The penthouse was a monument to cold luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased a breathtaking panorama of Milan at night — a galaxy of lights stretching to the horizon. But the interior felt like a museum: minimalist furniture in shades of gray, abstract art that conveyed nothing, and a silence so profound Chloe could hear her own heartbeat.
"Your room is through there." Luca's voice made her jump. He'd entered silently, having changed into dark trousers and a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up. He gestured to a hallway. "You'll find a wardrobe. My stylist stocked it. Be ready in an hour."
"An hour? For what?"
"Our first public appearance. A gallery opening. The press will be there."
Of course. The performance began immediately. "What's the script?"
"We're madly in love. It was a whirlwind romance. You admire my business acumen. I'm captivated by your artistry." He recited it like a grocery list. "Avoid specifics. Smile. Touch my arm occasionally. Don't disagree with me in public."
His clinical detachment was more unnerving than his earlier anger. "And if I have a question? A concern?"
"You don't." He turned to leave.
"Wait." The word escaped before she could stop it. He paused, one eyebrow arched. "My family… when will their debts be cleared?"
"The process started the moment you signed. Your parents should receive confirmation by morning." A sliver of relief pierced her anxiety. "But remember, Chloe," he added, his voice lowering, "this arrangement is a house of cards. One misstep, one hint that this is anything less than genuine, and it all collapses. And if it collapses because of you, the consequences will be far worse than bankruptcy."
The threat hung in the sterile air. Then he was gone.
The room meant to be hers was spacious, decorated in neutral creams and taupes. A walk-in closet revealed a curated selection of designer clothing — her size, her style, but more expensive than anything she'd ever owned. It felt like putting on a costume.
She chose a sleek emerald gown. The fabric whispered against her skin. Staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman in the mirror. She looked poised, polished, empty.
An hour later, Luca met her in the living room. His gaze swept over her, assessing, not admiring. "The earrings are wrong." Before she could react, he stepped close. So close she caught the clean, spicy scent of his cologne. His fingers brushed her neck as he removed her simple studs. From his pocket, he produced a velvet box.
Inside nestled a pair of exquisite diamond drops — delicate, devastatingly expensive. "A gift from your doting fiancé," he said, his tone ironic as he fastened them for her. His touch on her earlobe sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. He noticed. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before the mask slid back into place.
"Remember," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple, "you wanted this."
The gallery was a whirlwind of light, champagne, and curious eyes. Luca's hand rested possessively on the small of her back, a brand through the silk of her dress. Cameras flashed.
"Luca! Over here! Who's the lovely lady?"
He pulled her closer, his smile dazzling and utterly false. "This is Chloe Laurent. My fiancée."
The reporters erupted with questions. How did you meet? Is it true this is related to the Laurent-Rossi feud? When's the wedding?
Luca fielded them with practiced ease, spinning a tale of a chance meeting at a charity auction, of instant connection, of love blossoming despite family history. He spoke of her talent, calling her "the most brilliant designer of her generation." The praise, so blatantly strategic, made her cheeks burn.
"And what do you say, Chloe?" a reporter shoved a microphone toward her. "How does it feel to be engaged to the man your brother tried to ruin?"
All eyes were on her. She felt Luca's fingers press a silent warning into her back. She forced a radiant smile, one she'd practiced in the mirror a thousand times while dreaming of her own brand's launch.
"Family history is just that — history," she said, her voice clear and sweet. "Luca and I are writing our own story." She turned to look up at him, letting her gaze soften. "And I've never been happier."
The lie tasted like ash. But the crowd ate it up. Luca looked down at her, and for the public, his expression was one of adoration. But she saw the cold approval in his eyes. Good girl. You're following the script.
They circulated. He introduced her to politicians, celebrities, rival CEOs. She was polite, charming, a perfect accessory. In a quiet corner, while Luca was momentarily cornered by a business associate, she finally breathed.
"A stunning performance. Almost believable."
Chloe turned to find a stunning woman in a crimson dress watching her, a glass of champagne dangling from her fingers. She had the polished, predatory grace of a socialite who knew everyone's secrets.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Isabella Moretti. Luca and I… go way back." Her smile was all teeth. "I must say, I'm surprised. He usually goes for models. Less complicated. But I suppose a warped sense of poetic justice has its own appeal."
Chloe kept her smile intact. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do." Isabella leaned in, her perfume overpowering. "Let me give you some free advice, fiancée. Luca Rossi doesn't have a heart. He has a vault. And everything is a transaction. Enjoy the jewelry while it lasts."
Before Chloe could respond, Luca was at her side. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her firmly against him. The gesture was protective, but his grip was tight.
"Isabella. Still gossiping like it's a competitive sport, I see."
"Just welcoming your new… acquisition to the jungle, darling." Isabella winked and melted into the crowd.
Luca's jaw was tight. "Stay away from her."
"Who is she?"
"A distraction." He didn't elaborate. "We're leaving."
In the darkened backseat of his Rolls-Royce, the silence was heavy. The city lights streaked by.
"You did adequately tonight," he said finally, not looking at her.
Adequately. The word stung. "I lied to a room full of people for you."
"You fulfilled a contract." He turned his head, his profile sharp against the window. "Tomorrow, a photographer will 'catch' us having a cozy breakfast on the terrace. We'll look domestic. In love."
The endless performance. "And when do I get to work? On my designs?"
"When I decide it fits the narrative. The grieving artist finding inspiration in new love is a good chapter. But not yet."
Frustration boiled over. "I'm not a character in your PR campaign, Luca. I'm a person."
For the first time, he looked at her fully, his gaze intense in the shadows. "No," he said, his voice quiet and final. "For the next year, you are my wife. That is the only person you are allowed to be. Anything else is a breach of contract."
He turned back to the window, conversation over.
Back in the penthouse, Chloe retreated to her room. She removed the diamond earrings, heavy with hypocrisy, and placed them on the dresser. Through the wall, she could hear the faint sound of Luca moving in his office, likely already planning the next day's strategy.
She walked to the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. Below, the city teemed with real life, real love, real struggles. She was in a gilded cage, performing a pantomime of happiness to pay for her family's mistakes.
And her jailer was a man made of ice and calculation, whose deepest secret, she was beginning to suspect, wasn't a thirst for revenge, but a profound, frozen emptiness.
She had sold her freedom. But as she stood there, utterly alone in a stranger's palace, Chloe Laurent made a silent vow. She would play his game. She would wear his diamonds and speak his lies.
But she would not let him break her. And before this year was over, she would find out what crack existed in Luca Rossi's perfect, frozen façade.
And maybe, just maybe, she would use it.