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I type back a simple:Proceed.

I adjust the volume on my earpiece as Nicolo pushes through the door of the café. He’s dressed impeccably—charcoal suit, burgundy tie, pocket square—the perfect consigliere.

Professional, but not intimidating. At least, not visibly so. The café is quieter now, the morning rush having subsided, leaving only a few patrons hunched over laptops.

Chiara looks up as the bell above the door announces Nicolo’s entrance. He meets her gaze, and she holds it as he walks over.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a disinterested voice. “Takeout, is it?”

“Good morning,” Nicolo says, voice even and calm through my earpiece. “I need five minutes. You’ll want to listen.”

“I’m working,” she snaps, her tone clipped. Nothing like the soft-spoken girl I’ve been watching. “If you want coffee, I can take your order.”

“It’s in your best interest to hear me out.” Nicolo slides onto a stool at the counter and places his briefcase beside him. “It concerns your financial situation.”

Her hands still on the espresso machine. “My financial situation is none of your business.”

Her voice trembles.

“On the contrary. Your debt to D’Angelo has become very much my employer’s business.”

I watch her face drain of color.

“I need two more weeks,” she says, voice lower now, eyes darting to ensure other customers aren’t listening. “I’ll have the payment.”

Nicolo offers a practiced smile that never reaches his eyes. “My employer isn’t interested in your payments anymore. He’s interested in a more… permanent arrangement.”

“What does that mean?” Her knuckles whiten against the countertop.

“It means that I’m here with an offer. One million dollars. Protection for you. Complete forgiveness of your debt—and freedom from D’Angelo. Decline, and you’re on your own.”

He unlatches his briefcase and pulls out an envelope, setting it on the table. “Inside is a check for one hundred thousand dollars—an advance. The rest will come after the ceremony.”

“In exchange for what?” Her voice is tight, suspicious.

“Marriage.”

The word hangs in the air between them. I lean forward in my seat, studying her reaction. This is the moment I anticipated resistance, outrage, perhaps tears. I had walked through every argument with Nicolo for when that would happen. Chiara didn’t seem like the type to sell herself off—at least, not easily.Eventually, they all fall—with just the right pressure and a tempting promise. I just thought it would take more.

So, of course, I’m caught off guard when, instead of outrage, her expression shifts—cool, assessing, calculated.

“Marriage,” she repeats flatly. “To whom?”

“The man who saved your life.”

I watch recognition dawn on her face.

“Him?” she asks, and I’m surprised to detect a note of interest rather than revulsion.

“Yes. My employer believes you’d make a suitable wife.”

She laughs—short, biting.

“Oh, really? What gave him that idea? My latte art? Or because I’m conveniently desperate?”

She steps back, arms crossing.

“What is this, a job interview? What else does he like? My tip jar? The way I dodge bill collectors? Or maybe he just gets off on saving desperate girls with a savior complex?”