Chapter 11 #2
“When I asked to meet you, all I cared about was paying off that debt and maybe sorting out a few urgent bills. But now everything’s changing so fast.” First, he erased the entire forty grand like it was pocket change—which it probably is to him.
Then he assigned me a driver and the use of his Maybach.
Now he wants to buy my family a house? All in the span of a few hours?
He’s not giving me a chance to find my footing and breath.
I know I signed a contract and a prenup, but this all seems too good to be true. What’s the catch?
“The catch?” Romero echoes, his voice right next to my ear now.
My eyes widen. Crap. “Did I say that out loud? Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” I murmur, barely hearing myself over the blood rushing through my body.
Damn him—he’s too handsome, too close. Too overwhelming.
He’s clouding my thoughts with his scent, his presence.
I push away from him, needing distance, needing air.
He lets me go easily, but he doesn’t step back.
Doesn’t give me the breathing room I desperately need.
“The catch is that you have to be married to me for a year, pretending I’m the best thing after the air in your lungs,” he says, his eyes darkening. “The catch is you living with me, sharing my bed for that entire year.”
I already knew that—I practically signed up to prostitute myself—but my brain still short-circuits when he leans down towards me, his intense gaze locking onto mine.
My pulse skitters when he steps impossibly closer, the heat of his body brushing against mine. Anticipation crackles between us, thick and electric, making my breath hitch.
Is he going to kiss me?
His fingers slide beneath my chin, tipping my face up towards him, and my eyes flutter shut, my mind going blissfully quiet, my lips parting in a silent invitation. I can almost taste him again, feel the phantom pressure of his mouth on mine like it never left.
Then his lips graze mine. Not a kiss. Just a tease. A maddening, feather-light brush that sends my neck lolling back, weak with wanting. His other hand shoots up to cradle the base of my skull, steadying me, just as he leans in again—this time slower, deeper, surer.
Please. Please just kiss me—
Before his lips touch mine, a shrill sound splits the moment. A ringtone. Mine?
My eyes fly open, and I jolt back in his arms, my hip smacking painfully into the edge of the chair behind me. He lets me go instantly, his chest heaving as he spins around with a low curse, fingers sinking into his hair.
The loud shrilling continues as I open my purse to take the darn phone out. Mom’s name flashes on the screen. “Hello?”
“We were released, Leni,” Mom whispers, her voice low and breathless, like she just broke out of jail.
“Yeah, they said all the debts have been paid too,” Ethan’s voice comes from the background, quieter but still audible. “What’s going on, Leni?”
“We’ll talk when I get home,” I murmur, stealing a glance at Romero’s rigid back. “I’ll explain everything.” I hang up before they can pepper me with more questions.
Shit. How am I going to explain this without sounding like I’ve sold my soul?
“I need to go,” I tell Romero.
He doesn’t look back at me, just nods and waves his hand dismissively. Right. What did I expect—a goodbye kiss? I turn to leave, feeling strangely deflated.
“Let Dean take you home,” he calls out. “He’ll bring the car back to my place for safety reasons until you move.” I nod without turning around and keep walking. “We’ll have our first public outing tonight. Your driver will pick you up at eight.”
My driver. I pause at those words and glance over my shoulder, half-expecting him to finally meet my eyes.
He doesn’t.
So, with more hesitation than I’d like to admit, I leave his office.
Mom and Ethan took the news of my sudden relationship better than I expected. Way better.
Ethan was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, going on about how ‘cool’ it is that he’ll be related to Romero Lombardi, and I could see dollar signs dancing in Mom’s eyes as she processed what this meant for our family.
Not a single one of them stopped to question whether something might be off. Because they don’t actually care about me as a person—just what I can do for them. After all, me marrying Romero only benefits them. They get a fancy new house, financial security, and bragging rights in the neighborhood.
At least I know where I stand.
I push the bitter thoughts out of my head as I sling my purse over my shoulder and check my reflection in the small mirror in my room.
I’m not sure where we’re going, but knowing Romero, it’s probably a five-star restaurant or something.
So I’m wearing a burgundy wrap skirt with a high slit up the left thigh and one of the spaghetti-strap crop tops I scored on clearance last year.
I’ve never tried this combo since I rarely have occasions to wear skirts, but it looks amazing and makes me feel feminine.
I styled my hair half-up, half-down and pushed the loose strands over my shoulders to cascade down my back.
I look incredible. I do a little twirl for the mirror, my heart skipping as I try to picture Romero’s reaction when he sees me.
Would he say anything? Or would he just stare with that quiet heat in his eyes and make my knees forget how to—
Okay, don’t spiral.
Once I slip on the black pumps I usually wear to work, I’m ready. Just in time.
The apartment is quiet when I step into the hall—no sign of Mom or Ethan. I pause, frowning. Where did they go? They better not be out causing more trouble for me.
I glance out the window just as Romero’s sleek Maybach pulls up. Then drawing in a deep breath, I head for the door, making a mental note to get that broken lock fixed tomorrow.
The car is empty when I slide into the back seat, Dean shutting the door gently. So I’m meeting Romero at the venue then? The realization sends fresh nerves coursing through me, and my palms start sweating despite the cool air conditioning.
A club.
I stare at the building, brows knitting together as I step out of the car. It’s one of the most high-end clubs in Brooklyn—the kind that requires membership or connections to just get through the door.
A club for the wealthy elite, but a club nonetheless. Kind of surprising. Then again, he probably earned that ’Playboy of Brooklyn’ nickname for a reason. Yeah, I googled him. He had quite the wild reputation in his younger days but seems to have mellowed out in recent years.
There’s no line outside like at regular clubs, and as I approach the imposing entrance, the bouncers smile and pull the doors open for me. “Welcome to Neon Night, Miss Barlowe.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, surprised they know my name. Romero must have told them to expect me.
The narrow hallway vibrates with bass that I can feel in my bones, and when it opens into the main club, the music becomes a living thing.
I blink at the sudden lights and noise, overwhelmed for a second by the sheer scale of it all.
Silver chandeliers drip from the ceiling, their crystals catching the flashing blue, red, and green lights and scattering the fractured colors across the club like confetti.
The space is packed—people lounging near plush seating areas, crowding the long bar, and losing themselves on the dance floor.
How am I supposed to find Romero in this chaos?
I glance around, dodging bodies as I make my way towards the bar, my shoulders shimmying a little to the infectious beat. It’s catchy. Once I find a seat, I’ll text Romero to let him know where I am. I’m sure Dean already told him I’ve arrived.
The moment I slide onto one of the bar stools, a bartender appears in front of me. “What can I get you?”
“Water, for now,” I tell him, and he nods.
I reach for my phone, digging it out of my purse—just as a hand lands on my shoulder.
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn to look. A stranger is smiling down at me. Messy blond hair, blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and a polka dot shirt with the top buttons undone. He’s cute, in that laid-back, trust-fund-baby kind of way.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, flashing a cocky grin.
Before I can reply, there’s a blur of movement and suddenly Blondie is being yanked away from me with brutal force. I gasp as Romero appears like an avenging angel, his hand wrapped around the stranger’s throat, expression thunderous.
“How dare you put your filthy paw on my wife?”