chapter 5

Romano slowed his pace as we approached the massive mahogany front doors, waiting for me to catch up. I knew the drill: the moment those doors opened, we were no longer a fractured father and daughter; we were the Conti dynasty—united, powerful, and perfectly composed.

We were greeted at the entrance by Christopher Lombardi and his wife, Madeline. Christopher looked every bit the patriarch, while Madeline was radiant in a floor-length gold gown that shimmered like liquid sun under the foyer lights.

"Welcome, welcome to our home," she said, her smile warm and practiced.

"Thank you for the invitation, Christopher," Romano replied, his voice smoothing into the charming baritone he reserved for business allies.

As they led us toward the main lounge, I couldn't help but admire the place . I hadn't been here in years, but the house still breathed old money. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting dancing, fractured light across the marble floors. It was stunning, yet it carried that same cold, untouchable aura I remembered.

"So, Jennifer, how is the business?" Madeline asked as we settled into the plush seating. Unlike my father, she had always shown a genuine interest in my company.

"It’s going well, thank you," I said, offering a small, sincere smile. "We’re staying busy."

"I heard you were nominated for Publishing House of the Year," she noted, her eyes brightening. "That is quite an achievement for such a young company."

"Thank you. Fingers crossed," I laughed lightly, though I felt Romano’s silent, judgmental gaze from across the room. To him, it was a hobby; to her, it was a career.

The moment was interrupted by Tracy, Lucas’s younger sister, descending the stairs. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, dressed in black jeans and an oversized hoodie—a silent middle finger to the "formal dinner" dress code. She slumped onto a chair with a muttered greeting. I actually respected her hustle; she was a brilliant software engineer who played by no one’s rules.

"Tracy, I thought I asked you to dress up," Madeline sighed.

"I didn't think this dinner was worth the effort," Tracy shot back, not looking up from her phone.

"Dinner is served," a maid announced, saving us from further awkwardness.

We migrated to the dining room. The table was a masterpiece of silverware and fine china, but my eyes went straight to the empty chair directly across from me. Lucas’s chair. I wondered if he was even going to show up, or if he was too busy being the "Nepo Baby" my father so admired.

As the first course was served, the men drifted into talk of stocks and real estate. I felt my phone vibrate in my lap. Against my better judgment, I checked it.

> Jennifer: [Hey]

>

I watched the screen. Read. No reply.

The sting of Jax's silence was interrupted by a sudden cold shock. A maid, trembling as she reached for my wine glass, had lost her footing. A full glass of red Cabernet splashed across the front of my black satin gown.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry, Miss Conti!" the girl gasped, her face turning ghostly white as she looked at Romano.

"It's fine, really," I said quickly, standing up before my father could snap at her. The dress was black, so the stain wouldn't show, but the silk was clinging to my skin, cold and sticky. "It was an accident."

"Let me go freshen up for a minute," I told Madeline.

"Natalie, show her to the guest suite," Madeline instructed the maid.

I followed the girl out of the dining room and down a quiet, dimly lit corridor. My mind was still on that "Read" receipt from Jax, my heart heavy with a mix of anger and lingering habit. I wasn't looking where I was going until it was too late.

I rounded a corner and slammed straight into a wall of solid muscle.

"Watch it," a deep, melodic voice rumbled from above me, vibrating through my own chest.

"Oof—" I stumbled back, my heels clicking sharply on the hardwood as I tried to regain my balance.

A pair of steady, large hands gripped my shoulders to stop me from falling. I looked up, the apology dying on my lips.

Standing there, looking down at me with an expression that sat somewhere between amusement and arrogance, was Lucas Lombardi. He was taller than I remembered, his jawline sharper, his presence filling the entire hallway. He wore a dark charcoal suit that screamed power, and he smelled like expensive bourbon and cedarwood.

"Conti," he whispered, his voice a deep, gravelly hum.

He didn't let go of my shoulders. Instead, his dark eyes dropped to the wet silk clinging to my curves, then back up to my face. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Don't tell me you're falling for me already."