**“You really think a man like Elias would stand beside a woman like you?” Celeste sneered—then Elias appeared behind her and calmly asked, “Would you like to say that again?”**

The words lingered in the quiet air like a chime struck in an empty vault.

To the high-society crowd surrounding them, respect from Elias Vescari was a currency far rarer than money. He gave contracts; he gave professional courtesy; he gave cold, efficient instructions. He did not give personal respect—certainly not publicly, and certainly not to a private consultant hired for a three-week contract.

Nora felt her heart give a heavy, unbidden thud against her ribs.

Three weeks earlier, her agency had sent her to the Vescari estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. Her mission had been straightforward: train Elias to deliver a five-minute toast at his mother Eleanor’s upcoming third wedding. Eleanor Vescari was a warm, fragile woman who desperately wanted her formidable son to sound human, rather than like a corporate raider reading a quarterly balance sheet.

On her first morning at the estate, Nora had sat across from Elias in his dark walnut study.

He had sat behind a massive leather desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his grey eyes piercing her like an interrogation light.

"I have six minutes," Elias had told her coldly, checking his watch. "Tell me what gestures I need to make so my mother stops crying during her dinners."

Nora had looked at him—at the tense, defensive set of his heavy shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, and the absolute isolation that surrounded him like an iron shell.

She had closed her leather notebook, laid her fountain pen down on the desk, and looked him straight in the eye.

"You don't have a communication problem, Mr. Vescari," Nora had said smoothly.

Elias had raised an eyebrow, his tone dangerous. "Is that so?"

"Yes," Nora had replied, her voice calm and completely unfazed by his height or his power. "You have a feelings problem."

Silence had gripped the study for five long seconds. Elias had leaned forward, his massive hands planting flat on the mahogany desk, his posture threatening.

"What makes you think you know me?" he had asked, his voice a low warning.