Chapter 2 - The Logic of a Trap
Matteo walked over to the mahogany wardrobe, pulled out a dark silk dressing gown, and slipped it over his shoulders with practiced ease.
“You passed out on the east terrace steps at 2:30 AM,” he said, turning back to face her. “My head of security, Marco, found you slumped over your clipboard with your shoes off. He was going to have two of the housekeepers carry you up to the staff quarters, but the third-floor elevator was shut down for maintenance overnight.”
Emma rubbed her temples, the foggy memories of the previous night slowly returning. She remembered the blinding migraine. She remembered the sheer physical exhaustion of working twenty-hour shifts for four straight days. She remembered sitting on the cold stone steps to catch her breath for five minutes... and then nothing.
“So Marco brought me here?” she asked incredulously.
“Marco brought you to the nearest available bedroom on the main floor,” Matteo corrected smoothly. “Which happens to be my guest annex. I came in at 3:00 AM after finishing international calls, saw someone asleep under the duvet, assumed it was one of my cousins who had too much Scotch, and slept on the other side of the bed.”
“And you didn't check who it was?”
“I was exhausted, Miss Collins. I don't typically audit the occupants of my bed at three in the morning when I'm in my own house.”
Emma pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “Fine. That explains the accident. It does not explain why you just dismantled my life in front of your mother and Bianca Caruso!”
Matteo walked over to the small sitting area near the balcony glass, pouring himself a glass of still water from a crystal carafe. He took a slow sip, his dark eyes fixed on her over the rim.
“Bianca Caruso’s father has been attempting to force a merger between our holdings for eighteen months,” Matteo explained, his tone dropping into the cold, calculated cadence of a CEO. “He holds three key maritime transport licenses in the Port of Chicago that I require for my logistics expansion. Donato Caruso made it clear that those licenses would only be transferred as part of a marital dowry between myself and Bianca.”
“So you’re using me as an escape hatch,” Emma said, her eyes narrowing.
“I am using an unexpected opportunity to protect my independence,” Matteo refined politely. “My mother has been pressuring me to accept the Caruso arrangement because she believed I was alone and vulnerable to political isolation. If I simply refused Bianca, Donato would take his licenses to my rivals. But if I am already bound to another woman—a woman my mother immediately adores—Donato cannot declare war without appearing culturally offensive to the entire regional council.”
Emma let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “That is your problem, Mr. Romano! Not mine! I am a freelance event manager! I have a contract with your foundation that expires on Tuesday! I have a small apartment in Lincoln Park, a cat, and a career to protect!”
“And how long do you think your career will last once Bianca Caruso leaves this estate?” Matteo asked softly.
Emma stopped.
Matteo took a step closer to the bed, his presence instantly dominating the space. “Bianca is an extraordinarily petty woman from an immensely powerful family. If you walk out of here today and tell my mother it was a mistake—that you were just a tired worker who crawled into the wrong bed—Bianca will not see you as innocent. She will see you as a woman who humiliated her in public.”
He leaned down slightly, resting his hands on the carved wooden footboard of the bed.
“By noon tomorrow, every event agency, venue, and high-net-worth client in the Tri-State area will drop your firm. You will be blacklisted from every luxury contract in Chicago. Donato Caruso will make sure you cannot book a venue to host a ten-year-old's birthday party.”
Emma felt a cold pit drop into her stomach. She knew he wasn't exaggerating. She had seen high-society families crush small contractors over far less. A disrespected heiress could destroy a freelancer's reputation with two phone calls.
“You trapped me,” Emma whispered, her voice trembling with genuine anger.
“I offered you a shield,” Matteo countered softly. “And in exchange, I am offering you financial security.”
“I don't want your money!”
“Everyone wants money, Miss Collins. But more importantly, you want survival.” Matteo straightened his posture, checking his watch. “Play the role of my fiancée for six months. Attend four key public dinners. Allow my legal team to draft a private, non-disclosure cohabitation agreement. At the end of six months, we will announce a quiet, amicable separation due to 'incompatible career trajectories.'”
He pulled a thin leather notebook from his robe pocket, uncapped a fountain pen, and wrote down a figure on a fresh page. He turned the book around and held it out to her.
Emma looked at the paper.
The number had six zeroes behind it.
“Five hundred thousand dollars now,” Matteo said calmly. “And another five hundred thousand upon the execution of the public breakup. Plus, my holding company will grant your event agency an exclusive five-year vendor contract for all Romano corporate galas worldwide.”
Emma stared at the paper. One million dollars. It was more money than she had earned in her entire professional life. It meant paying off her mother’s medical debts, buying out her agency partner, and securing absolute financial freedom.
“And what happens when your mother finds out it’s a lie?” Emma asked, her voice quiet.
A faint shadow passed over Matteo’s face—so fast Emma almost missed it.
“My mother will be disappointed,” he said softly. “But she will survive. Right now, she needs to see that I am not entirely consumed by my father’s legacy.”
He held out the pen to her.
“Breakfast is in fifteen minutes, Miss Collins. Do we walk down those stairs together as a couple, or do you walk out the front door alone into Bianca Caruso’s crosshairs?”
May you like
Emma looked from the pen to his dark, unreadable eyes. She felt like a chess piece that had been moved into a double-check without her consent.
She snatched the pen from his hand.
