CHAPTER 11: The Invitation

MIA CRUZ

The blaring of my alarm jolted me awake, dragging me out of a restless sleep. I groaned, rolling over and slamming the snooze button before burying my face in my pillow. Just five more minutes.

Except five minutes turned into ten, and by the time I finally forced myself up, the sun was already peeking through my window, casting a warm glow across my room.

Sunday.

The realization hit me fully, sending a jolt of awareness through my still-sleepy mind. I was meeting Marco today. At his house.

I shook off the nerves creeping in and stretched, rubbing my eyes before dragging myself out of bed. My feet padded across the cool wooden floor as I made my way to the bathroom.

A splash of cold water to my face did wonders in shaking off the last remnants of sleep. I brushed my teeth, letting my mind wander as I moved through my morning routine—washing my face, tying my blonde hair into a loose bun, and stepping into the shower.

The hot water loosened the tension in my shoulders, and I took my time, letting it relax me. By the time I was out, I felt more awake, though there was still a lingering buzz of excitement in my chest.

Wrapping myself in a towel, I walked back into my room, rifling through my wardrobe for something to wear. I settled on a floral sundress that was simple yet flattering, paired with strappy sandals. It wasn’t overly formal, but it also didn’t scream casual bookstore owner.

Satisfied, I made my way to the kitchen. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the scent of toast. My mom stood by the stove, flipping pancakes onto a plate.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she teased, glancing at me over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee. “Morning, Mom.”

She eyed me as I slid into a chair, taking a sip of my drink. “You’re up early for a Sunday. Got plans?”

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. I have a meeting with a client.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she placed a plate of pancakes in front of me. “Eat up before you go charming your client with those big brown eyes of yours.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

I chose to ignore her amused look and focused on my food, letting the fluffy pancakes and sweet syrup distract me.

But deep down, I knew today wasn’t just any business meeting.

It was Marco. And that made all the difference.

The memory of our café meeting lingered in my mind—Marco’s piercing blue eyes, the way he’d studied me like I was something to be figured out. His gaze had a way of making me feel seen, as though he wasn’t just looking at me but rather through me, peeling back the layers to uncover something even I wasn’t sure of.

He had listened intently when I pitched the idea of supplying books and learning materials for the orphanage, his expression thoughtful, almost guarded. I could tell this wasn’t just a corporate deal for him. It was something more. Something personal.

And that intrigued me.

People with wealth often saw charity as a tax write-off, a public relations move to polish their image. But Marco had been different. There was a weight to his decision, an unspoken reason why he wanted to do this—not as Mr. Valentino, CEO, but as Marco, the man who sat across from me in that café, holding his iced coffee with an easy yet unreadable expression.

I wanted to ask why.

I wanted to know what it was about this orphanage that made him care enough to be personally involved. But something told me Marco wasn’t the kind of man you pushed for answers. If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me.

I sighed, forcing my focus back to reality as I sat behind the counter at my mother’s bookstore, flipping through one of the sample catalogs. I’d spent the past hour curating a list of books and learning materials that would be best suited for the kids—storybooks, activity books, educational games. Something fun yet meaningful.

Just as I was about to jot down a few more ideas, my phone vibrated beside me.

Marco: Send me a list of what you think would be best for the kids. Also, bring the samples. We’ll go over everything at my place.

I bit my lip, my fingers hovering over the screen.

His place?

A warmth curled in my stomach, one I didn’t want to acknowledge. There was no reason for it—this was business. Strictly business. Yet, the thought of stepping into his world, into whatever space he called home, made something in my chest tighten.

I shook off the ridiculous feeling and quickly typed a response.

Mia: Got it. What time should I come by?

His reply came almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for my response.

Marco: 11:30 AM. I’ll send my address.

I stared at the message, my pulse betraying me with a slight flutter.

There was nothing unusual about this. Clients invited me to meetings all the time. I’d visited corporate offices, attended business dinners. But this wasn’t a boardroom or a café.

This was his home.

I inhaled deeply, trying to push aside the nervous energy creeping in.

I wasn’t going to Marco’s house as anything more than a business associate. It didn’t matter that his voice had a way of making my skin tingle, or that I had caught myself staring at the way his jaw clenched when he sipped his coffee.

This was about books.

About the orphanage.

About work.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror before grabbing my purse. My floral dress swayed slightly as I moved, and I ran a hand over my blonde waves, making sure they were in place. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress Marco—I wasn’t. But there was something about him that made me more conscious of my appearance.

Shaking off the thought, I made my way outside, only to halt in my tracks.

A sleek black car was parked in front of my house, its polished surface gleaming under the morning sun. The driver, a well-dressed older man with a poised demeanor, stepped out as soon as he spotted me.

“Miss Cruz?” His voice was deep and professional.

I blinked. “Uh, yes?”

He nodded respectfully. “I’m here on behalf of Mr. Valentino. He asked me to bring you to the estate.”

For a moment, I just stood there, taken aback. I had expected to drive myself. But of course, Marco Valentino wasn’t the kind of man to do things halfway.

Still, something about this felt… personal.

I hesitated for only a second before reminding myself this was business. Nothing more.

With a small nod, I adjusted the strap of my purse and approached the car. The driver—Cursey, I assumed—opened the door for me, and I slid into the plush leather seat.

As the door shut behind me, sealing me inside the luxury vehicle, I let out a slow breath.

This wasn’t just a simple book deal.

I was stepping into his world now.

As the car approached Marco Valentino’s estate, my breath caught in my throat.

The wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, tall and imposing, adorned with intricate patterns that whispered of old money and untouchable power. They glided open without a sound, revealing a long, paved driveway lined with towering oak trees. Their sprawling branches created a natural tunnel, casting shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow across the sleek hood of the car.

At the end of the drive, the estate came into view, and I couldn’t help but stare.

The mansion was a masterpiece of architecture—grand yet refined, with pristine white walls, tall columns, and massive windows that reflected the endless sky. The dark slate roof gave it a timeless, elegant feel, and a grand staircase led up to an entrance that was nothing short of regal.

Perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the property, and the garden was a riot of color, with roses, orchids, and exotic flowers I didn’t even know the names of. A marble fountain stood proudly in the center of the courtyard, water cascading from the carved hands of a Romanesque statue.

It was beautiful. And intimidating.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, and before I could fully gather my thoughts, the door was pulled open.

“Miss Cruz,” Cursey said with a polite nod.

I swallowed and stepped out, my sandals clicking softly against the stone driveway. The air smelled like fresh blooms and the faintest hint of expensive cologne.

The door at the top of the grand staircase opened, and there he was.

Marco Valentino.

Standing in the doorway, watching me and leaning against the frame with the kind of ease that came naturally to men like him—powerful, self-assured, completely in control. His piercing blue eyes swept over me, slow and assessing, sending a shiver down my spine.

Dressed in a fitted black shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and dark slacks that hinted at his toned frame, he looked effortlessly elegant. The morning sunlight streaming from behind him only added to the effect, casting a soft glow around his silhouette.

For a moment, I just stood there, gripping my bag tighter, my heart doing an odd little flip.

“Morning, Mia,” he said smoothly, his deep voice rolling over me like warm silk.

I swallowed and forced a polite smile. “Morning, Marco.”

His lips curled at the edges, as if he found something amusing, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stepped back, silently inviting me inside.

I hesitated for only a second before stepping past him, catching a faint, expensive cologne that made my head spin. As I entered, my breath hitched at the sheer beauty of the interior.

This man is loaded!