Three days had passed since Adora met Marco DeLuca, and still, that white card lay on her table like a secret. Each night she promised herself she would throw it away, and each morning she found herself tracing her fingers over his name.
There was something about him she couldn't name something that scared her almost as much as it intrigued her. His calm, his certainty, his eyes that seemed to see through everything. She told herself that people like him didn't notice women like her. He was a man of glass towers and hidden rooms; she was a woman of dust and daylight.
Yet somehow, their paths had crossed.
That afternoon, when the market was loud and sunlit, a black car returned. The same one.
The crowd grew silent again not from curiosity this time, but from a quiet, uneasy respect. Everyone seemed to sense that whoever was inside wasn't the kind of man you wanted to offend.
The door opened, and Marco stepped out, dressed in a dark grey suit that caught the light. A man followed behind him, tall and serious, carrying a small brown envelope.
Adora's stomach knotted.
"Good afternoon," Marco said, his accent soft but firm.
"You again?" she asked, folding her arms. "What is it this time, Mr. DeLuca?"His mouth curved slightly. "Just Marco. I came to return a favor."
"What favor?"
"The honesty you sold me," he said, that faint smile still in his voice. "And perhaps… a little company."
Adora frowned. "I don't do company."
He nodded, almost approvingly. "I like that. Still, this is for you."
He gestured, and the man beside him handed her the envelope. Inside, there was a neat card printed in gold:
Dinner Invitation
La Casa DeLuca — 8:00 PM
She stared at it, disbelief flooding her face. "You're joking, right?"
"I don't joke often," he replied. "It's bad for business."
"I sell oranges. I can't come to your kind of dinner."
"Then wear your honesty," he said simply. "It suits you better than gold."Before she could protest again, he turned, his coat catching the evening light as he walked back to the car.
When he left, she felt the whole street's eyes on her whispers chasing her from every corner.
"Who's he?"
"That's the Italian."
"She's crazy if she goes."
And maybe she was.
That evening, as darkness fell and the street grew quiet, Adora found herself standing before her small mirror, smoothing her plain dress. It wasn't fancy, but it was clean. Her hands trembled slightly as she tucked the invitation into her purse.
When she reached the address, the city lights gave way to silence. The DeLuca mansion rose like something out of a dream all marble and shadow, with guards at the gate and fountains that whispered secrets.
A man at the door nodded when she showed him the card.
Inside, the air was heavy with perfume and wealth. Candlelight flickered across paintings and long tables of silver. It felt like stepping into another world one that didn't belong to her.
And then she saw him.
Marco stood near the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand, watching her with the quiet intensity of a man who noticed every detail.
"You came," he said softly.
Adora swallowed hard. "I'm still not sure why."
"Because you're curious," he replied. "And because part of you already knows you don't belong to that market anymore."
His voice was low, his gaze steady, and it frightened her how easily he read her.
"Do you say that to every woman you invite here?"
He smiled slow, dark, confident. "No. You're the first."
Her heart stumbled. "I doubt that."
"You can doubt," he said, stepping closer. "But the truth doesn't change."
The scent of his cologne filled her senses, warm and dangerous. Her pulse raced, and she took a step back, trying to hide the sudden flutter in her chest.
Dinner was a blur of elegance. He asked about her life, her family, her dreams listening as if every word mattered. But behind his charm, there was something unreadable, something that spoke of power, control, and danger.
When she finally stood to leave, he caught her wrist gently.
"Adora," he said. "When I said you don't belong there, I meant it. You deserve more than survival."
She met his eyes, her breath unsteady. "And what exactly do you think I deserve, Marco?"
He smiled faintly, his thumb brushing against her skin before letting her go. "The world