Chapter 1 - The Karaoke Alibi and the Golden Cage**
The ride back to the Moretti estate was filled with a silence so thick it felt physical. Emma stared out the passenger window of Luca’s black-tinted bulletproof sedan, watching the neon lights of the city blur into streaks of amber and crimson. Her mind was still spinning from the disaster at the restaurant. She had agreed to be an abrasive, uncooperative distraction—a human shield against Camille Russo and Teresa Moretti's relentless matchmaking. She had not agreed to become the centerpiece of a family myth that painted her as Luca Moretti’s great, secret romance.
“You look entirely too pleased with yourself,” Emma muttered without turning her head.
Luca kept his eyes on the road, his knuckles resting lightly against the leather steering wheel. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m merely contemplating logistics. My grandmother is already planning an engagement gala. If we don’t play this right, she’s going to start measuring you for vintage lace by Tuesday.”
Emma snapped her head around, her eyes flashing. “Engagement gala? We agreed to a two-week temporary arrangement to get her off your back, Luca! Not a fast track to a lifetime sentence!”
“Two weeks was your counteroffer,” Luca reminded her smoothly, pulling the car through the wrought-iron security gates of his estate. “And let’s be honest, Emma. You planted the karaoke bar story with terrifying precision. My grandmother believes every word. She thinks I serenaded you to ‘Careless Whisper’ after hours.”
“You deserved it,” Emma retorted, unbuckling her seatbelt with a sharp click. “You’re the one who dragged me into your social minefield without hazard pay.”
“You’re getting double pay,” Luca pointed out as he parked the car in the private subterranean garage.
“Double pay doesn't cover emotional hazard or the sheer humiliation of pretending you can carry a tune.”
As they stepped out into the cool subterranean air, the bantering facade slipped away, replaced by the heavy reality of their situation. Luca watched Emma walk ahead of him toward the private elevator. For years, she had moved through his home like a ghost—efficient, invisible, and impeccably professional. She managed his household budgets, organized his chaotic schedule, and kept his life running with quiet competence while he fought turf wars and negotiated billion-dollar shipping contracts. He had known her name, her credentials, and her reliability. But tonight, watching her stand up to Camille Russo with razor-sharp intelligence, he realized he had been blind.
Inside the penthouse suite, the reality of the fake relationship hit them immediately. A stack of high-society invitations sat on the marble foyer table, topped by a handwritten note from Teresa Moretti: Welcome home, my children. Sunday dinner is formal. Bring the karaoke machine.
Emma groaned, dropping her keys into a silver bowl with a loud clatter. “This is a nightmare.”
“It’s survival,” Luca corrected, stepping closer to her than protocol ever allowed. “For two weeks, we maintain the illusion. Then we announce an amicable separation due to ‘conflicting schedules,’ and my grandmother moves on to someone else.”
May you like
Emma looked up into his dark, intense eyes, her breath catching for a fraction of a second. There was something dangerous about the way Luca Moretti looked at her now—not as a subordinate, not as a convenience, but as an equal.
“Fine,” Emma whispered, stepping back to create a safe boundary. “Two weeks. Not a second longer. And if your grandmother asks about the karaoke bar again, you’re the one doing the singing.”
