Chapter 2

Six years ago, Wilson asked me to be his girlfriend on the back steps of that same jazz bar.

Back then, I was Vivian Gray, not Vivian Vescari.

The Vescari name meant old money, locked doors, and men who smiled too politely because they wanted something from my father. Alessio Vescari was one of the most feared dons on the East Coast. He was also my father.

I left home because love came with too many price tags when people knew who I was. Men smiled at me and saw protection, money, access, a way into a world they could never enter on their own. I wanted to know what it felt like to be chosen without my name in the room.

So I used my mother’s old surname, rented a small apartment in Manhattan, and tried to live like an ordinary woman.

Wilson found me there.

He was a charming restaurant manager with big plans, a sharp suit, and the kind of smile that made ordinary life look warm. He brought me coffee after late shifts, waited with me for cabs, remembered tiny things I forgot I had said.

I turned him down five times.

The sixth time, after a drunk stranger followed me outside a bar, Wilson stepped between us and took a punch meant for me. At the clinic, while a nurse checked his split lip, he looked at me and said, “Viv, would it kill you to let someone take care of you?”

My heart softened.

That night, he took me to the underground bar. Rain slicked the stone steps. Jazz hummed through the walls. He held my hands like they were something sacred and said, ‘With me, you will never be alone again.’

I believed him.

For six years, I held on to that version of him. I even planned to tell him the truth after the proposal. If he chose me, truly chose me, I was going to bring him home, introduce him to my parents, and let him stand beside me when I returned to the family.

My parents had been patient, but not endlessly so. For months, they had been urging me to come back and consider the marriage alliance they trusted, a match with Luca Rossi, the son of a family that had stood with ours for generations. I kept saying no because I still wanted to believe Wilson was my answer.

Tonight, he gave me one.

After leaving the lounge, I got into a cab. New York blurred outside the window, all rain and neon and glass.

An encrypted email sat on my phone. It had been there for five days.

From Matteo Russo, my father’s consigliere and the closest thing our family had to a second spine.

The subject line was short.

[Come home.]

[The heir’s seat will be held for you until midnight on April 2. If you choose to return, the family aircraft will be waiting at Teterboro.]

For five days, I had not answered. I had been waiting for Wilson to keep his promise. Waiting for six years of love to become something solid.

Now I typed back.

[Vivian Vescari agrees to return. Tell my parents I will discuss the Rossi arrangement when I get home.]

When the message sent, I laughed under my breath.

Admitting you were not loved did not kill you. It only stripped the fever from your skin.

I went back to Wilson’s penthouse, washed the crusted cream from my face, and packed.

I had lived there for three years. Somehow, my life fit into two suitcases: dresses, books, a velvet box with the Vescari silver rose crest, and a pair of black leather gloves my father had sent me the first winter I refused to come home.

At three in the morning, I was rolling my suitcases toward the door when it opened.

Wilson came in with Chloe leaning on him, drunk and giggling. He laid her on the sofa and handed me a paper bag.

“Good, you are still up. She is hammered. Make her something for the hangover. Honey and lemon are in the kitchen.”

I stared at the bag without taking it.

When Wilson and I first moved in together, he came home sick after a party. I was worried and went into the kitchen to make soup. The pot cracked over the heat, and boiling broth splashed across my arms and chest.

Wilson sobered up instantly. He carried me to the sink, held me under cold water, and looked so guilty I almost comforted him.

Later, he taped a little sign on the kitchen door.

[Danger Zone. Vivian Not Allowed.]

After that, he never let me cook. Not even fruit. He washed it, sliced it, and placed it in my hands.

I had mistaken that for love. Now I understood. He remembered my pain. He simply forgot it whenever Chloe wanted something.

I took down the sign and dropped it into the trash.

“I do not owe her a damn thing. Tell one of her friends to buy her coffee.” Then I dragged my suitcases toward the door.

Wilson caught my wrist and pushed me back against the wall. “Enough, Viv. Saying it is one thing. Packing bags is a little dramatic, do you not think?”

His voice softened, the way it always did when he wanted me to stay.

“I know you want to get married. I do, too. Next year. I promise.”

I looked up at him.

“I am not marrying you.”

“Vivian—”

“I said we are done.”