Chapter 5 - The Glass Fortress
The Duca penthouse occupied the top three floors of a sleek, black-glass tower overlooking Lake Michigan.
The interior was a stunning masterclass in minimalist luxury: dark hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, charcoal velvet furniture, and millions of dollars worth of contemporary art lining the walls.
Maeve stood in the center of the massive living room, her heavy ivory dress fanning out around her like a silver-and-white waterfall. She held a crystal glass of whiskey in her hand, the amber liquid burning pleasantly down her throat.
Behind her, the private elevator chimed.
Mateo stepped out, having removed his overcoat and suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular, tattoo-covered forearms—intricate, dark Italian line work stretching from his wrists up into his shirt.
He walked over to the bar, poured himself a glass of neat bourbon, and stood beside her, looking out at the grey, stormy horizon of the lake.
"Your mother is currently at the Drake Hotel, surrounded by my private security team," Mateo said quietly. "She is being taken care of. The press has been given a carefully sanitized statement: Brandon Hayes fled the country to avoid federal indictment, and you canceled the wedding."
"And what about Gemma?" Maeve asked, her voice tight.
"Gemma is currently cooperating with the U.S. Attorney’s office," Mateo replied. "She will avoid prison time by testifying against Brandon, but her notary license has been revoked, and her father’s accounting firm is under federal audit."
Maeve took another sip of whiskey. The alcohol helped dull the sharp edge of the adrenaline that had been surging through her veins for twelve straight hours.
"You moved fast," she noted, turning to face him.
"I don't waste time, Maeve," Mateo said, turning his body toward her, his height towering over her, though he made no move to crowd her space. "Especially when dealing with trash like Brandon Hayes."
Maeve looked down at her dress, then up into his striking gray eyes. "So what happens now, Mateo? The spectacle at the cathedral was impressive. But we are standing in your home. I am wearing a wedding dress. And I signed no papers with you today."
Mateo reached into his pocket and pulled out a fountain pen and a single folded sheet of thick parchment paper. He laid it flat on the marble bar.
"This is a formal partnership agreement between Callahan Restoration and the Duca Foundation," Mateo said. "It guarantees a two-million-dollar line of credit directly to your studio. It clears all existing liens on your property. It grants you complete, unchallengeable creative and operational freedom."
Maeve blinked, startled. "And what does it require from me?"
"One year," Mateo said, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. "One year of marriage. Publicly, you are my wife. You attend charity galas with me, you host events at this estate, and you present a united front against my enemies in the city."
"And privately?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.
"Privately," Mateo said, stepping closer, his silver eyes flashing with something deep, dark, and intensely possessive, "you sleep in the master suite. You eat at my table. And you let me protect you from every person in this city who ever made you feel small."
Maeve looked at the paper, then at the man before her. He was dangerous. He was a man who ruled Chicago’s underbelly with an iron fist. But as she looked into his eyes, she saw no deceit. No hidden passive-aggressiveness. No attempts to shrink her down or make her feel like she was taking up too much space.
"I am a size twenty, Mateo," she said suddenly, the words bursting out of her before she could stop them. "I am loud, I am obsessive about my work, and I take up space."
Mateo’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then tracked slowly down the curves of her waist, the swell of her hips in the heavy ivory silk, and back up to her eyes.
"You are a masterpiece, Maeve Callahan," Mateo said, his voice thick with undeniable truth. "And I have never been a man who prefers small, delicate things."
May you like
Maeve held his gaze for three long seconds.
Then she picked up the fountain pen, leaned over the marble bar, and signed her name at the bottom of the parchment.
