Sophie's POV
His eyes, held mine.
"Neither," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt, a low, husky tone. "Just needed a breath of fresh air. The ballroom can be… overwhelming."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"Indeed. Some find the air outside equally stifling. Depending on who you're escaping from."
"Perhaps," I met his gaze, unafraid. "But some find freedom in the shadows."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "An intriguing perspective. I'm Damien Santiago."
"Winter," I responded, offering my fake name.
"Winter," he repeated, a deeper resonance. "I haven't seen you at many of these events. Your absence has been… noted."
"As I told Mr. Romano, I've been abroad. Only recently returned."
"Mr. Romano," he drawled. "He is quite persistent."
"I noticed," I said, a slight, knowing smile. "Some men are."
He chuckled then, a low, rumbling sound. "Indeed. And some women are equally adept at fending them off." His gaze flickered to my lips.
This was my chance. I took a step closer, my hand reaching out, not to touch him, but to brush an imaginary speck from his impeccably tailored suit jacket. My fingers grazed his shoulder. His muscles tensed. His eyes locked onto mine.
"You seem like a man who knows what he wants, Mr. Santiago," I murmured, my voice dropping to a near whisper. My eyes dropped to his lips, then back to his.
He didn't move, but his breath hitched. I leaned in, my lips brushing his, a feather-light touch. He tasted of expensive whiskey and some cigar. His hand came up, cradling the back of my head, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, a slow burn. My fingers tangled in his black hair, pulling him closer still.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, his eyes were still on mine, blazing.
"That," he said, his voice a low growl, "was unexpected."
"Was it?" I challenged softly, a triumphant smirk. I pulled back slightly. As I did, my hand, which had been resting against his chest, subtly slipped a small, folded piece of paper into his inner jacket pocket. My burner phone number.
"Some things are best left to surprise," I added, stepping away completely. "Goodnight, Mr. Santiago."
I turned and walked back into the ballroom. I didn't look back. I knew he would call.
True to form, the call came the next morning. My burner phone buzzed. I let it ring twice, then answered, my voice carefully modulated.
"Winter," his voice, deep and commanding, filled my ear. "You left quite an impression."
"I aim to please," I replied dryly.
"I'd like to see you again. Coffee. Tomorrow. At the Café Bellagio, 10 AM." It wasn't a question.
"I'll be there," I agreed.
The next morning, I disguised myself again. A wig of blonde hair, glasses, a different style of makeup. I wanted to be unrecognizable, even to him.
The Café Bellagio was charming. He was already there, sitting at a corner table. He looked up as I approached. A flicker of something crossed his face.
"Mr. Santiago," I greeted, my voice a little higher, softer.
He stood. "Winter. You look... different."
"I have many faces," I replied, taking the seat opposite him. "It keeps things interesting."
He leaned back, a faint smile. "Indeed. So, Winter. Let's cut to the chase. I don't typically pursue women who leave me with just a number and a lingering taste of mystery. But you... you are different. And I have a proposition."
My heart pounded. "A proposition? I'm listening."
"I need a wife," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "A wife, for a period of two years. To secure my position, to appease my father, to avoid a bloody succession war. A contract, pure and simple. You would play the part, live in my home, attend events, present a united front. In return, you would be compensated handsomely. More than you could imagine."
My breath caught. "A contract marriage," I mused, pretending to consider it.
"An intriguing proposal, Mr. Santiago. But I'm not interested in money."
His sharp grey eyes narrowed. "Everyone is interested in money, Winter. What, then, do you want?"
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "I want something money can't buy, Mr. Santiago. I want protection. Immunity from a very specific set of problems. And I want a fake happy relationship, a convincing façade, for the duration of this contract."
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. "Protection from what, precisely?"
I smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of my lips. "Let's just say, I've recently made some very powerful enemies. Enemies who believe I'm dead. And I have a feeling a rat will eventually catch wind that I'm not."
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of genuine amusement. He understood.
"You're asking for a lot," he said, but with a new note in his voice, a hint of respect.
"And you're offering a lot," I countered. "A wife. A solution to your problems. My discretion, my intelligence, my ability to play a role. It's a fair exchange."
He leaned back, a genuine, albeit small, smile finally gracing his lips. "You truly are different, Wi…"
"No, Sophie." He smirked, I loved that he caught on quickly.
"Alright. I'm intrigued. But a proposition like this requires more than just coffee. It requires... privacy. I have a suite reserved at the Hotel Excelsior. We can discuss the finer details there."
A hotel. Alone with him. The thought sent a jolt of apprehension and a strange excitement through me. "Lead the way, Mr. Santiago."
As we left the café, I saw Marco Millante, Damien's right-hand man, standing near the entrance. He clearly didn't trust me. Good.
The hotel room was luxurious. Damien locked the door behind us, the click echoing loudly. He turned to me, his grey eyes piercing. "So, Sophie. What exactly is it you need protection from? And what exactly is it you're going to reveal that leaves me so amused?"