By four-thirty on the last Friday before Christmas, my boss had already survived seventy-two emails, a state senator’s dinner disaster, a penthouse delivery mistake, and a contractor who nearly cost him half a million dollars.
None of that prepared me for what Luca Moretti said next.
“Come home with me tonight—as my girlfriend.”
My name is Emma Hayes, and being Luca Moretti’s executive assistant meant keeping chaos invisible.
I knew which investors needed their egos stroked, which contractors needed threats disguised as polite reminders, and which members of the Moretti family should never be seated beside each other at charity dinners.
I knew Luca drank black coffee before nine and espresso after lunch.
I knew he hated lilies.
I knew he loosened his tie exactly half an inch when he was furious.
What I did not know was why one of the most powerful men in Manhattan suddenly wanted me to pretend I was sleeping with him.
I sat across from his desk, my legal pad forgotten in my hands.
“You want me to be your fake girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“At your family Christmas party.”
“Yes.”
“Tonight.”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly.
“That is generally what tonight means, Emma.”
I stared at him.
“You’re making jokes. This situation is officially worse than I thought.”
Something almost resembling amusement moved across his face.
Almost.
Luca Moretti was thirty-four, six-foot-three, and intimidating enough that grown men regularly revised their opinions when he walked into a room. Moretti Holdings owned luxury residential buildings, commercial developments, hotels, and enough Manhattan property that I sometimes wondered whether Luca secretly collected ZIP codes.
And then there were the rumors.
His grandfather had built the family fortune during an era when businessmen did not always use lawyers to settle disagreements.
His father, Vittorio Moretti, had supposedly been even worse.
Nobody at Moretti Holdings discussed that history.
Nobody had to.
Luca had spent years dragging the company into legitimate business, but old power left long shadows.
And now that man was standing in front of me asking me to attend Christmas dinner as his girlfriend.
“My family has decided it’s time for me to choose someone,” he said.
“For marriage.”
“Yes.”
“And bringing me fixes that?”
“For tonight.”
I swallowed.
“Your family knows I work for you.”
“They know your name.”
“They’ve seen me.”
“My grandmother has seen you twice.”
“Your aunt has called my desk approximately nine hundred times.”
“Forty-three this year.”
I blinked.
“You counted?”
“You did. The spreadsheet was accidentally attached to a calendar invitation.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks.
“That spreadsheet was for internal efficiency analysis.”
“You named one column ‘Aunt Sofia Emergency Level.’”
“You kept scheduling meetings during her calls.”
“You gave her tiramisu requests a category.”
“They required their own category.”
This time Luca actually smiled.
It disappeared quickly.
Then he stepped closer.
“They’ll believe us.”
“How?”
“Because I’m going to tell them you’re the only woman I would ever choose.”
The room suddenly seemed too warm.
There were sentences your boss could say without changing your blood pressure.
Please reschedule the meeting.
Call legal.
Cancel dinner.
You’re the only woman I would ever choose was not one of them.
“That sounds less like fake dating,” I managed, “and more like emotional terrorism.”
“It needs to be convincing.”
“Convincing would be saying we’ve gone out a few times.”
“My grandmother would interrogate you for three hours.”
“And this is better?”
“She’ll interrogate you for two.”
“Wonderful.”
I stood.
“No.”
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Surprise.
People probably did not tell Luca Moretti no very often.
“I’m your employee,” I continued. “There are approximately seven hundred ways this could become inappropriate before appetizers.”
“You can refuse.”
“I just did.”
“And there will be no professional consequences.”
That stopped me.
He said it calmly, without offense or pressure.
I studied him.
“Then why me?”
The question landed differently than the others.
Luca looked toward the windows.
Manhattan glittered beneath a gray December sky. Snow had started falling between the buildings, light enough to disappear against the glass.
“Because I trust you.”
Three words.
Nothing romantic.
Nothing dramatic.
Yet somehow they hit harder than the ridiculous declaration he wanted to make at dinner.
Luca trusted almost nobody.
I had learned that during three years at his side.
I had seen him verify contracts twice, security reports three times, and people forever.
“You could hire someone,” I said.
“My family would discover that before dessert.”
“Take an actual date.”
“I don’t have one.”
“That seems statistically impossible.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t get one.”
“Of course not.”
“I said I don’t have one.”
I sighed.
“What happens if you show up alone?”
His jaw tightened.
“My father announces an engagement.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“To whom?”
“Isabella DeLuca.”
I knew the name.
The DeLucas owned shipping interests, hotels, and several companies that appeared on business pages whenever regulators became curious.
I also knew Luca had canceled three dinners involving Isabella during the past six months.
“You don’t want to marry her.”
“No.”
“Does she want to marry you?”
“I’m not sure that matters to our fathers.”
Something cold entered his voice.
For the first time, this stopped feeling like a strange office favor.
It felt like a trap.
“You’re thirty-four years old.”
“My father is aware.”
“He can’t arrange your marriage.”
“He can create enough pressure that refusing becomes expensive for everyone involved.”
I thought of Luca’s younger brother Julian, whom I had met twice. His grandmother, Elena. His aunt Sofia.
Family.
That was the weakness powerful men rarely admitted to having.
“What kind of pressure?”
Luca looked back at me.
“The kind I don’t want anywhere near you.”
That should have ended the conversation.
Instead, I heard myself ask, “What would I have to do?”
His shoulders eased slightly.
“Attend the party. Stay close to me. Let me handle questions.”
“And pretend we’re in love.”
His eyes held mine.
“Yes.”
My heart did something deeply inconvenient.
I had spent three years pretending Luca Moretti was simply a job.
It had mostly worked.
Mostly.
It was easier when he was behind a desk.
Harder when he rolled up his sleeves.
Much harder when he quietly sent dinner to the office because he noticed I had skipped lunch.
Impossible on the afternoon he sat beside me in an emergency room after I sliced my hand opening a package and refused to leave until the doctor finished stitching it.
Luca was dangerous because he was not cruel.
Cold, yes.
Controlling, absolutely.
But cruelty would have made him easier to resist.
I closed my eyes.
“One night.”
“One night.”
“No kissing.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“That sounded disappointing.”
“It was a boundary.”
“Of course.”
“No grabbing me unexpectedly.”
“Understood.”
“No telling anyone we’re engaged.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Your face says you were considering it.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face has an entire vocabulary. Most of it threatening.”
His mouth twitched.
“One night, Emma.”
I exhaled.
“Fine.”
At six-fifteen, I discovered Luca’s definition of preparing for one night included having a garment bag delivered to my office.
“No.”
He looked up from his phone.
“You haven’t opened it.”
“It could contain the Hope Diamond. Still no.”
“You need a dress.”
“I own dresses.”
“You came to work expecting to go home.”
“I own dresses at home.”
“We don’t have time to cross Manhattan twice.”
I unzipped the bag.
Ivory silk slipped between my fingers.
The gown was elegant rather than flashy, with a softly draped back and delicate straps.
I checked the tag.
Then immediately zipped the bag closed.
“Absolutely not.”
“What now?”
“This costs more than my first car.”
“You’re attending a Moretti Christmas party.”
“As your fake girlfriend, not a museum exhibit.”
“You need to look like you belong beside me.”
The words stung before I could stop them.
He noticed.
Luca noticed everything.
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
He stood.
“What I meant was they will examine every detail because they’ll be looking for evidence that this is false. The dress is armor.”
I looked at the garment bag.
“Expensive armor.”
“The Morettis specialize in it.”
Forty-five minutes later, I stepped out of the executive bathroom and immediately regretted every decision that had brought me there.
My hair, usually pinned into a practical knot, fell in loose waves over my shoulders. I had removed my glasses for contacts. The ivory gown fit as if someone had taken measurements while I slept.
Luca was waiting near the windows.
He turned.
Then stopped.
For once in three years, Luca Moretti had absolutely nothing to say.
I tried to laugh.
“That bad?”
His gaze moved slowly over me before returning to my eyes.
“No.”
One word.
Low.
Rough.
Something tightened inside my chest.
He walked toward me.
He had changed too.
Black suit. Black shirt. No tie.
A deep red pocket square provided the only color.
The top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing the edge of ink across his chest. I had seen tattoos on his forearms before, but tonight he looked less like the CEO photographed in business magazines and more like the man whispered about behind closed doors.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
Not convincing.
Not appropriate for the role.
Beautiful.
My fingers tightened around my clutch.
“Thank you.”
He offered his arm.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I stared at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“Nobody intelligent is ready for my family.”
The drive to Westchester took just over an hour through snow.
Luca’s family estate appeared behind iron gates decorated with evergreen garlands and thousands of warm lights.
It looked like Christmas had married organized crime.
I whispered that accidentally.
Luca heard me.
His laugh filled the back seat.
I stared at him.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“Do what?”
“Laugh.”
“I’ll notify HR that you witnessed it.”
Then the car stopped.
His expression changed instantly.
Businessman.
Moretti.
Untouchable.
Except his hand reached for mine.
“Emma.”
I looked down.
His fingers were warm around mine.
“If anyone makes you uncomfortable, tell me.”
“I can handle questions.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Something about his voice made me look at him.
“No one gets to disrespect you because I asked you to help me.”
The door opened.
Cold air rushed inside.
And suddenly we were walking toward a mansion filled with people who believed power was inherited.
The foyer alone could have swallowed my apartment.
A twenty-foot Christmas tree stood beneath a crystal chandelier. Red roses, evergreen garlands, and candles covered almost every surface. Somewhere deeper inside, a string quartet played Christmas music.
Conversation faded as we entered.
Dozens of faces turned toward us.
Luca placed his hand at the small of my back.
My entire body noticed.
An elderly woman in emerald velvet approached first.
Elena Moretti.
Luca’s grandmother.
She looked at me.
Then at Luca.
Then at his hand on my back.
“Finally,” she said.
I blinked.
Luca sighed.
“Hello, Nonna.”
Elena ignored him.
She took both my hands.
“Emma Hayes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’ve heard about you for three years.”
I glanced at Luca.
“Apparently I’m behind on family intelligence.”
“You’re prettier than he described.”
“Nonna.”
“And nervous.”
“I’m attending Christmas with a family I mostly know through calendar conflicts.”
Elena smiled.
“Oh, I like her.”
A tall man approached from across the room.
I knew immediately who he was.
Vittorio Moretti.
Luca’s father.
He was older, silver at his temples, but the resemblance was unmistakable.
His gaze landed on me without warmth.
“Emma.”
“Mr. Moretti.”
His eyes shifted to his son.
“I thought we agreed you would come alone.”
“We didn’t agree.”
“Isabella is here.”
“I know.”
Vittorio’s voice dropped.
“This isn’t the place.”
“No,” Luca said. “It’s exactly the place.”
He drew me closer.
Every conversation around us seemed to stop.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Luca looked directly at his father.
“I won’t marry Isabella.”
Vittorio’s face hardened.
“Then who exactly do you intend to marry?”
I turned toward Luca.
This was not part of our agreement.
His hand tightened around mine.
Then he looked at me.
Not at the room.
Not at his father.
At me.
And for one terrifying second, nothing in his expression looked fake.
“Emma is the only woman I would ever choose.”
Silence swallowed the mansion.
Then a woman behind us dropped her champagne glass.
I turned.
A breathtaking brunette in a red gown stood beside the Christmas tree.
Her face had gone white.
Isabella DeLuca.
But she wasn’t looking at me.
She was staring at Luca’s father.
And when she spoke, her voice shook.
“Then you’d better tell him the truth, Vittorio.”
Luca went completely still.
Isabella swallowed.
“Tell your son what you promised my father would happen if he refused to marry me.”
And suddenly I understood.
I had not been brought to a Christmas party.
I had walked straight into a family war.