CHAPTER 2: Terms and Conditions

Albert's POV

---

I'm in the back seat when Julian pulls away from the curb.

The Mercedes glides into traffic. In the side mirror, Adeline Carter stands on the sidewalk, both hands wrapped around the card, her gaze tracking the car until distance swallows it.

She has no idea what happened.

A pull at the corner of my mouth. Almost a smile, odd, but it's there.

Julian keeps his silence. That's how we like it. Partition stays down. Engine hums underneath. Horns blare. Somebody yells about double-parked vans. Manhattan's always loud.

The screen lights up. Three missed calls from Matteo. Board emails flagged urgent. Mom wants to know about dinner.

I clear it all, opening a new message to Matteo.

*Run a background check. Adeline Carter. Columbia grad student. Comprehensive. One hour.*

He's in before I finish thinking. *Already on it. Saw the street cam footage. Interesting choice, sir.*

That's him. Six moves ahead before the board is set.

I should have called security the second she swung open my door. Trespassing. Lying. Instead I sat there, aware of her weight pressing into me and the artificial floral shampoo in her hair.

The scent is still in the car.

Now I'm turning over things I usually file away. Impulses. Consequences I haven't mapped. Not my style. I don't leave outcomes to chance. Not in business, not in relationships, not in the way I walk into a room.

Women always have an angle. Access. Money. The last name. They arrive rehearsed, all smiles and practiced positioning. I know the performance.

She lied about my car to impress a classmate. Committed to the most absurd bluff I've witnessed. Then looked at me with those hazel eyes and apologized like forgiveness was actually on the table.

The car stops at a red light. I look out the window. Glass towers. Heavy machinery. The city performing its own importance.

What exactly am I doing?

I don't need a companion. But Mom keeps messaging. The board keeps implying. The press catalogs the empty chair beside me at every event. My competition parades their partners on rotation. One misstep and I'm the headline.

*Optics matter, Albert.* My father's voice. Last time I saw him. *Men like you without partners raise questions.*

I'm done answering those questions.

So here's the play. A month. Six events. A smile for the cameras. Clean up a perception problem I didn't create.

The light changes. Julian drives on.

A notification pulses through.

*Matteo's report: Adeline Marie Carter. Twenty-four. Columbia grad student, business, marketing. Honors. Two jobs. No criminal record. Dad gone since she was twelve. Mom out of town. No siblings. Scholarship kid. Lives humble.*

I read it twice.

The pieces land. The thrift store sweater. The ripped jeans. The desperation underneath the bluff when that girl pushed her. She wasn't performing confidence. She was surviving a room that had decided she didn't belong.

---

The car pulls up to my building. Fifty-three floors, the city spread below. Rossi International owns forty of them. The penthouse is mine.

Julian steps out, opens the door. "Sir."

"Circle back," I hear myself say.

His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. A beat. "Sir?"

"To where we were. Now."

He nods. Starts the car.

Per Matteo's coordinates, she's stepping out of a coffee shop around the corner, card held in both hands.

Window down. "Get in."

She flinches. Turns fast, eyes wide. Then the challenge surfaces. "Why?"

Almost makes me laugh. Nobody questions me.

"You look like you're about to pass out. I prefer my companions conscious."

The word makes her flinch.

"Companion," she repeats, sarcasm threading through. "Should I curtsy too, or is a polite nod enough?"

One eyebrow up. A smirk forms before I stop it.

She takes a step, hesitates, then opens the door and slides in. Presses herself against the opposite side.

Smart girl.

Julian pulls away. I leave the partition open. I want to see every reaction.

She fidgets with her jacket sleeve. Stares out the window. Her fingers twist together in her lap, then pull apart. Her knee bounces once and stops the moment she notices it. She presses her palm flat against her thigh, and I watch her make the conscious decision not to give me the satisfaction.

I place a call. Switch to Italian. Talk to Giovanni about quarterly projections and the Milan expansion. I catch her watching my reflection in the glass, gathering details the way I did with her.

The call ends. Silence fills the space.

She breaks first. "Where are we going?"

"My office. To formalize our arrangement."

"You mean the part where I'm locked in for a month?"

"The agreement where you attend six events and avoid criminal charges."

She processes this. "Six events? You said a month."

"Six events over the course of a month. Did you think I required your presence daily?"

Color floods her face. She turns back to the window.

---

The car stops at my building. She cranes her neck, throat working as she swallows. Fingers close around her bag strap.

I step out and wait.

She follows. Eventually.

The lobby runs marble and minimalist, the air conditioning at a steady hum. My security team nods as we pass. Elevator opens, penthouse button pressed.

When the car shifts between floors, she steadies herself against the wall.

My hand moves out of habit. I let it drop.

I don't touch what I haven't decided on.

She stands as far from me as the space allows. Watches the numbers climb. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

She tries for small talk. "This all yours?"

I don't take the bait. No appetite for boasting. Eyes back on my screen.

A soft chime. Doors open into my office.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. Central Park spread below. Art on the walls from years of travelling. She steps in wearing thrifted jeans and takes it all in.

She turns in a slow circle. Her eyes move across the room without hurry.

Her fingers drift toward the Rothko near the far wall. She catches herself before touching it. Her hand hovers at the edge of the frame and something shifts in her expression. Recognition.

"You work here," she states.

"Yes."

"Every day."

"Most days."

She says nothing else.

Before she can, the door opens. Matteo enters with his tablet and a leather portfolio. His eyes move to Adeline. Take in the ripped jeans, the oversized sweater, the scuffed boots. One eyebrow climbs, but his expression holds professionally smooth.

"Mr. Rossi," he says, in English clearly aimed at her. "The documents you requested."

I gesture toward the seating area. "Miss Carter and I are formalizing an arrangement."

His other eyebrow joins the first.

Matteo is too disciplined to say what he's thinking. He spreads the documents across the glass coffee table while Adeline perches at the edge of a chair, half ready to bolt.

"Six events," I begin, sliding the contract across the table. "Appropriate attire will be provided. Discretion is required. In exchange, no charges filed. No notification to your university."

I watch the moment it becomes real for her. When Matteo produces an actual contract with actual legal language and actual signature lines. The paper rustles loud in the hush.

Her fingers close around her bag strap. She clears her throat once, then again.

"What kind of events?"

"Galas. Charity functions. Business dinners. Social obligations requiring a companion."

"Why do you need a companion?" She glances around the office, at me, at everything surrounding us. "You're you. Surely you have women who would do this without coercion."

"I have women with agendas," I say. "You have something else."

Her eyes narrow. "So I'm your charity case."

"You're my solution."

"To what problem?"

I let it hang and push the contract closer. "Sign, and we proceed. Refuse, and I make a call."

She picks up the pen Matteo offers. It wavers between her fingers. The pulse in her wrist beats visible against her skin. She reads more carefully than I expected, lips moving on certain clauses. A habit she's probably unaware of.

"What's expected of me at these events? Specifically"

"Appear at my side. Make conversation. Allow me to introduce you as my companion. Conduct yourself appropriately."

"Appropriately how."

"Be yourself. That's what I need."

Her eyes snap to mine. "You're not paying me."

"No. I'm covering potential legal expenses. Indirectly."

She stares at the contract. At the pen in her hand.

Six seconds without movement. I count them.

Then she signs. Fast. Uneven loops across the signature line.

Her hand stays on the page longer than necessary. Index finger pressed flat against the paper. She doesn't look at me.

Matteo collects the pages. "I'll arrange the wardrobe consultation and send the details for Saturday's event." He leaves the office.

Adeline stands. Grips her bag. Nearly catches her boot on the chair leg backing toward the door.

I walk her to the elevator.

Before she steps in, I hold out my business card again.

She frowns. "You already gave me this."

"Read it again."

She traces the text. Reads it aloud. "Albert Rossi. CEO. Rossi International."

The color leaves her face. Her fingers go slack. The card drops and she catches it at the last moment.

"Oh my god." Barely a breath. "You're *that* Albert Rossi."

Not laughing takes effort.

"Welcome to my world, Miss Carter." A beat. "Try not to embarrass yourself."

The doors close.

A notification ping. Matteo.

*Sir. The background check flagged something.*

*What kind of something?* I type back.

*Someone else ran the same check. Seventy-two hours ago. Before you ever met her.*

One brow lifts.

*Who?*

*Unknown. Three proxy layers. Whoever it was didn't want to be found.*

The elevator number descends. Forty. Thirty. Twenty.

Someone was watching her before she ever sat in my car.

Adeline Carter just got a lot more interesting.