Luca's POV
The sun hadn't yet crested the skyline when Silas entered the penthouse study, his expression grim. "The teams are in position. Every route to the building is covered. The press pool has been vetted, but Viktor's people will be watching. They're always watching."
Luca stood at the window, the city a chessboard in the pale dawn light. The crumpled note from Viktor was gone, destroyed, but its message was etched in the air. The harbor routes. A bold, stupid play. Viktor was getting emotional. And emotional men made mistakes. "Increase the perimeter sweep. I want any unfamiliar faces within two blocks identified. If it smells like Viktor, I want to know before they breathe."
"Yes, sir." Silas hesitated. "The girl. She's quiet. Too quiet."
Elara. The complication. The point of honor. The brave, foolish girl who was currently sleeping, or more likely, lying awake in a room down the hall. He'd seen the terror in her eyes last night, the numb resignation when he'd said he wouldn't trade the routes. But he'd also seen the flash of defiance. Fragile things don't walk into a carnival and kiss a man like me. He'd meant it. Her fragility was a weapon she didn't know how to wield. Yet.
"She'll perform," Luca said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. He had to believe it. The entire strategy hinged on it. "Have the stylist arrive at eight. Use the team we trust. Nothing extravagant. She needs to look…" He searched for the word. "Real. Believable. Not like a trophy."
"Understood." Silas left as silently as he'd arrived.
Luca turned from the window, his gaze landing on the empty chair where she'd sat last night, looking so small. This was the move. The public's definitive move. Viktor had threatened the pawn. So Luca would move his queen and declare check. The press conference wasn't just about selling a story; it was about drawing a line in the sand with Viktor's name on it. Touch her, and you touch me directly. No more shadows.
He knew the risks. It elevated her target value. But it also cemented her under his absolute protection. It was a gamble. But in his experience, the boldest moves often looked like madness until they won the game.
Elara's POV
The stylist arrived exactly at eight. Her name was Chloe, and she was blessedly normal, chatting about the weather as she set up. The dress lay out for her was not emerald and dramatic. It was a soft cream-colored sheath, simple, elegant. "Mr. Conti's instructions," Chloe said, seeing her look. "He said 'understated strength.' Whatever that means."
Understated strength. Was that what he saw? Or was it just the image he wanted to project?
The process was quicker than the gala. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup minimal. She looked like herself, just… amplified. A polished version of the baker. When she looked in the mirror, she didn't see a stranger in a costume. She saw herself, dressed for an execution.
At nine forty-five, a knock. Silas. "It's time."
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She followed him to the living room. Luca was waiting. He was in another impeccable suit, this one charcoal. He looked her over, a swift, assessing glance. A curt nod. "Good." He offered his arm. "Remember. This is a performance. But the emotions are real. You are a woman in love, suddenly thrust into the public eye. You are nervous, but secure in my support. Can you show them that?"
A woman in love. The biggest lie of all. She swallowed, her mouth dry. "I can try."
"Don't try. Do." His gaze was relentless. "Viktor will be watching. The city will be watching. Show them you are not afraid."
But she was. She was terrified.
The ride down in the private elevator was silent. The lobby had been transformed. A small, elegant podium with the Conti Holdings logo was set up. About thirty members of the press were there, along with a handful of cameras. The atmosphere was one of hushed, eager anticipation. Luca Conti never held press conferences about his personal life.
They stepped out of the elevator together. A murmur went through the crowd. The cameras began to click, a storm of white flashes. Luca's hand settled on the small of her back, warm and firm. Anchoring me. Or pushing me forward.
They walked to the podium. Luca stepped up to the microphone. Elara stood slightly behind and to his side, as they'd rehearsed. She kept her eyes on him, her expression what she hoped was a blend of nervous adoration.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice," Luca began, his voice calm, powerful, filling the space without effort. "I've asked you here today to address the speculation and to share some wonderful personal news." He paused, a master of timing. He turned slightly, extending his hand toward her. Her cue.
She took his hand, letting him draw her forward to stand beside him at the mic. The lights were blinding. She could feel hundreds of eyes on her.
"This is Elara," Luca said, and his voice changed. It warmed, just a fraction, just enough to be believable. He looked at her, and for the cameras, his gaze was tender. "My fiancée."
The room erupted in questions. Luca held up a hand for silence. "We've chosen to keep our relationship private until now. Elara's world is… different from the one often portrayed in these pages. She is kind, grounded, and has nothing to do with the cutthroat business that fills my days." He squeezed her hand. A signal. Now.
She looked up at him, forcing her lips into a soft smile. Then she turned to the cameras. Her throat was tight. "Meeting Luca… it was unexpected," she began, her voice shaky but clear. She was using her real nervousness, channeling it into the part. "He's shown me a strength and kindness I didn't know existed. I'm… very happy." She looked back at him, hoping her eyes conveyed love and not sheer terror.
It seemed to work. The cameras ate it up.
Luca took over again, fielding a few pre-approved, soft questions. "Yes, a spring wedding." "No, she won't be taking an executive role." "Her family's bakery is very important to her." He mentioned the bakery deliberately, she knew. Anchoring her to a real, sympathetic story.
It was going perfectly. The performance was flawless.
Then, a voice cut through the polite chatter from the back. A man, not part of the vetted pool. "Mr. Conti! Is it true this sudden engagement is a strategic move following a threat from Viktor Volkov concerning the harbor routes?"
The air left the room. The gentle buzz died. All heads swiveled. Luca's hand on hers tightened imperceptibly, but his face remained a mask of mild confusion. "I'm sorry? I don't respond to baseless gossip or the names of business competitors at a personal announcement."
But the damage was done. The seed was planted. Viktor Volkov. Harbor routes. Threat. The narrative had just been poisoned.
The man, smirking, melted back into the crowd before security could reach him. Viktor's move. A public, brutal counterstrike.
Luca smoothly wrapped up the conference, his tone cooled back to businesslike efficiency. "That's all for today. Thank you."
He guided her away from the podium, his grip on her arm now unmistakably forceful. The cameras still flashed, but the story had changed. They weren't capturing a fairy tale anymore. They were capturing the first crack in the facade.
They were back in the elevator, the doors closing on the chaotic buzz, before he spoke. His voice was a low, dangerous rasp, all pretense of the doting fiancé gone.
"He's not waiting for midnight," Luca said, his eyes like chips of flint. "The game is already on."
The elevator shot upward. Elara leaned against the wall, the "understated strength" draining from her, replaced by a cold, certain dread.
The performance was over.
The war had just begun.
And she was standing right in the middle of the battlefield.