Chapter 6

I studied my reflection in the hotel mirror. MAC Ruby Woo lipstick lay uncapped on the marble counter—the same shade I'd worn to close my first billion-dollar deal, before Luca convinced me to "focus on the family."

Morning light spilled through the gauzy curtains. The king-sized bed remained untouched, sheets pulled tight. Sleep hadn't come.

My phone buzzed again. Clarissa's name lit up the screen—her twelfth call since dawn. Three from James. Five from Diane, methodically spaced seventeen minutes apart. Seven from Luca. His latest text read simply:

Don't embarrass yourself more than you already have. Think of everything I know about you.

The white Tom Ford suit waited on the bathroom door, still in its garment bag. I'd purchased it in Paris six months ago during a solo trip through the fashion houses while Luca attended his "emergency meetings."

"White makes you look washed out, dear," Clarissa had said at one of our mandatory Sunday brunches, eyeing my outfit with practiced disdain. "And that cut? Far too ambitious for your figure. We wouldn't want you overshadowing Luca at board meetings, would we?"

The fabric felt cool against my skin as I dressed. Each pearl button closed with a soft click. My hands remained steady despite my unsettled stomach. Half a slice of toast sat abandoned on a room service plate—all I'd managed this morning.

The elevator descended to the conference floor, each floor announced with a quiet chime. The documents Dante had prepared waited in my briefcase. I remembered how his fingers had brushed mine when he'd handed them over yesterday.

Old money lived in the grain of the boardroom's mahogany doors. Voices murmured behind the frosted panels. My phone vibrated once more—Luca again. I switched it to silent and reached for the handle.

Conversations stopped as I entered. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off water glasses and laptop screens.

Luca occupied the head chair, wearing his familiar boardroom smirk. He'd chosen the Brioni suit I'd given him last Christmas, paired with his "lucky" Hermès tie. I'd straightened that tie countless times, believing in the man he pretended to be.

James's fingers drummed against the table as he frowned. The same rhythm from when he'd told me I was "lucky" Luca had chosen me, that the Moretti name justified any sacrifice.

Diane's French-manicured nails tapped her Mont Blanc pen. She'd claimed her usual spot by the coffee service, where she'd "accidentally" spilled drinks on my documents more times than I could count.

Clarissa's hand tightened around her pearls—passed down through generations of Moretti women, a lineage she'd made clear I'd never join. She wore Chanel, the same suit from the day she'd deemed me insufficient for her son.

"Darling," she'd said then, stirring her tea with precise movements, "we simply want what's best for Luca. Surely you understand that someone of your... background might find our world overwhelming. The responsibilities, the expectations—it's quite a burden for someone who wasn't born to it."

Peterson cleared his throat. I recognized him from my prenup signing. "Ms. Caldwell," he gestured to an empty leather chair. "Shall we begin?"

Evelyn sat at Luca's right hand, wearing Valentino—the dress I'd admired during Milan Fashion Week, before Luca dismissed it as "too obvious." His hand disappeared beneath the table. Evelyn's breath caught. A familiar scene I'd witnessed with other women, explained away countless times.

The PowerPoint illuminated the screen. First slide: shareholding structure, my former holdings divided among the Morettis. Second: voting rights, bearing my signature from our third anniversary, when he'd claimed he needed my trust to build our future.

"As you can see," Peterson said, "during the period of marriage, Ms. Caldwell signed over her voting rights and share options to Mr. Moretti's control. The documentation is quite thorough."

My signatures filled the screen. Our anniversary. My birthday. Christmas morning. Each celebration repurposed into a business transaction.

"The legal standing is clear," Peterson continued before Luca interrupted.

"However," Luca leaned forward, "I'm willing to be generous." His eyes met mine, calculations visible now where I'd once seen charm. "If Vivian would like to... reconsider her recent behavior, arrangements could be made."

The room grew still. Diane's pen stopped moving. James shifted in his chair. Clarissa held her breath.

"All you have to do," Luca stood slightly, "is kneel down right here and apologize. Show proper respect to the family you're trying to destroy." He gestured to the floor beside him, casual as requesting coffee.

Silence filled the room. Every eye watched, waiting for me to break. Even Evelyn looked uncomfortable, fingers worrying her pearl bracelet—one I recognized from last year's jewelry catalog.

The boardroom door opened.

Dante entered. Everyone turned. He walked to my chair, his hand settling on my waist.

"I believe," he said quietly, "my fiancée has better things to do than kneel."

Luca's coffee cup slipped. The sound of shattering ceramic punctuated the silence. Dark liquid splashed Evelyn's Louboutins. She stepped back, but no one looked her way.

"Your what?" Luca's voice cracked.

"Fiancée." I stood, Dante's hand steady at my waist. "We're getting married next week. Small ceremony. Intimate." I smiled, mimicking Clarissa's practiced politeness. "You're all invited, of course. Though given the... circumstances, we'll understand if you'd rather not attend."

Luca knocked his chair over as he lunged across the table. Dante moved faster.

He pinned Luca against the wall, forearm at his throat. "Non osare toccarla." Don't you dare touch her.

Clarissa screamed. "Traditore! Come osi?!" Traitor! How dare you?! James stepped forward, professional composure slipping. Dante's grip remained firm.

"Touch her again," Dante said in English, "and I'll show you exactly why those investors tried to have me killed all those years ago."

The room spun. Coffee, Chanel No. 5, Poison perfume overwhelmed me. I barely reached the bathroom before my stomach rebelled.

Dante appeared in the doorway. A woman at the sink hurried out. The door closed with a click.

"Vivian." My name carried questions.

I found his reflection in the mirror. Concern showed in the slight furrow of his brow.

His shoes whispered against tile as he approached. A white handkerchief appeared before me, his initials embroidered in black.

"The meeting's adjourned," he said. "James is with Luca. Clarissa's calling Milan." He paused. "Do you need a doctor?"

I shook my head, regretting the movement. "I need..." The words stuck. "I need a minute."

His hand rested between my shoulder blades. He stayed silent while I breathed, while I collected myself. The Tom Ford suit bore marks from the bathroom floor.

When I stood, my legs steadied. My lipstick had smeared, my face was pale, but my eyes were clear. For the first time in years, I recognized myself in the mirror.