Chapter 6: The Interview

Victoria Chen was a shark in designer heels.

She sat across from Alessia in the Blackwood penthouse, a recorder on the table between them, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. Damian had left an hour ago, called away by some crisis, and Alessia was alone. Exactly as Victoria had requested.

"Let's start with the obvious," Victoria said. "You're a jewel thief."

Alessia kept her expression calm. "I was. A long time ago."

"Three years isn't a long time."

"It feels like a lifetime."

Victoria leaned back, studying her. "I've seen your file. Eight countries, a dozen unsolved thefts, and not a single conviction. You're either very good or very lucky."

"Both."

"Then why stop? Why settle for a billionaire when you could have kept stealing?"

Alessia had rehearsed this. Damian had drilled the story into her until she could recite it in her sleep. But sitting here, under Victoria's piercing gaze, the words felt hollow.

"Because I got tired of running," she said. "Tired of looking over my shoulder. Tired of never having a place to call home."

"And Damian gave you that?"

"He gave me a choice. A different life." She touched the ring on her finger, a gesture that felt surprisingly natural. "He saw something in me worth saving."

Victoria's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe he saw something worth using."

"What do you mean?"

"Damian Blackwood doesn't do anything without an agenda. He's been linked to some of the most powerful—and dangerous—people in the world. Why would he choose a thief as his wife?"

"Maybe because I'm not like the women he's used to."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Alessia leaned forward, her voice dropping. "It means I don't care about his money or his power. I care about him. And that's something no socialite can offer."

For a moment, Victoria's expression flickered—something like surprise. Then she smiled.

"You're good. I'll give you that." She turned off her recorder. "Off the record?"

Alessia nodded.

"If you're lying to me, I'll find out. And when I do, I'll destroy you. Not because I'm cruel, but because it's my job to tell the truth."

"I understand."

"But if you're telling the truth..." Victoria paused. "Then I wish you luck. Damian Blackwood isn't an easy man to love."

"He's not." Alessia smiled faintly. "But I'm not easy either."

Victoria laughed—a real laugh, unexpected and warm. "I like you, Alessia. I hope you know what you're doing."

She gathered her things and left.

Damian returned two hours later, his expression tense.

"How did it go?"

"She liked me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Victoria doesn't like anyone."

"She liked me." Alessia shrugged. "Maybe I'm more charming than I look."

"The interview will run tomorrow. Front page." He walked toward her, his eyes searching her face. "Are you ready for this?"

"I have to be."

"Good." He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. The touch was feather-light, almost tender. "You did well today. I'm proud of you."

Alessia's breath caught. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend to care. I know this is just business."

He dropped his hand, his expression shuttering. "Right. Business."

He turned away, but not before she saw something flash in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or something deeper.

"I have a meeting," he said. "There's a car downstairs. Driver will take you anywhere you want to go."

"Anywhere?"

"Except the airport." He glanced back. "You're still my fiancée."

"Until when?"

"Until I say otherwise." He walked to the door. "Don't stay out too late."

Then he was gone.

Alessia told the driver to take her to her old neighborhood.

She walked the familiar streets, her eyes taking in the cracked sidewalks, the graffiti-covered walls, the shuttered storefronts. This was where she'd grown up. Where she'd learned to fight, to steal, to survive.

She stopped in front of a small apartment building, its facade crumbling. Her father's apartment. Empty now, but she could still picture him there—sitting at the kitchen table, smoking his cigarettes, laughing at her stories.

She missed him. The ache was sharp enough to cut.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Damian.

Where are you?

She typed back: Walking down memory lane.

Come home.

She stared at the message. Home. As if the penthouse was hers. As if she belonged there.

She typed: On my way.

But she didn't move. Not for a long time.

When she returned to the penthouse, Damian was waiting.

"You went to the old neighborhood."

"You had me followed."

"I had you protected." He stepped toward her, his expression unreadable. "You could have been recognized."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can." He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "But that doesn't mean I want you to have to."

Alessia's heart pounded. "Why do you care?"

"Because—" He paused, his jaw tightening. "Because you're my fiancée. And I protect what's mine."

"I'm not yours."

"You're wearing my ring." His fingers found her hand, his thumb brushing over the diamond. "You're living in my home. You're in my life, Alessia. Whether you like it or not."

"And when this is over?"

"Then we'll see."

He leaned closer, his lips inches from hers. She could feel his breath, warm and steady. She should pull away. She should remind him this was fake.

But she didn't.

His mouth met hers—soft this time, questioning. Not the fierce, possessive kiss from before. This one was different. Almost tender.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.

"Get some rest," he said quietly. "Tomorrow, everything changes."

He walked away, leaving her standing there with her heart racing and her lips still burning.

She was falling. And she had no idea how to stop.