Chapter 4
Elora
"Damn it—"
I sat up, rubbing my lower back. Manhattan at six in the morning hadn't fully woken yet. Through those massive floor-to-ceiling windows, gray-blue dawn light spilled in, casting my disheveled reflection across every gleaming surface.
Collarbone. Chest. Inner thighs. The small of my back. Purple-red marks covered my skin like brands. I grabbed the robe beside me and threw it on. The second my feet hit the floor, my legs buckled. I crashed down.
"Bastard." I cursed under my breath. The sound of him shifting came from the bed. I froze, holding my breath as I peeked over.
He hadn't woken. Lying on his side, one arm draped above the pillow, the covers only reaching his waist. Dawn light traced his outline—the hard line of his jaw, the straight bridge of his nose, those slightly furrowed brows. Devastatingly handsome.
Elora Vance, stop staring!
A set of women's clothes sat on the bench at the foot of the bed. Brand new. All in my size. Warmth flooded through me. But I needed to leave. Now.
I threw on the dress, grabbed my bag, and tiptoed toward the entrance.
The elevator doors closed, and I finally released the breath I'd been holding, collapsing against the mirrored wall.
Elora, you've lost your mind. You slept with a man whose name you don't even know.
But—his hands were so large, covering me like he wanted to crush me completely.
When he entered me, I thought I'd split in half, yet somehow he knew how to turn pain into something else.
Against the floor-to-ceiling windows, on the couch, in the bathroom, finally on that absurdly massive bed—each time deeper, rougher, more...
In the taxi, I buried my face in my palms. Shame, regret, and some nameless satisfaction churned together, making my stomach turn.
Get it together, Elora. This was just an accident. The sun still rises today, you're still that nobody aromatherapist, and you'll never see each other again.
The cab stopped outside my house. The sun had fully risen. July sunlight blazed against the brick wall covered in dead ivy, heat rippling up from the pavement. I fished out my key, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. Eleanor was sprawled on the couch, feet up, scrolling through her phone.
"Look who's back. I thought you died out there, Elora." She looked me up and down, her gaze lingering on the marks on my neck. Her smile widened. "God, who threw you out? Or did you finally get smart and whore yourself out?"
I didn't bother responding. I headed straight for the stairs.
"Hey, hey, don't run off." She followed me to the stairwell. "I've got good news! Cheer up!"
"Mom!" she yelled toward the kitchen. "Elora's back! You tell her!"
Brenda emerged from the kitchen, all smiles.
"Elora, Ethan's family has agreed. He and Eleanor are having their engagement party next week."
My hand tightened. My stomach twisted—couldn't tell if it was pain or nausea.
"Alright."
"Alright?" Eleanor's voice sharpened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Congratulations."
"You—" Her voice cracked with anger. "What are you playing at? You think I can't see you're jealous?"
"Eleanor," I stopped and turned back to her, "Ethan's yours. Be happy."
"You—"
Ignoring her tantrum, I went into my room and locked the door.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling strangely light. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow. My brain started replaying last night's scenes on repeat.
Enough. Sleep.
The engagement party came faster than I'd expected. The Waldorf Hotel ballroom had been transformed into a dreamscape of white and gold. I stood in the corner wearing the only halfway decent thing in my closet—a dark gray dress—just wanting the night to end.
I didn't want to come at all. But Brenda ordered me to attend.
"You're Eleanor's sister. What would it look like if you didn't show?"
Ha! Only at times like these was I Eleanor's sister.
Across the ballroom, Eleanor clung to Ethan's arm, greeting guests. The dress she wore—it was mine. The one my grandmother had custom-made for me, meant for my wedding day. And around her neck hung my grandmother's emerald necklace.
Eleanor's laughter carried across half the hall. She was like a peacock in full display—blonde hair swept into an elegant low bun, flawless makeup, her slender waist delicate in that lace gown. She held a middle-aged society woman's hand, her voice sickeningly sweet.
"Oh, Elora? Of course she came. Don't worry, Mrs. Howard, she's moved on. Though things were pretty unpleasant before. She wouldn't stop clinging to Ethan, sent me so many awful texts. I'm too embarrassed to even say. But Ethan loves me, what can I do about that?"
Mrs. Howard gave her a pitying look. Ethan stood beside her, nodding along. The surrounding sympathy deepened. The looks directed at me were contemptuous, disgusted.
"That's Elora? The one who wouldn't let go..."
"Look how plain she is, no wonder he chose Eleanor."
"Kind of pathetic. But can't really blame anyone else."
My nails dug into my palms.
Maya's fingers gripped her glass. "Those assholes! I'm going to rip her mouth off."
"Maya!" I grabbed her. "Don't."
"Did you hear what she said?" Maya's eyes blazed. "She's twisting everything, slandering you without shame!"
"So what?" I looked at her, my voice calm. "Maya, if I go over there now, I'll only make them happier."
Maya stared at me, chest heaving. Finally she closed her eyes and forced out a breath through her nose.
"I hate when you're this rational."
"I hate it too." I managed a half-smile. "But tonight ends after we get through it."
The words had barely left my mouth when Eleanor walked straight toward us. That sweet, innocent smile plastered across her face, but I knew the malice in those blue eyes too well.
"Elora!" She opened her arms. "You came! I'm so happy! You're not angry anymore, right?"
I stepped back. "Congratulations, Eleanor."
Her smile froze for a second, then grew brighter. "Thank you. Oh—" She tilted her head. "Did you come alone? No date? Oh dear, I should have introduced you to someone beforehand. But it's okay, once you lose some weight—"
"Eleanor." Maya's voice cut like a blade. "Shut your mouth. Before I rip that stolen necklace off your neck."
Eleanor's expression flickered. She glanced around.
"Miss Maya, what are you implying? This is an engagement gift from Ethan—"
"That necklace belonged to Elora's grandmother. She left it to her." Maya enunciated each word.
The whispers around us grew louder. Some people even raised their phones.
I clenched my jaw, spine rigid, trying not to show an ounce of distress.
Then the heavy oak doors burst open from outside. The entire ballroom fell silent. Two rows of men in black suits filed in, footsteps synchronized, faces blank.
My heart seized. The last figure to enter made all the blood in my body rush to my head.
Tall. Imposing. Silver-gray suit. He walked into the light step by step, that face—those distinctive gray eyes. Deep. Cold.
Him. The man who'd pinned me against the floor-to-ceiling window a week ago.
His gaze swept the room, finally landing on Ethan.
Ethan flinched, then rushed forward with a broad smile.
"Oh! God! Uncle, I thought you wouldn't make it!"
What? He's Ethan's uncle?
The next second, Eleanor hurried over too.
"Oh my! You must be Ethan's uncle? I'm so glad you could come today. It's just—" Her eyes slid toward me, she bit her lip, looking troubled. "You had to walk in on my sister throwing a tantrum. How embarrassing."
"Yes, yes!" Brenda simpered. "But don't worry, I'll throw her out right now."
She moved to grab me. Maya immediately stepped in front.
"Don't touch her!"
"Elora, if you're going to throw a fit, pick the right place." Ethan's face darkened.
"Enough!" The man's voice rang out.
Ethan startled. Eleanor's mouth snapped shut.
The man walked straight toward me, stopping directly in front of me.
Those gray eyes locked onto mine. Before I could react, he reached out and pulled me from behind Maya, pressing me against him.
That familiar scent surrounded me instantly.
He lowered his head, chin nearly touching the top of my hair, looking at Ethan who appeared ready to faint.
"She's my fiancée." He tightened his arm around my waist. "I won't tolerate another word of disrespect toward my fiancée."
The ballroom went silent for a beat, then exploded like a kicked hornet's nest. But I couldn't hear anything anymore. He practically carried me through the crowd. The bodyguards closed ranks behind us, forming a human wall.
I was pushed into the back seat of a black Rolls-Royce. The door shut. He got in beside me. I stared at the headrest of the driver's seat. Even now, I couldn't process what had happened.
"You're... Ethan's..." I managed.
"My name is Lucien Genovese." His voice was flat. "Ethan is my nephew."
"Stop the car."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I said stop the car!" My voice went shrill. This whole thing was absurd. I slept with a stranger for one night, then he shows up at my ex-boyfriend's engagement party and tells everyone I'm his fiancée? And he's Ethan's uncle? No soap opera could script this garbage.
"The car won't stop."
Then he closed his eyes, refusing to answer any more questions.
About forty minutes later, the car turned onto a private drive lined with neatly trimmed black pines, finally stopping in front of a—I don't know how to describe it—castle?
Fortress? A sprawling Gothic complex. Dark stone walls looked oppressive under the moonlight.
The iron gates groaned open with a low hum.
Enzo opened the car door. Lucien led me through the main hall—crimson velvet curtains, heavy black walnut furniture, oil paintings on the walls all featuring grim-faced men. We finally stopped outside a study.
The door closed. Just him and me in the room.
"Alright." I turned to face him. "What do you want? Thanks for the rescue. If you want to talk about that night—it's fine, I don't care."
I turned to leave. My hand had just touched the doorknob when he caught my wrist.
"Sit down."
"Let go."
"Sit down, Elora."
He forced me into a chair, handed me a cup of coffee, then pulled a folder from a drawer and tossed it on the desk.
"What's this?"
"I want you to sign this marriage contract." He sat across from me. "Become my wife."
I stared at him, jaw practically on the floor.
"Ha." I let out a dry laugh. "So you're saying—we slept together once, so you're going to marry me? Mr. Genovese, have you lost your mind?"
I turned toward the door.
"Don't you want to completely escape your parents and Eleanor?"
My feet rooted to the spot.
"The Vance family debt—you know it. Your father's mortgaged the house three times, your mother and sister keep racking up expenses, they take every cent you earn. You think you can claw out of that pit by yourself?"
I didn't turn around. But my hands were shaking.
"Sign it, and all of the Vance family's debts have nothing to do with you anymore. You can focus on your career. You'll have the Genovese family's protection. No one—" His voice dropped. "No one will dare say another word against you."
Money. With enough money, I could open my own aromatherapy shop, move out of that suffocating house, never hear Brenda's mockery again, never watch Eleanor lord over me.
Complete independence. Complete freedom.
"What do you want?" I turned around, meeting his eyes. "Be clear. Nothing's free."
The corner of his mouth curved slightly. "I need a wife in name. For a period of time. Long enough for me to handle some internal family matters."
"So basically you're being forced into marriage."
His smile vanished. I'd guessed right.
"Fine." I took a deep breath, straightened my spine. "But I have conditions."
"Let's hear them."
"First," I held up one finger, "you give me three million. Now."
He nodded.
"Second, the contract lasts six months. When six months are up, it automatically terminates. We owe each other nothing."
"Third—" I stepped back, putting distance between us. "We only play husband and wife in public. Privately, you don't interfere with my life."
He looked down at me, something unreadable moving in his eyes. After several seconds of silence, he spoke.
"Money's not a problem." He paused, his gaze dropping to my lips then away. "But the timeline—one year."
"Six months."
"One year." His tone brooked no argument. "This isn't a negotiation."
I stared at him. He stared back.
Those gray eyes—identical to that night. In the dim bar lighting, in the reflected city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows, darkened with heat when he covered me completely.
I thought of Brenda's vicious tone this morning ordering me to wash dishes. Thought of Eleanor wearing grandmother's necklace, laughing in full bloom. Thought of Ethan saying "sick of her fat ass" with undisguised revulsion. Thought of Richard's perpetually averted gaze.
One year. Just one year. After one year, I'd have saved enough capital to be completely independent, owing no one anything ever again.
I picked up the pen from the desk, flipped to the last page, and found the signature line. I took a deep breath and signed my name, stroke by stroke.
The moment I lifted the pen, I had the sensation I'd just pressed my soul onto a fingerprint pad.