CHAPTER FIVE: THE INVITATION

For two days, I turned my phone face down on every flat surface in my apartment.

I worked from home, throwing myself into a commercial renovation project for a boutique hotel in Soho. I picked out paint swatches, drafted lighting layouts, and argued with a tile supplier over three shades of off-white terra cotta. I did everything possible to keep my brain occupied, hoping that if I stayed busy enough, the memory of a dark hallway and a low, velvet baritone telling me she doesn't need to know would simply evaporate.

It didn't work.

Every time my phone chimed with a work email or a group chat notification, my stomach did a sickening little flip.

By Friday morning, I was sitting at a corner table inside a sunlit bakery in the West Village, nursing a cold brew and trying to convince myself that I was back in control of my life.

The brass bell above the bakery door jingled, and Sofia walked in. She looked effortlessly put-together in an oversized camel coat, dark jeans, and leather ankle boots.

"If I drink one more espresso today, my heart is going to explode," she declared, sliding into the booth across from me and dropping her leather handbag onto the bench. "God, I missed this place. They don't make almond croissants like this in Italy, no matter what anyone tells you."

I smiled, taking a sip of my coffee. "Good morning to you, too."

"Sorry," she laughed, leaning across the table to give my shoulder a quick squeeze. "I slept for twelve hours straight. I think my body finally realized it's not in Europe anymore."

"You look good, Sof. Less like a jet-lagged ghost."

"I feel like a human being again." She flagged down a waiter, ordered a pastry and an iced latte, then leaned back against the leather seat, studying me. "So. How's work? Did you finish those hotel schematics?"

"Almost," I said, shifting my coffee cup an inch to the left. "Just tweaking the lobby lighting. The client wants 'moody but accessible,' which usually means they want it dark enough to hide bad drywall."

Sofia chuckled, but her phone buzzed on the wood table between us before she could reply. She glanced down at the screen, her expression softening into that warm, indulgent look she only ever used for one person.

"Dad?" I asked, keeping my voice entirely light and casual.

"Yep," she said, tapping out a quick response. "He's asking if I made it to my ten o'clock appointment. He literally has my assistant’s calendar synced to his phone. It's ridiculous."

"He just cares, Sof."

"I know, I know," she sighed, though she didn't sound genuinely annoyed. "He actually asked about you this morning over breakfast."

My hand froze on my coffee straw. "He did?"

"Mmhmm. He asked if you made it home okay the other night with Marco." Sofia picked up her napkin, unfolding it over her lap as the waiter set down her croissant. "He said you seemed a little stressed at dinner. I told him you were just overworked because your boss is a lunatic."

"Right," I said, my throat suddenly dry. "Overworked."

"He likes you, Bel," Sofia added casually, taking a small bite of her pastry. "My dad usually treats my friends like temporary houseguests—polite, distant, forgets their names five minutes after they leave. But he remembered you liked that specific sparkling water brand he keeps in the study. He told Maria to make sure we have it stocked in the fridge for when you come over next."

A quiet, heavy weight settled directly onto my chest.

He hadn't mentioned the cufflink. He hadn't brought up the lie I’d told in his foyer. He was playing the role of the considerate host, laying subtle, invisible threads to make sure I knew he was still paying attention.

"That's... nice of him," I managed to say.

"He's got a good heart under all that serious billionaire business," Sofia said warmly, her eyes completely earnest. "Honestly, since my mom died, he's basically poured his entire life into making sure I have everything I need. He doesn't go out, he doesn't date, he doesn't even take vacations unless it's a corporate retreat. His whole world is the company and me."

I looked at my best friend—at her easy, bright smile, at the absolute, unwavering trust she had in her father—and felt a sharp pang of guilt so intense it almost took my breath away.

She didn't know about the private elevator. She didn't know about the penthouse floor. She didn't know that the man she saw as a dedicated, solitary monk had spent six hours on Sunday night holding her best friend against a marble counter forty stories above the city.

"He's a good dad, Sof," I said softly, meaning it.

"The best," she agreed, wiping a crumb from her lip. She set her fork down and looked at me with a sudden, mischievous glint in her eyes. "Which brings me to my next point. You're coming to the Foundation Gala next Thursday."

I blinked. "The what?"

"The De Luca Foundation Gala," Sofia said, waving her hand as if it were already settled. "It's our biggest charity event of the year. Dad's hosting it at the public library. Three hundred people, black-tie, terrible speeches, amazing champagne."

"Sof, I really don't think—"

"No excuses, Bella. I already put you on the VIP guest list," she interrupted smoothly, giving me a stern look. "Chloe is going with her new boyfriend, half my NYU alumni group will be there, and I need you there so I don't die of boredom during my dad's opening address. Plus, it's a great networking opportunity for your design firm."

"Sofia, I don't even have a dress for a black-tie gala," I tried, grasping at any reasonable excuse.

"We are literally going shopping on Madison Avenue right after this," she replied instantly, a victorious grin spreading across her face. "I'm paying. Consider it your late birthday gift."

I looked down at my cold brew, my mind spinning.

Going to his house for dinner was one thing—it was a controlled, private environment where I could hide behind Sofia and leave early. But a high-society gala? Three hundred people, press, photographers, and Alessandro standing in a tuxedo at the center of it all?

It was a terrible idea. Every rational instinct in my body was screaming at me to say no, to fake a fever, to fly to another state for the weekend.

"Bella?" Sofia asked, her eyebrow arching slightly as she picked up on my hesitation. "Is everything okay? You've been acting a little jumpy since Tuesday."

I looked up, swallowing the panic rising in my throat, and forced a warm, easy laugh.

"I'm fine," I lied, leaning across the table. "Just trying to figure out how I'm going to survive a night in heels with you."

Sofia laughed, completely satisfied, and reached for her phone to call us an Uber.

I leaned back against the leather booth, looking out the window at the busy Village street, knowing deep down that I had just signed upto walk straight back into his lion's den.