Emily folded her hands on the desk.
“What do you need from me?”
He looked at her for too long.
“I need you to come with me.”
“To the party?”
“To the weekend.”
Her pulse shifted.
“In what capacity?”
Marco’s jaw tightened.
“As my girlfriend.”
The words entered the office and rearranged the air.
Emily stared at him.
The copier stopped humming.
Rain began to tap against the windows, soft at first, then harder.
“Your girlfriend,” she repeated.
“Fake,” he said quickly. “A fake girlfriend. One week. We arrive Friday, attend my mother’s birthday Saturday, stay through Sunday brunch, return Monday. By then my mother stops pushing Vanessa, Vanessa moves on to some other advantageous target, and my family accepts that I’m not available.”
Emily let out a laugh because the alternative was choking.
Marco blinked.
“You didn’t even think about it.”
“I thought very quickly.”
“I am your assistant.”
“I’m aware.”
“I organize your calendar. I do not provide romantic theater for your family.”
“I’ll compensate you.”
That landed badly.
She saw him realize it the second after he said it.
Her face went still.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m sure you would.”
Marco stepped closer. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
She stood, because sitting made her feel too small. “I work for you because I need the job. I do not need to be rented for a weekend.”
His expression changed. The hard CEO vanished, replaced by something almost ashamed.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
That disarmed her more than defensiveness would have.
Marco Ricci apologized rarely, but when he did, he meant it. Emily had learned that.
He looked toward the rain-dark windows.
“My mother’s health hasn’t been good,” he said.
Emily’s anger softened despite herself.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s been dizzy. Tired. Her doctor says it’s manageable, but she refuses to rest. She thinks if she stops controlling everyone, we’ll all fall apart.” His mouth tightened. “Maybe she’s not entirely wrong.”
“Marco.”
“She wants to see me happy. Or something that looks close enough that she can sleep.”
The office became too quiet.
Emily thought of Rosa Ricci, whose voice over the phone was warm and commanding, who called Emily “the girl who keeps my son alive” despite never having met her. She thought of Claire, smiling through pain because she did not want Emily to worry. She thought of the nights Emily had eaten cereal for dinner so she could pay for prescriptions. She thought of the man standing before her, asking her to live inside her own dream for one week, then walk away like it had never meant anything.
Because that was the truth beneath the absurdity.
Emily loved him.
Not dramatically. Not foolishly, not at first. It had happened slowly, against every instinct she possessed. It had grown in the quiet places: his coat dropped over her shoulders when the office heat failed, his voice softening when he asked about Claire, the way he remembered every allergy and every minor injury of his family members, the night he sat on the office floor beside an intern having a panic attack and told him no job was worth disappearing inside fear.
She loved the man no one was supposed to see.
And now he was asking her to pretend to be the woman she had secretly wished she could become.
This was dangerous.
This was foolish.
This would ruin her.
“Okay,” she heard herself say. “I’ll do it.”
Marco went still.
For one second, something raw moved across his face. Relief. Hunger. Fear. She could not name it.
Then it vanished.
“Good,” he said. “We leave Friday at noon. Pack for warm weather. Bring something formal for Saturday night. I’ll send a dress.”
“If we’re doing this,” he said, “you call me Marco.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“Marco,” she corrected softly. “You don’t have to send a dress.”
“I want to.”
That sentence should not have sounded intimate.
It did.
“We’ll need to practice,” he continued. “Tomorrow night. My apartment. Seven.”
“Your apartment?”
“We need privacy. We need a story. And we need to look comfortable touching each other.” His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, so fast she wondered if she imagined it. “Unless that’s a problem.”
Everything about it was a problem.
“No,” Emily said. “No problem.”
The next evening, Emily changed outfits four times before Marco’s driver arrived.
She told herself she was being practical. This was rehearsal. Strategy. A performance. She settled finally on a navy wrap dress and cream cardigan, modest enough to feel professional, pretty enough that she hated herself for caring. She pinned her hair back, unpinned it, pinned half of it instead, then stared at herself in the bathroom mirror of the Queens apartment she shared with Claire.
Claire appeared in the doorway wearing pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt, one hand braced against the frame.
“You look like you’re going on a date with someone who scares you.”
Emily grabbed her purse. “I’m not going on a date.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“I’m helping Marco with a family situation.”
“Marco,” Claire repeated.
Emily closed her eyes. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said his name with punctuation.”
“That’s because whenever you say his name, your face becomes tragic.”
“My face is normal.”
“You have many gifts, Em. Lying to me is not one of them.”
Emily softened. Claire looked pale tonight, though she was trying to hide it with sarcasm. Her auburn hair was piled messily on her head. Her eyes, the same blue-gray as Emily’s, were shadowed with pain.
“Did you take the evening dose?”
“With food?”
“Soup.”
“Real soup or crackers floating in hot water?”
Claire smiled. “Real-ish.”
Emily gave her a look.
“I’m okay,” Claire said gently. “Go help your terrifying billionaire.”
“He’s not terrifying.”
“That is not what the internet says.”
“The internet also says lemon water cures debt.”
“Does it?”
“Disappointing.”
Emily kissed her sister’s forehead.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I always need something. Tonight I’ll be noble and not mention it.”
The driver waited downstairs beside a black car so polished it reflected the streetlights. During the ride into Manhattan, Emily watched the city change through the window—Queens storefronts and laundromats giving way to bridges, glass towers, lobby doormen, and private awnings. By the time the car stopped outside Marco’s building, she felt as if she were crossing into a life where she did not know the rules.
Marco’s apartment had been photographed for architecture magazines. Emily knew because she had once scheduled the photographer, declined three interview requests on his behalf, and personally removed two references to “mafia minimalism” from a design writer’s draft before Marco could see them and call legal.
The private elevator opened directly into a penthouse with glass walls, dark wood, soft leather, and a view that made the city look less real than a painting. It smelled faintly of cedar, espresso, and rain. The space was masculine without being cold, expensive without being cluttered, and so quiet Emily heard her own breath catch.
Marco was waiting barefoot in jeans and a gray Henley.
Emily almost turned around and left.
Seeing him in the office was one kind of torture.
Seeing him like this—casual, warm, human, sleeves pushed to his forearms—was something worse. He looked younger without the suit. Not less powerful. Never that. But touchable in a way that felt dangerous to her self-control.
“Wine?” he asked.
“Yes. Please.”
They sat on the sofa facing the city. Close, but not touching. Emily held the wineglass with both hands.
“So,” Marco said. “We met at work. We resisted because I’m your boss and you’re smarter than me.”
“That part sounds true.”
He smiled. “We started dating six months ago. Quietly. I didn’t tell my family because I wanted to keep you to myself.”
“That sounds like something a romance hero says right before he ruins someone’s life.”
Marco laughed, and the sound did something terrible to her heart.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“What?”
“How did I finally win you over?”
Emily swallowed. “You tell me.”
“No.” His voice softened. “I want to know what would make you fall for me.”
It was a cruel question because the answer was everything.
But Emily looked into her wine and told a safer version.
“Maybe we were working late. Everyone else had gone home. We were tired. You asked me about my life for once, not your calendar or a meeting or a problem you needed fixed. And maybe I told you something real.”
Her voice grew quieter.
“And maybe you looked at me like you finally saw me.”
The silence after that was heavy.
When she looked up, Marco was staring at her.
“Then what?” he asked.
“Then you touched my face,” she whispered before she could stop herself. “Just gently. Like I was something worth being careful with.”
Marco set his wine down.
“Come here.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What?”
“Closer. We need to practice, remember?”
She moved closer on the sofa, every inch of space between them becoming electric.
Marco lifted his hand and cupped her cheek.
Emily forgot the city, the room, the money, the lie.
His palm was warm. His thumb brushed once beneath her eye.
“Like this?” he asked.
She nodded because words were gone.
His other hand settled at her waist.
“When we’re with my family, I’ll touch you like I have the right.”
His hand slid to the small of her back.
“I’ll hold your hand. Kiss your temple. Put my arm around you.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ll look at you like you’re the only woman in the room.”
“Can you do that?” Emily asked, her voice barely sound.
Marco’s eyes darkened. “I’m not worried about me.”
He kissed her forehead.
Just once.
Soft. Lingering. Devastating.
Emily inhaled sharply.
Marco froze. “Too much?”
The truth slipped out too quickly.
For a moment, neither moved.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Then his phone rang.
The spell shattered.
Marco pulled away with a curse under his breath and glanced at the screen. His face hardened instantly.
“I need to take this.”
“Of course.” Emily stood too fast. “I should go.”
“I’ll see you Monday.”
She fled into the elevator before he could stop her.
When the doors closed, she pressed her fingers to the place his lips had touched and hated herself for wanting more.
By Monday, the lie had already begun spreading.
A gossip site posted photos of Marco leaving a restaurant with Vanessa Hartley. Vanessa wore a white suit, red lipstick, and the expression of a woman who knew cameras loved her. In one photo, her hand rested on Marco’s chest. In another, she laughed up at him while he looked away, jaw tight, as though already planning someone’s ruin.
The headline read:
Hartley Heiress and Ricci King—New Power Couple?
Marco called Emily into his office before she had even taken off her coat.
“My mother reads these sites,” he said. “We need to go public. Today.”
“Public?”
“Lunch. Sorella’s in Midtown. Cameras always outside. We make it obvious.”
Emily looked down at her white blouse and gray pencil skirt.