Chapter Three

The Contract

Lila

The car ride to Luca Deluca’s penthouse felt like the slow march to my execution.

The world beyond the tinted glass was still waking up, streetlights blinking off one by one, the city exhaling the last of its midnight secrets but inside the back seat, everything felt suspended. My hands were folded tightly in my lap, trying to keep from shaking. I could feel the driver’s eyes flick up in the mirror now and then, assessing me the way people look at a stray dog on the verge of collapse.

When we finally pulled into the underground garage, I felt the last sliver of air leave my lungs. I had no idea what waited upstairs. What kind of man waited upstairs. I had served him a few times and seen him on blogs, but you can't really tell anything about a man until you have lived with them.

The elevator was cold and silent as it carried me higher and higher, past the glittering floors of glass and steel. My reflection in the mirrored walls looked pale, hollow eyed. A ghost of the girl I had been only a day ago.

A soft chime announced my arrival. The doors opened onto a vast, glass walled living space that looked more like an art gallery than a home. Everything was marble and dark wood and sleek, expensive emptiness. I stepped out, my flats whispering over the polished floor, and for a moment I just stood there, clutching my coat like armor.

I wondered if he would make me beg again.

But then he emerged from the far side of the room, as silent as a shadow. Luca Deluca.

He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top button undone. Even dressed simply, there was something so precise about him, like a blade honed to a lethal edge. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes sweeping over me without expression.

“Lila,” he said, his voice a low acknowledgment that scraped over my skin.

I forced my chin up. “Where is the contract?”

“Straight to business huh.” His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I suppose I prefer that anyway, I hate small talk.”

He gestured toward a long table overlooking the skyline. Papers were laid out in a neat stack beside a heavy glass pen. My stomach twisted at the sight.

I moved past him, careful not to brush his arm, and sank into one of the chairs. The city glittered below us, sprawling and endless, but all I could see was the way my mother’s face had looked yesterday, drawn and gray with pain.

He sat across from me, folding his hands as if we were about to negotiate the sale of a property instead of my life.

“This contract outlines the terms of our arrangement,” he said evenly. “You will be my wife in every legal sense. You will accompany me to events, maintain appearances, and reside here for the duration of the agreement. One year.”

My throat was too tight to swallow.

“In exchange,” he continued, “your mother will receive immediate admission to the Milan Oncology Center. All treatment costs will be covered. A trust fund has already been established in her name.”

“And after a year?” I asked, my voice raw.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was some curious specimen. “After a year, we will divorce amicably. You will receive a settlement of five million euros, in addition to the trust.”

My pulse roared in my ears. Five million euros. I could disappear. Start over somewhere far away from this man. I could live comfortably with my mom forever. 

“Do you have questions?” he asked.

I lifted my eyes to his, hating the steadiness I found there. “Yes. Are you going to tell them why you chose me?”

A flicker of something passed through his gaze, something I couldn’t name before it vanished.

“No,” he said. “The public story will be that we met through mutual acquaintances. That I pursued you. That you eventually agreed.”

“And if I decide to leave before the year is up?”

His mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. “Then your mother’s treatment stops. The trust is dissolved.”

A tremor went through me. “You’re a monster.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he uncapped the pen and set it on top of the papers. “Sign, Lila.”

My hand hovered over the pen. My entire body felt numb, weightless.

If you don’t do this, she will die.

The thought circled over and over, louder than my disgust, louder than the part of me that still wanted to believe in some other way.

I picked up the pen. My signature looked foreign on the crisp white paper just a scrawl of ink sealing my own condemnation.

When I set the pen down, my hand was shaking so badly I had to fold it into my lap.

Luca reached for the papers and stacked them neatly. “It’s done.”

His voice was quiet, final.

I swallowed. “When will she be transferred?”

“Within the hour, my men are already taking care of it as we speak.”

Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. He wouldn’t see me cry.

He stood, one hand braced on the table, and for a moment he looked at me as if he might say something else. Something that didn’t fit the script he’d written for us. But then the moment passed, and his face smoothed into cold composure.

“You’ll stay here tonight. Your room is down the hall. Tomorrow, we will make a public announcement.”

I rose unsteadily, clutching the back of the chair to keep from collapsing. “And if I refuse to play along in public?”

His eyes met mine. There was no threat in them only certainty.

“You won’t.”

And I hated that he was right.

I followed him down the corridor, past art I couldn’t appreciate, into a guest suite that was larger than the entire apartment I’d grown up in. The walls were pale and empty, the windows stretching floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of a city that didn’t care who I was or what I’d done.

A uniformed woman was waiting by the bed, her hands folded. “Signora Deluca,” she murmured. “I’ve prepared clothing for you. If you need anything, I am just down the hall.”