Redeemed (Empire of Hearts #2)

Prologue

GIANNA

At twenty-nine, I was terrified of tomorrow.

The hotel terrace stretched empty before me, New York glittering far below. Inside—just a minute ago—Sarah had extracted one more promise from me: to visit often.

Hector, my ex-boss, was probably calculating exactly how long sentiment required him to stay before he could escape back to work.

Earlier, my mother had stood near the doorway wearing that expression she saved for moments when she was proud but afraid to say out loud—like naming good things might make them disappear.

Seven years. I’d spent seven years working for the Valdez family, keeping my head down and my dreams folded small enough to fit in a pocket. And now I was supposed to unfold them, walk back into NYU Law like those years hadn’t happened.

The severance check from Hector in my purse felt heavier than it should, a quiet reminder that I was actually doing this.

I gripped the terrace railing and breathed in the cold April air, trying to steady the panic crawling up my throat.

The city stretched out forever, indifferent and beautiful, full of people who knew exactly where they were going.

I used to be one of them. At twenty-two, I’d had plans and ambition and the kind of certainty that comes from not knowing how fast everything can fall apart.

Then my father died on a stairwell, and certainty became a luxury I could no longer afford.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

I stiffened. The terrace was supposed to be empty. I’d checked before coming out here, made sure I could fall apart in private if I needed to. But someone was walking toward me, their shoes whispering against the stone.

I didn’t turn around. Maybe if I ignored them, they’d leave.

The footsteps stopped a few feet away.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize anyone was out here.”

The voice was low and warm, edged with amusement, like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t. I turned.

A man stood near the terrace door, tall and dressed in a way that made expensive look effortless. Dark hair styled to perfection.

Gray eyes that looked directly at me, not through me the way most people did. He had the kind of face that got more interesting the longer you looked at it—sharp angles softened by a mouth that curved like he knew something funny you didn’t.

I recognized him vaguely from earlier. One of Hector’s friends who’d been in the hotel lobby, the two of them exchanging brief words before Hector joined us for dinner.

Even back then I had noticed him. He had a face people didn’t usually forget.

“There’s plenty of terrace,” I said, turning back to the view before he could see how fast my heart was beating. “Take your half.”

“Generous of you.” He moved to the railing but not where I expected—closer than polite strangers usually stood, far enough to give me space but near enough that I felt aware of him. “Considering I’m technically the one intruding.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No. Definitely not.” He leaned against the railing, angling toward me. “I came out here to escape small talk. Finding someone who looks like they’re doing the same thing? That’s luck.”

I glanced at him sideways. He watched the city, but something in the way he stood told me he was paying attention to me too—like he could track both at once.

“What were you escaping?” I asked.

“A conversation about quarterly earnings that somehow turned into a debate about yacht specifications.” His mouth quirked. “You?”

“Goodbyes.”

“Ah.” He nodded like that explained everything. “Those are worse.”

We stood in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—just two people who’d fled to the same hiding spot at the same time.

“I’m Archie,” he said finally, offering his hand.

Just Archie. No last name, no title, no context. I liked him immediately for it.

“Gianna.” I shook his hand. His grip was warm and firm, lingering a second longer than necessary before he let go.

“So what are you saying goodbye to, Gianna?”

“A job. Seven years.” I twisted my ring. “Going back to law school. Finishing what I started.”

“NYU?”

I nodded.

“That’s good.” He watched me carefully. “Why doesn’t it feel good?”

Maybe it was because he was a stranger. Or because I was leaving tomorrow and would never see him again. The uncertainties eating me alive finally had an outlet.

“Because I’m twenty-nine and everyone else will be twenty-two. Because I dropped out once, and what if I’m not actually good enough? What if I just convinced myself I am?”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I braced for some meaningless encouragement about believing in myself.

Instead, he said, “You belong there more than half the people who never left.”

I laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you spent seven years doing something hard instead of something easy.” His voice was matter-of-fact, like he was stating an obvious truth. “I know you’re going back even though you’re terrified. That’s more than most people manage their entire lives.”

Something in the way he said it made me look at him closer. This wasn’t politeness. This came from somewhere real.

“What about you?” I asked. “What are you hiding from up here?”

“Expectations. Choices that seemed right at the time but keep me awake at night.” He turned fully toward me, leaning one elbow on the railing. “The usual.”

“That’s vague.”

“That’s intentional.” His smile was quick and self-aware. “I’m better at asking questions than answering them.”

“Convenient.”

“Survival skill.”

I found myself smiling despite the weight in my chest. “Mystery man it is, then.”

“I can work with that.” He studied me for a moment, head tilted. “You want the real answer?”

“Only if you want to give it.”

He was quiet for a beat, something shifting in his expression.

“I inherited something I didn’t ask for.

Spent years trying to prove I deserve it, made choices I thought were right.

Now I’m trying to figure out if doing good with bad power is enough, or if I’m just making myself feel better about benefiting from a broken system. ”

The honesty caught me off guard. This wasn't a cocktail party confession.

“That sounds exhausting,” I said.

“It is.” His eyes stayed on mine. “But probably not as exhausting as your seven years.”

“Not a competition.”

“Good. You’d win.” He pushed off the railing, stepping slightly closer. “You want to know something?”

“What?”

“I think you’re going to do great at NYU. I think you’re going to walk in there and realize you earned your spot twice over. And I think the twenty-two-year-olds are going to learn more from you than you will from them.”

My throat tightened. “You’re just saying that. You barely know me.”

“Maybe, but it’s what I believe.” His voice dropped lower, more serious. “Ask anyone who knows me. I’m annoyingly honest about what I think.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to walk into law school tomorrow and not feel like an imposter.

“I’m angry at my father,” I heard myself say. “For dying. For leaving us with nothing. And I hate that I’m angry because it wasn’t his fault, but I am anyway.”

Archie didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush to comfort me or offer clichés. He just nodded, and something in his expression told me he understood exactly what I meant.

“I’m angry at mine too,” he said quietly. “For dying and leaving me with something I didn’t want. For trusting me with things I wasn’t ready for. For not living long enough to see what I did with it all.”

Silence followed. Two strangers trading truths they probably shouldn’t.

“This is weird,” I said.

“The best conversations usually are.” He smiled, and it eased his whole face—made him look younger, less burdened. “Besides, sometimes it’s easier to tell the truth to someone you’ll never see again.”

“Is that what this is? A conversation”

“I don’t know.” His eyes held mine. “What do you want it to be?”

The question felt like an invitation. Dangerous. My pulse kicked up.

“I don’t know either,” I admitted.

“Well.” He straightened, and I caught the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something warmer. “We could keep standing here having an existential crisis about our respective dead fathers and failed expectations.”

“Or?”

“Or we could do something completely impractical.” He tilted his head, listening. Faint jazz drifted up from somewhere below. “Dance with me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“There’s music. We’re on a terrace in New York.” He held out his hand, palm up. “And you’re leaving tomorrow, which means this is one of those moments that doesn’t have consequences. So dance with me, Gianna.”

The way he said my name did something to my pulse. Made it stumble.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Probably.” His hand stayed extended, steady and sure. “But I’m trying to stop being careful about things that matter. And something tells me you could use a break from being careful too.”

He was right. I’d been careful for seven years—careful with money, with hope, with wanting anything I couldn’t afford to lose. And look where it got me: standing on a terrace at twenty-nine, terrified of tomorrow.

I took his hand.

His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure, and he pulled me closer. Not too close at first. His other hand settled on my waist, light but sure, and we started moving to music we could barely hear.

“You’re terrible at this,” I said after a moment.

“Excuse me?” His eyes lit up with amusement. “I’m an excellent dancer. You’re just not following.”

“I’m not following because you’re leading wrong.”

“Bold accusation from someone who just stepped on my foot.”

“That was your fault.”

He laughed, and the sound went straight through me. “Okay. Fair. We’re both terrible.”

But we kept moving anyway, and somewhere between arguing about who was worse, something shifted.

His hand spread wider across my back, pulling me incrementally closer.

Mine slid from his shoulder to his neck, fingers brushing the hair at his nape.

Our faces were close enough now that I could see the darker ring around his gray eyes, and could feel his breath warm against my temple.

“Gianna.” My name came out rougher this time.

I looked up at him. His expression had changed—still warm but with something hungry underneath. Something that matched the heat building low in my stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Can I kiss you?”

I wanted to consider the consequences. To remember I was leaving tomorrow and this was a stranger whose last name I didn’t even know.

Instead, I said, “Yeah, yeah.”

He kissed me.

Slow at first. Careful. Like he was learning what I liked.

Then I made a sound low in my throat and his control snapped.

His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back as he deepened the kiss, and I pulled him closer, needing more.

We stumbled backward, still kissing, until I hit the terrace wall.

His body pressed against mine, solid and warm, and I forgot how to think.

“Inside,” I managed against his mouth.

“You sure?”

I answered by grabbing his jacket and pulling him toward the door.

We barely made it into his room. His jacket hit the floor. My dress unzipped with hands that shook slightly—not from nerves but from wanting. We crashed onto the bed, and I let myself have this. Let myself want something just because I wanted it.

The pleasure built slowly, then all at once, crashing over me in waves that left me breathless. When it was over, when we lay tangled in sheets that smelled like expensive hotels and sex, I felt more like myself than I had in seven years.

Archie traced lazy patterns on my shoulder, neither of us speaking. What was there to say? This was already more than it should have been.

“I don’t want this to end,” he said finally, his voice rough.

I closed my eyes. “It has to. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t.” I turned to look at him. “This was perfect because it exists outside everything else. Let’s not ruin it.”

He pulled me closer after that, and we fell asleep like that—my head on his chest, his arm around me, both of us pretending tomorrow wasn’t coming.

When I woke hours later, dawn bled through the windows. I dressed quietly, gathering my clothes from where they’d fallen. Archie stirred but didn’t wake, and I was grateful—too much of me wasn’t ready to see his eyes again.

At the door, I paused. He lay tangled in the wrecked sheets, dark hair a mess against white pillows, one arm reaching toward the space where I’d been. Something in my chest tightened, sharp and unwelcome.

I slipped out and eased the door shut behind me.

In the hallway, I pressed my back to the wall and exhaled, trying to steady the sudden ache in my ribs. Some moments were meant to stay untouched. Clean. Honest. Turning them into anything else would only break them.

That’s what I told myself, anyway.

I pushed off the wall and walked toward the elevator, refusing to look back—because I already knew if I did, I wouldn’t leave at all.