Chapter 15
LENI
ROMERO
Someone is at the door with a package for you.
A package? For me? My frown deepens. I glance out the floor-to-ceiling window, but this room faces the back of the house, not the front door, so I fire back a quick ‘okay’ and make my way back downstairs.
Sure enough, there’s a man standing at the front door with a dark purple box and a polite smile. “Miss Barlowe,” he greets, extending the box towards me.
Should I be creeped out that everyone in Romero’s orbit knows my name? Probably. But I decide to just roll with it and give him a small nod as I accept the mysterious package. “Thank you.”
He looks slightly taken aback by my response, but I close the door before I can think too hard about it.
I open the box right there, brushing aside layers of tissue paper, and actually gasp, almost dropping it.
Oh my God. Nestled inside is a dark green silk dress, rich enough to steal all the air from my lungs.
Just seeing the color makes my heart skip—but then I run my fingers over the fabric, and holy hell.
It’s so soft and smooth it barely feels real.
As I jog back upstairs with the package, the contents shift and I catch sight of a small black card tucked between a pair of gold heels and a sleek clutch purse.
Dinner in an hour. Get ready to say yes ;)
There’s no signature, but it’s obvious who it’s from. And even more obvious what those words mean. He’s planning to propose tonight. In public. My heart slams into my throat, and my stomach does a full-on somersault.
This is not real.
The little warning does absolutely nothing to slow my racing pulse or calm the butterflies staging a full revolt in my belly. When I reach the bedroom, I drop the box on the bed and find myself rushing straight to the ensuite to take a shower.
It’s my second time in this bathroom, but I’m still blown away by its sheer luxury.
The glass shower could easily accommodate five people, the bathtub is deep enough to drown in, and the taps look like they’d dispense liquid gold if I asked nicely.
It’s the kind of bathroom you’d expect in a five-star hotel, not a home.
I luxuriate under the multiple shower heads, the water cascading over me from every angle.
The pressure is perfect, the temperature divine, and I spend way longer than I should just standing there letting the stress of the day wash away.
When I finally drag myself out, I towel off in a hurry and make my way to the walk-in closet where I unzip my bag to retrieve my skincare and makeup products.
After applying my skincare routine, I return to the bathroom with my makeup bag and study my reflection in the mirror. My right cheek is still red from Mom’s slap, and I have a sinking feeling it might bruise. Nothing some concealer can’t fix for now, though.
I go for a neutral look but make my eyeshadow slightly smoky because I love how it makes my eyes pop. When I’m satisfied with the result, I head back to the bedroom, making a beeline straight for the bed.
I have to admit I’m both eager to try on the dress and terrified it might not fit. The fabric flows over my arms as I lift it from the box, and it feels every bit as luxurious as it looks.
I slip into the sleek long dress, immediately loving the sleeveless bodice with its bow-tie detail on the spaghetti straps—a clever design that allows for perfect adjustment. Genius.
The cowl neckline dips just enough to feel elegant, and the scoop back opens up in a way that makes me feel daring. But the real showstopper is the skirt—an A-line sweep with a slit that starts right from the waist. One step, and it flares just enough to show off some leg.
And the material is so shiny!
The fabric catches the overhead lights as I spin, the train flowing with my movement. It’s unreal—like stepping into someone else’s fantasy. And somehow, it fits me perfectly, every line falling just right. How is that possible?
I turn back to the box where the gold heels and clutch are waiting. The shoes have strappy buckles that wind just past my ankles, and the matching clutch completes the look.
Walking slowly in the heels, I make my way to the bathroom for the reveal.
And then I see her—me—in the mirror.
My breath catches.
Even with my hair still in a messy bun, I barely recognize myself.
I’ve never looked or felt so sexy in my life.
I let my hair down, running a comb through the strands, and it just brings the whole look together. I love it.
Despite how horrible I felt after that encounter with Mom, I find myself smiling and looking forward to seeing Romero’s reaction.
It’s just past eight when I make my way downstairs and outside where the Maybach is waiting for me.
Dean steps out to open the back door, his face lighting up with a warm smile. “If I may, you look particularly lovely this evening, Miss Barlowe.”
I beam at him, the compliment making me a little giddy. “Thank you, Dean. And please call me Leni.”
He just smiles as he closes the door, but I catch the way his eyes soften.
As the car pulls away from Romero’s house, I press my palm over my belly where a whole zoo of nerves and excitement is stomping around.
By the time we’re past downtown Brooklyn, it becomes obvious where we’re headed, and my heart pounds even harder.
The River Café is one of the most romantic restaurants in Brooklyn.
I’ve always dreamed about one day being able to afford a meal there.
Getting proposed to there? That’s a dream inside a dream… even if it’s fake.
Romero is waiting outside, looking impossibly handsome in his three-piece gray suit with a dark green tie that perfectly matches my dress. The twinkling fairy lights at the entrance create a romantic halo around him, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
How is this my life?
Dean rolls the car to a stop, and Romero steps forward to open my door, offering me his hand. I slip my fingers into his, and that familiar electric jolt shoots through my bloodstream at the contact.
I flush as he helps me out, stumbling slightly into his hard chest thanks to the ridiculous height of my heels I’m still adjusting to.
“Easy,” he murmurs against my ear, his hands immediately going to my waist, just below the exposed skin of my back. His thumb grazes there, sending a delicious shiver racing up my spine.
I look up at him, suddenly aware of how close we are, how the heels bring me almost to his eye level. My breath catches as I lose myself in those breathtaking green depths, his scent—cologne with a mix of cedar and spice—filling my senses and making my head spin.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.
I nod, taking a step back, not missing the sharp inhale he takes as his gaze sweeps over me.
“You’re stunning.” He sounds almost troubled by the admission, like my appearance is a complication he hadn’t anticipated.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“Shall we?” He offers me the crook of his elbow, and after I take it, he leads me through the doors.
The ma?tre d' in his sharp black suit greets us at the entrance. One look at Romero, and he immediately ushers us into the main restaurant without even asking about our reservation.
Inside, everything is bathed in warm, romantic lighting.
Crisp white tablecloths, polished silverware, and fresh roses grace each table.
A violinist plays softly in the corner, the melody drifting through the air, adding to the dreamy ambiance.
I recognize the song she’s playing and smile, humming along in my head.
We’re led to what must be the best table in the house—by the window, with the Brooklyn Bridge lit up in the distance, its reflection shimmering across the water and the Manhattan skyline glowing beyond.
Romero pulls out my chair, and I sink into it gracefully, smoothing my hand over the silk of my dress.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the ma?tre d' says as he pops open a bottle of wine and pours us each a glass before leaving.
“You’re staring,” Romero observes quietly, his voice laced with amusement as I continue to gawk at our surroundings, trying to avoid the curious gazes of the other diners.
I chuckle, finally bringing my attention back to him. “Can you blame me? This place is unreal.”
He smirks, running his index finger along the rim of his wine glass.
“Only the best for you,” he says lightly, and my chest tightens painfully.
Jokes or not, no one has ever said those words to me before, and something deep inside tells me he actually means it.
He bought me this dress. A house for my family—in my name, for crying out loud.
This isn’t real.
I’m going to have to keep chanting this mantra until it finally sinks into my brain and my heart stops doing backflips every time he says something sweet. “My mom and Ethan moved into their house today. Thank you.”
He shrugs. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“No, let me. That wasn’t written anywhere in the contract. You didn’t have to do it.” The reminder about the contract, about what this really is, sobers me a bit. Romero studies me with curious eyes, like he can sense the slight change in my mood. Impossible.
Our waitress arrives with perfect timing, and I blow out a breath, grateful for the interruption.
Once our orders are in, he asks me about my favorite childhood memory, and I latch onto the subject change, only too happy to talk about summers spent in Central Park with Ethan, Mom, and Dad before everything fell apart. Back when my biggest dream was convincing Dad to get me a tabby cat.
“Did you ever get the cat when you became old enough to get one yourself?”
The question stings, but I keep smiling. “I don’t—or rather, didn’t—have the time to take care of a cat because of my jobs. I tried to pick up as many shifts as possible to keep up with the bills.” And I couldn’t trust Mom or Ethan not to sell it for drug money.
The first course arrives then—an exquisitely arranged dish of yellowfin tuna tartare topped with a delicate quail egg. It tastes so heavenly I find myself eating slower than usual just so I can savor every bite.
Across the room, the violinist starts a new song, and I let the music wash over me, completely lost in the melody. It’s one of my favorites, a classic that always makes me think of romance and happily ever after.
“You know the song?” Romero asks, and I realize I’ve been humming out loud.
I let out an embarrassed chuckle. “Who doesn’t know Elvis Presley’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’?” There have been so many renditions of it over the years, and each one is beautiful in its own way.
“Can’t help falling in love?”
“That’s the song’s title,” I explain, cheeks going hot. “It’s one of my favorite songs.”
Thankfully, the next course arrives, providing a natural transition.
It’s the main course—butter-poached lobster for me, seared Wagyu filet for him. I enjoy each bite, the succulent lobster practically melting on my tongue.
We talk throughout the meal, conversation flowing as easily as it did last night. Romero is a great listener, and I’ve noticed he’s especially skilled at keeping the spotlight focused on me.
He asks why my dad isn’t in the picture—he went missing and was declared dead.
Why I didn't pursue a college degree—I couldn’t afford it, not if I wanted to keep a roof over our heads.
What I dreamed of doing while I was in high school—nothing. By then I was already working, and I’d learned that dreams were just elaborate ways to break my own heart because they never came true.
Every time I try to turn the tables and ask him a question, he deflects smoothly and redirects the conversation back to me.
I can see it happening, but I’m powerless to stop it.
I’m not nearly as skilled at this verbal chess game as he is, the fucker.
This talent is probably what makes him such a good lawyer.
We carefully avoid bringing up the contract again, but it hovers over us—the elephant in the room. It’s the real reason we’re here, after all.
By the time Romero orders dessert for me, I'm far too full to eat anything else and try to protest, but he just gives me one of his mildly amused looks that says arguing is pointless.
When our waitress returns to our table, placing a silver dome-covered tray in front of me, my heart jerks—because I know what it means.
This is it. This is the moment. My pulse races frantically as she lifts the lid, revealing a chocolate soufflé dusted with gold flakes.
But that’s not what makes my heart nearly burst from my chest. No.
It’s the ring nestled in the center of the tray, right next to the dessert.
An oval-cut diamond, brilliant and white, set on a yellow gold band, with a halo of smaller diamonds framing it.
The candlelight on the table catches on the facets, creating the illusion of it fracturing into a thousand tiny stars.
I’m still staring, mouth agape, when the scrape of Romero’s chair registers. My eyes snap up just in time to see him drop to one knee beside me, and my heart flies to my throat. Oh God. Oh God, oh God. He’s really doing this.
The gentle hum of conversation from other diners fades to nothing, and I can feel dozens of eyes watching us. Blood roars in my ears, almost deafening me, as he takes my hand from my lap, his fingers warm and strong as they wrap around mine.
“Marry me, bellezza.”
It’s not a question, but my tongue still glues to the roof of my mouth, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. Say yes. Just say yes. I nod and force my tongue to work, my voice barely a whisper. “Y–yes.”
He smiles as he lifts the ring from the tray and slides it onto my finger. The weight is solid and heavy, settling around my finger with the finality of a shackle—a symbol.
Applause erupts around us, and then he’s standing, pulling me up with him. His hands cup my face, his pinky fingers brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, sending sparks skittering through my entire body as his lips fuse with mine.
Warm pleasure coils low in my belly, rushing hot through my veins. I gasp, parting my lips instinctively, and he immediately takes advantage. My head spins as his tongue dances with mine, the kiss deeper and more intoxicating than anything I remember.
Without conscious thought, my hands flatten against his chest before sliding up to his shoulders, then threading through his hair, clutching him closer. He tastes incredible, and God help me, I want more.