
“Columbia. Two years at Morrison. Why this job?”
“Because I’m qualified, and because I need a salary.”
“No speech about admiring the company?”
“I don’t know enough about it yet.”
He put the résumé down. “Good.”
Before he could explain the role, the doors opened.
An older man entered without knocking, followed by a blonde woman in a cream dress. Patricia appeared behind them, her face tight.
“I told them you were occupied.”
“You can go,” the older man said.
Damian did not move. “Patricia, stay available.”
The doors closed, leaving Isabella with three strangers and the immediate understanding that she should not have been there.
The older man placed a folder on the desk.
“End of summer,” he said. “The families have agreed.”
“Then the families can marry each other.”
“Damian.”
“No.”
The woman approached him with a practiced smile. “We don’t need to make this unpleasant.”
“Celeste, you shouldn’t have come.”
“My father expects an answer.”
“He has one.”
The older man’s voice hardened. “You don’t discard a shipping alliance because you dislike the terms.”
Isabella lowered her eyes to her folder. This was no longer a meeting she could politely excuse herself from; it was an argument in which nobody seemed to remember she existed.
Then Damian looked at her.
Later, she would remember that glance more clearly than the kiss. A calculation. A desperate opening. A choice made about her before she had been offered one.
He crossed the room, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet.
“What are you—”
His mouth covered hers.
She froze.
The kiss lasted seconds. Its shock seemed to stretch them into something longer. When he stepped back, his hand remained at her waist.
“There’s your answer,” he told his father. “I’m already with someone.”
Isabella stared at him.
Celeste’s smile vanished.
“You expect us to believe she’s your girlfriend?”
“Yes.”
The older man looked at Isabella as though considering the cost of removing an inconvenient piece of furniture.
“Your name.”
“Isabella Cruz.”
“And how long has this been going on?”
Damian’s hand tightened.
She understood the pressure without understanding the danger. Losing this job had frightened her twenty minutes earlier. Now she was afraid of answering the question incorrectly.
“A while,” she said.
Celeste laughed once. “How convenient.”
Damian moved slightly in front of Isabella.
His father picked up the folder.
“You have seventy-two hours to end this.”
He turned toward the door, then stopped.
“And Damian? If you insist she’s part of this family, don’t complain when we treat her accordingly.”
After they left, Isabella stepped away from him.
“What does that mean?”
For the first time, Damian had no immediate answer.
Then the lock clicked behind the departing visitors.
And Isabella realized she was shaking.
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