Page 1 of Claimed By the Enemy

Chapter One

Sophie

The sound of my real name cuts through the air with quiet precision.

“Sophie Bellini.”

Dom’s voice carries no emotion, but something in my chest stops working. I can’t breathe properly. Can’t think past the ringing in my ears. I just stare at him across Mark’s desk while my carefully constructed life falls apart.

He knows.

He’s always known.

Mark shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clearly sensing something has shifted but not understanding what. The contract for One Construction sits between us, forgotten. The pen in Dom’s hand rests motionless above the signature line he never reached.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. The words feel foreign in my mouth.

Dom sets the envelope down with deliberate care, his eyes never leaving mine. The evidence he mentioned—whatever proof he has of my deception—sits there like an accusation.

“Of course you don’t.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “Mark, thank you for your time, but this meeting is over.”

“What?” Mark’s voice climbs. “But we had an agreement—”

“We had a conversation.” Dom stands, straightening his jacket. “And conversations end.” His attention returns to me. “Especially when they involve complications.”

My legs have turned to water. Everything in me screams to run, to bolt for the door and disappear into the city streets. But my body won’t cooperate. My hands are shaking where they rest on my thighs, and I press them down harder, trying to stop the tremor.

“Miss Greco.” Dom’s voice could cut glass. “We need to talk. Now.”

I force myself to stand even though my knees want to buckle. My mind scrambles through possibilities. Deny everything. Admit nothing. Create some elaborate lie about mistaken identity.

But as we walk past Mark’s desk toward the elevator, his frustrated voice trailing behind us with complaints about wasted time and broken promises, I know I’m trapped. The game I’ve been playing for months just ended, and I lost spectacularly.

The elevator feels smaller than it should. Dom stands close enough that I catch his cologne—something expensive and clean—but the warmth that used to radiate from him has vanished. His face shows nothing. Pure control.

When the doors slide open, he gestures toward the lobby. “My car is outside.”

I follow because I can’t think of anything else to do. My legs move on autopilot while my brain struggles to catch up. The black sedan waits at the curb, Vincent holding the rear door open like this is just another evening.

“Good evening, Mr. Moretti,” Vincent says with his usual politeness. “Miss Greco.”

The normalcy of it makes everything worse. I slide into the backseat, and Dom settles beside me. The door closes with finality.

“Drive,” Dom tells Vincent.

The car pulls into traffic, and I press my face against the cool window. The city blurs past while I try to process what just happened. The meeting with Mark, the envelope full of evidence, the way Dom spoke my real name like he’d been saving it up for exactly this moment.

Minutes pass in heavy silence. I can feel Dom watching me, waiting for something. A confession, maybe. Or another lie he can tear apart.

“I’ve known who you were all along,” he finally says.

The admission sits between us like a live wire. My stomach drops to somewhere around my feet.

“Then why—” I start, but my voice cracks.

“Why didn’t I expose you immediately?” He turns to study my profile in the streetlight. “Because I wanted to see what you were really after. How far you’d go.”

I can’t look at him. Can’t face whatever expression he’s wearing right now. “And now you know.”