Chapter 1

“Elena. Come closer.” Marco’s voice brushed my ear. His open collar exposed an old scar on his chest, and his breathing was rough, his hand firm against my lower back. Even through his shirt, his skin was burning hot.

For a second, I couldn’t tell whether the heat came from the fireplace or the feverish haze of that last night in the clinic. I could still hear the doctor calling Marco, then the silence after he hung up. Then he lowered his head, his mouth almost touching mine. I turned away and braced both hands against his chest.

“Don’t,” he murmured, tightening his hold.

I stared at the healing cut over his eyebrow. That cut told me when I was. [I’m not in the clinic. I haven’t married him yet.]

We were in the Vitales’ private club in Chicago. Tonight, he was supposed to announce his engagement to Bianca. I’d just dragged him out of a burning lounge after someone spiked his drink. Getting him through the fire, I’d been terrified he would die. Now I just wanted his hands off me.

“I’m getting a doctor.” I pried his fingers loose, pushed him back onto the chaise, and called Bianca. “Second floor, west wing. Bring the family medical team. He shouldn’t be alone.”

Marco pushed himself up, his eyes briefly sharpening. “Who did you call?”

I didn’t answer. Ten minutes later, Bianca swept in with a satin clutch, the doctor right behind her. She went straight to Marco, slipping a hand behind his neck. The tension left his shoulders as he let her hold him.

“Baby, I’m here. You scared the hell out of me.”

The hand that had hurt my waist settled gently on her back. In my first life, the doctor had treated Marco and confirmed he was lucid. I’d stayed to look after him. He’d been clearheaded when he kissed me, and clearheaded when he asked me to stay. The next morning, he’d decided nothing a drugged man said could count. With Bianca, he didn’t seem troubled by what counted. He simply held her.

I stepped out and closed the door.

The fire ended the party, but security wouldn’t let the guests leave while they investigated his drink. Back in my suite, my throat hurt so badly I could barely speak. I’d inhaled too much smoke dragging him through the fire door, and the frame had scraped my right shoulder. The medical team had promised to examine me soon.

Marco arrived first. He’d changed into a clean black shirt. From the doorway, he glanced over my soot-stained sleeve. “Why did you call Bianca?”

“Because she’s your fiancée.”

“You brought her into that room with half the party watching. Now everyone’s wondering whether she’s spending the night.”

I almost laughed. Staying made me a scheming bitch; handing him over to the woman he wanted made me responsible for embarrassing her. Apparently, there was no acceptable way to save him.

“Then clear it up yourself.” I held the doorframe, coughing until my chest ached. “I need to rest.”

He watched me for a moment. “Drop the wounded act. Nobody asked you to run into a fire.”

“I’ll remember that next time.” Something in his expression faltered, but I shut the door before he could answer.

For ten years, I’d paid attention to everything he liked, down to a woman’s eye makeup. He said women shouldn’t look so intimidating, so I put away my motorcycle boots and learned to smile through tedious family dinners. Dad wanted me sitting in on dock meetings; I cared more about whether Marco would show up for dessert. None of it had mattered. He hadn’t wanted me, whatever I wore or learned to do.

Later that night, security knocked. “Miss Moretti, we need you to come with us.”

“The doctor told me to wait here.” I pointed to the unused oxygen mask on the bedside table. The lead guard wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Mr. Vitale says you were alone with him. The drugs and the fire could’ve been part of the same setup.”

My fingers went cold. “He said that?”

“Until we clear this up, you’ll be kept separate from the other guests.”

I asked to call my father. They took my phone instead and marched me downstairs into a windowless records room. I pounded on the door and begged them to get a doctor. Someone outside told me to save my breath for the next performance.

At first, I counted footsteps in the corridor. Eventually, breathing hurt too much to count anything. Every breath scraped my chest, and I couldn’t make enough sound to call out.

When the door finally opened, I couldn’t see the man’s face. I remembered a coat carrying the cold from outside, and a voice low with anger. “Who the fuck authorized locking her in here?”