My ex-husband humiliated me at my sister’s wedding—until a mysterious billionaire walked over, held out his hand, and whispered, “Pretend you’re my wife.”

The heavy oak doors of the Lake Forest estate closed with a dull, echoing thud, sealing out Arthur Sterling’s frantic, sputtering threats.

The foyer fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Elena Fierro stood motionless by the white orchids, her aged hands resting lightly on the gold head of her ebony walking cane. She didn't look at Arthur Sterling’s departure; her dark, piercing eyes remained fixed entirely on me.

For ten agonizing seconds, nobody breathed.

Then, slowly, a strange, terrifying sound broke the quiet—a dry, raspy chuckle.

Elena lifted her chin, her thin lips curving into a smile that reached her eyes, though it held zero warmth.

"Well," the old woman murmured, her voice carrying across the marble tiles. "It appears the stray has teeth."

She turned her gaze to Giovanni, who stood beside me with his hand still resting securely at my waist, his thumb pressing a steady rhythm against my hipbone.

"You always did have a penchant for dramatic entrances, Giovanni," Elena said, tapping her cane lightly against the floor. "Though I sincerely hope you've vetted her sources. Federal prosecutors don't care about domestic squabbles unless the ledgers are clean."

"The ledgers are pristine, Aunt Elena," Giovanni replied, his voice smooth as silk. "And they are currently sitting in the hands of the U.S. Attorney's office, courtesy of my wife's meticulous filing system."

Elena raised a single, perfectly penciled eyebrow, her gaze shifting back to me with a new, dangerous layer of respect.

"Tomorrow morning at ten," Elena said, turning toward the grand staircase, "you will bring her to the family office downtown. If she is to bear the Fierro name—even for a twelve-month theatrical production—she needs to understand how our shipping lanes operate. We don't harbor amateurs."

With that, the matriarch swept up the stairs, her emerald silk dress rustling against the dark wood like a warning whispered in the dark.

When the sound of her footsteps faded down the second-floor gallery, I let out a long, ragged breath that I felt like I'd been holding since we walked through the front gates. The adrenaline crashed, leaving my knees feeling hollow and my hands trembling slightly inside the velvet folds of my gown.

"You enjoyed that," I whispered, turning my head to glare up at Giovanni.

"I enjoyed watching an empire crumble because a arrogant old man underestimated a pediatric nurse," Giovanni corrected softly, his amber eyes softening just a fraction as he looked down at me. He reached out, his thumb gently catching my chin, tilting my face up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Are you alright?"

"I just threatened a multi-millionaire with federal indictment in a house that looks like a European palace while wearing a dress that costs more than my college tuition," I said, my voice deadpan. "I'm having a wonderful time."

A genuine, rare smile broke across Giovanni’s face—a smile that chased away the cold, untouchable predator persona and left behind a man who looked remarkably human, and dangerously attractive.

"Come," he said, offering his arm once more. "Let's get you away from the family portraits before one of my cousins tries to poison your champagne."

He led me away from the grand foyer, down a wide, dimly lit corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and through a set of French doors that opened out onto a private stone terrace overlooking Lake Michigan.

The night air was cold, smelling of pine, wet stone, and the deep, metallic tang of the lake. Below us, the dark water churned against the stone retaining wall, whitecaps catching the silver moonlight.

"Why me, Giovanni?" I asked quietly, resting my hands on the cold stone balustrade, watching my breath drift out in white clouds. "Out of all the women in Chicago—daughters of executives, socialites, women who grew up in rooms like this—why did you pull a crying nurse off a chair at my sister's wedding?"

Giovanni stepped up beside me, leaning his forearms on the stone barrier. He didn't answer immediately. He stared out into the dark horizon, where the distant lights of the Chicago skyline twinkled like a galaxy of fallen stars.

"Because everyone in my world calculates every move based on what they can gain," he said quietly, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the crashing waves. "They marry for leverage. They smile for position. They lie with a precision that takes decades to master."

He turned his head, his amber eyes locking onto mine in the moonlight.

"You spent your entire night hiding by the kitchen doors because you promised your five-year-old daughter a piece of raspberry cake. You didn't care about the chandeliers, the champagne, or the Vanderhoofs. You cared about keeping a promise to a child."