10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
S ophie
“Please go away,” I groan, throwing off the covers as the knocking continues, merciless and loud. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, and my hair feels like a wild animal made camp in it overnight.
All I want is sleep.
I shuffle past the kitchen, slowing down long enough to eye the fridge. Maybe I can grab a bottle of water before facing whatever lunatic thinks it’s okay to knock like that on a Saturday morning.
But as if they can read my damn mind, the knocking grows louder and sharper. Like nails dragging across the inside of my skull.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, fingers clawing through my tangled hair as I stumble to the door. My hand fumbles with the lock, misses once, twice—finally clicks it open.
And then I pull.
And a mop of rowdy curls smelling of warm baked goods stumbles into my living room. Tumbles, more like it. “Amara?” My brows furrow as I watch my best friend pick herself off the floor. “What are you doing here this early ?”
She grins sheepishly, tucking her hands behind her back. “What do you think? I thought I’d surprise you.”
I tilt my head to peek at the takeout bag she’s doing a horrible job of hiding. “This early? You’re not a morning person.”
“Well,” she shrugs as she stylishly moves from her position until I’m closer to the door and she’s standing with her back to the hallway, “Early to rise, right?”
“It’s early to bed,” I correct her, even as my stomach grumbles.
She gives up the takeout immediately, lifting the bag.
“It’s good I stopped by the bakery, huh?
” She blinks her lashes slowly, giving me a puppy-eyed look when I don’t respond, then dangles the takeout in front of my face as a final attempt.
“Come on, Sophie. I know you’ve been working hard since you got your new job.
You barely answer my calls, and I’m sure you spent last night by your desk, judging by the dark circles under your eyes. ”
“Dark circles?” I lift my index finger to the spot.
Amara sighs and nods. “Yup, Dark circles. You look like hell, my friend.” She throws a hand over my shoulder. “What do you say I make coffee for both of us, you take a shower—because you stink—and then we eat?”
My stomach responds for me. My shoulders droop as I sigh reluctantly.
“You’re right.” I stayed in the office until late last night, looking into One Construction, tasking my brain with possible scenarios and excuses I could use if Dom changed his mind and decided to either make an official offer or invest in the company.
His act… ‘If you can’t pull it off, no one else can,’ didn’t fool me. Not when he sat there, looking like he knew more than he let on.
I thought switching things up—a dress that had been in my closet for over a year, gold earrings that Amara forced me to buy—would throw him off, at least a little. Or maybe I was doing it for myself, because finding out he wanted to meet at a restaurant Enzo co-owned threw me off my game for a bit.
But he was in his element.
“The smug bastard,” I mutter.
“Who?”
I shake my head. “It’s nobody. I should,” I click my tongue, “take a shower. Make yourself comfortable. Although I’m sure you already think of my apartment as yours, seeing as you crashed my sleep,” I say, shooting her a look over my shoulder as I walk away.
A quick shower, a towel wrapped around my hair, and a pair of casual clothing later, I walk into my kitchen, inhaling fresh coffee and slices of buttered toast. “Here,” Amara hands me a cup. “Milk and sugar.”
I take a sip before perching on the counter. “So,” I bite into the toast, “what is the favor?”
“How do you know there’s one?”
“Isn’t there?”
Amara hesitates momentarily, her tongue tucked into her cheek, then exhales. “Fine,” the words rush out of her as she begins. “So, I’ve been talking to this guy for a while, and we haven’t met, but I think he’s the one. I know, I know,” she holds up a hand to stop me from commenting,
“I always say that about every guy I meet. But I’m serious about this one. And that’s why I refused to meet him until now, so that you know,” she wiggles her eyebrows. I shake my head.
She rolls her eyes. “Sex. I didn’t want to sleep with him and get swept off my feet by a perception of—” she throws her hands up to find the word and smacks her forehead lightly when she doesn’t.
“What I’m trying to say is that I finally agreed to meet up.
We’re supposed to go on a date tomorrow, and I’m hoping you could be my plus one to go shopping? ”
“You have dresses,” I point out. “A lot of them.”
Amara pouts as I sip some more coffee. “Yeah, but this is different. You’ll go with me, won’t you?” She grabs my arm. “I’ll get you something too. Maybe we could make it a double date?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “You’ve been out of the dating scene for a while now. Years, even.”
Pulling away from her grip—no small feat—I grab my cup and the last slice of toast, retreating out of the kitchen. “Thank you, but I’m not looking to share any of the twenty-four hours I don’t have with someone else. I can barely tolerate you,” I say.
Besides, I can’t afford any distractions. I have to stay on top of Domenico if he decides to do something unexpected.
Speaking of on top…
“No,” I shake my head vehemently, rerouting my train of thought.
It doesn’t work, nor does chewing firmly on the bread crust. The harder I try not to remember, the more vivid they are.
I feel… a slight shift in the air, his thumb inches away from my skin, not touching and turning me into a puddle of greed and need.
My lips part and my knees go weak, forcing me to the couch where I drop my breakfast with a low, throaty sigh.
The towel falls from my head, and my hair comes tumbling, each strand like a recreation of Dom’s hands as they roamed over my body. I felt him everywhere. I can feel him everywhere.
My feet on the floor send a tingle that spreads rapidly, gathering between my thighs and my chest, where his fingers teased before he drove me over the edge, begging to be shattered. It didn’t matter that I was supposed to hate him, that I had no business letting Dom break me apart.
I craved it.
“Sophie?”
My eyes—which must have closed at some point during my reverie—fly open when I hear Amara’s voice. “Are you okay?” Her expression is tinged with worry. “You were deep in thought when I walked in on you. You looked uncomfortable,” she purses her lips.
Because I was busy reminiscing about the biggest mistake of my life—and probably my career, too. “I’m fine,” I mumble as embarrassment clouds my face, turning it into a volcano of shame.
Not so much because I got swept into that night, but I brought the lingering effects to the present. The fact that my thighs are clenched and I can feel the tiny but steady pulse below my stomach is enough cause for me to dig a hole and bury myself.
My phone chimes as Amara’s worry turns into something more, and I hightail out of the living room before she gets the chance to ask her question.
My screen lights up with a forwarded message from my work email, scheduled and marked urgent. I click without thinking.
“ Invitation to—”
“Shit.”
My phone slips from my hands and hits the floor. “Shit.”
Amara bursts into the room. “What? What happened?”
I press a hand over my mouth to muffle the sound of pure despair. There’s no getting out of this. I had the information, the heads-up, the twenty-four-hour grace period to devise an excuse. And still I forgot.
“I’m supposed to attend a party with my boss tonight,” I mutter through my palm, voice thick with horror. “And I completely forgot about it.”
Amara picks up my phone and scrolls. “You already RSVP’d?”
I nod, defeated. “Yeah. I got the invite yesterday morning. But I forgot.”
I was too busy cleaning up after myself, so I wouldn’t leave any holes, and process it. I told myself I’d get back to it, but I must’ve accidentally scheduled the forward for the wrong time.
She whistles. “Well, damn. You’re not just missing any party. This is the party. The crème de la crème. One percent of the one percent. Morettis, Washingtons, maybe that guy who was just named the hottest criminal lawyer in New York—”
She tosses my phone on the bed and gives me a pointed look. “You can’t say no.”
“Even if I wanted to,” I mutter, sinking onto the edge of the bed, “I couldn’t. Either my boss sees it as a reason to fire me…”
Or I miss a chance to gain the upper hand. I leave the rest unsaid.
Amara crosses her arms. “All the more reason to go shopping.”
“Nope,” I shake my head. “I’ll show up, but I’m not putting on a show. I’m not dressing up to impress a self-absorbed narcissist who probably invited me to keep me in check.”
She raises a brow—the look that says, “ You have no idea what you’re walking into . “That’s who your boss is? Why are you working for him then?” I don’t have an answer, and she doesn’t wait for one either.
“Maybe this will be an opportunity to find another job. You could impress one of the big names.” Then she rattles off the names again. “The Morettis, the Washingtons, that lawyer guy, the Bellinis, the—”
I stop breathing. I didn’t catch them the first time. Or rather, it.
Bellinis?
“Wait—” I grab her arm. “The Bellinis? As in Enzo Bellini?”
She shrugs. “I mean… It’s possible. I checked online. The event’s always buzzing. A lot of those families show up every year. It’s like their playground.”
Blood drains from my face. Because if my uncle shows up and I’m there—shit. I’m confident I can work the crowd, but Enzo’s not the kind of man you can sneak anything past.
He’ll see it—the pulse in my stomach, the flutter in my chest. And even if he doesn’t show up, I might run into someone who knows me—someone who knows my family history, and my disguise will go up in flames.
“No,” I step back, shaking my head firmly. My voice is hoarse as I back myself against the wall. I press myself into it, as if I can vanish into the paint. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Amara coos, wrapping her arms around me before I can process what’s happening. “I know it’s short notice and you’re used to planning everything three steps ahead, but you’ve got me. There’s no way I’m letting you show up unprepared.”
I blink, trying to catch up. “W-what?”
She pulls back, smiling like she’s solved a crisis. “You’re worried you won’t blend in, aren’t you? That they’ll sniff you out as not one of them.” She squeezes my arms. “It’s just nerves. Totally normal when you’re about to be in the same room as people like that.”
People like that.
My stomach tightens.
“I mean, Domenico Moretti?” she goes on, oblivious. “The Bellini family? I know they keep a low profile, but I’ve read they still control a lot of business under the radar. Generational wealth. Legacy. That kind of pressure could rattle anyone.”
My mouth is dry.
I nod—barely. Because I can’t laugh, or cry, or correct her.
I am one of them. And if she knew? If anyone at that party knew? I’d stop being Sophie Greco the moment I stepped through the door.
No more second chances or slow plays. Everything I’ve spent years planning will be burned to ash over one stupid party.
I run a hand down my face, breathing hard through my nose. Then I turn to Amara, my voice tight and too calm for how loud my heart is beating.
“What’s the best way to turn down an invite,” I ask, “without getting fired?”
She laughs until she sees my face. “Wait… you’re serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I deadpan. “Life and death serious. My job—my life—might depend on it.”
Amara blinks. “Sophie, it’s just a party.”
No , I want to scream. It’s a landmine dressed in champagne and chandeliers.
But all I do is smile weakly. “Yeah. Just a party.” And I have hours to figure out how to get myself out of it.