Page 11

Isadora

The black SUV glides through New York’s streets, the city’s lights blurring outside my window like smudged watercolors. I sit in silence, my body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure. My dress is slightly rumpled, my hair barely tamed into a semblance of order, and despite the cool air conditioning, my skin feels feverish.

“Where to, Miss?” The driver—Crispino, Alessio had called him—asks, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. There’s something in his gaze, a knowing that makes heat rise to my cheeks.

I clear my throat. “The Plaza, please.”

He nods, the motion sharp and efficient. “Of course.”

I turn toward the window, watching the city slip past. The streets are nearly empty at this hour, suspended in that strange limbo between late night and early morning when even New York seems to catch its breath.

My hand strays to my lips, still swollen from Alessio’s kisses. I close my eyes, and images flash behind my lids—his hands gripping my thighs, the burn of his stubble against my inner thigh, the way his eyes darkened when I called out his name.

God, what have I done?

For twenty-four years, I’ve been the perfect daughter. Poised. Controlled. I attended the right schools, spoke the right languages, and associated with the right people. My very existence crafted to enhance the De Angelis family name. Even my rebellion has always been contained—small acts of defiance that never truly threatened the life mapped out for me.

Until tonight.

My engagement ring sits heavy on my finger, and I resist the urge to toss it out the window. It wouldn’t change anything. I’m still marrying Luca Calviño in two weeks. The contract has been signed, not in ink but in promises between family patriarchs that carry more weight than any legal document.

The De Angelis and Calviño families will merge through our union. Business interests will be secured. Territories will be established. Power will be consolidated.

And I will smile through it all, the perfect bride for a man I’ve seen make his bodyguard beat a waiter bloody for spilling wine on his shoe.

“Everything all right, Miss?” Crispino’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I realize I’ve been digging my nails into my palm, leaving crescent indentations in my skin. I smooth my expression, muscle memory taking over.

“Yes, thank you. Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes, but he nods again and returns his attention to the road. I wonder what Alessio told him about me. Does he know I gave a false name? That I’m engaged? That I’m the daughter of Antonio De Angelis, whose name opens doors and closes mouths throughout New York?

“Your friend,” I begin, then stop. What am I doing? I shouldn’t ask about him. Tonight was supposed to mean nothing. Just a moment stolen from a life that doesn’t belong to me. A taste of freedom before the cage door slams shut.

“Yes, Miss?” Crispino prompts, his tone neutral.

I shake my head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Because it doesn’t. I’ll never see Alessio again. We shared no contact information, no last names, no truths. Just bodies. Just pleasure. Just a single night of pretending to be someone else.

So why does it feel like something significant has shifted inside me?

The car slows as we approach the hotel, and panic flutters in my chest. The girls insisted on staying in a hotel, no doubt to cover any and all indiscretions they might be up to. If only they knew that the biggest one was committed by me. The only bridesmaid I’m really worried about is Valentina because she reports everything to her father, who reports everything to mine. If anyone sees me returning at—I glance at the delicate watch on my wrist—3:42 AM, questions will be asked.

Questions I can’t answer.

“Can you drop me at the side entrance?” I ask, already gathering my clutch.

Crispino nods, smoothly redirecting the car. “Of course, Miss.”

He pulls up to a less conspicuous door, one used mainly by staff. Before he can come around to open my door, I’m already pushing it open.

“Thank you for the ride,” I say, one foot already on the pavement.

“Miss,” he says, his voice stopping me halfway out of the car. When I meet his eyes in the mirror again, there’s something close to concern there. “Be careful.”

A chill runs through me. Does he know who I am? I force a smile. “Always.”