Chapter 1 - The Proposal That Never Happened
My sister was kissing my fiancé beneath the chandelier when I whispered,
"Take your hands off him."
Roman DeLuca crossed the ballroom carrying a black velvet ring box.
Three letters were engraved beneath it.
C. E. B.
The proposal had never been meant to happen.
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything.
Not the string quartet playing near the windows.
Not the glasses clinking at the champagne tables.
Not the soft conversations of nearly two hundred guests gathered inside the grand ballroom of the Halston Hotel.
I only saw Ethan.
My fiancé.
Or the man who had apparently stopped being mine before anyone bothered telling me.
His left hand was around my sister Ava's waist.
Her fingers were curled against his black suit jacket.
Their faces were still only inches apart when they realized I was standing there.
Ava pulled away first.
"Claire."
My name came from her mouth like an apology she hadn't decided whether she meant.
Ethan's face lost its color.
"Claire, wait."
I stared at him.
Six years.
Six years of birthdays, Christmas mornings, quiet Sunday breakfasts, whispered plans, apartments we had toured, children we had named as jokes before admitting we actually liked the names.
And tonight, according to my mother, was supposed to be the night Ethan DeLuca finally proposed.
Everyone knew.
The flowers.
The orchestra.
The private ballroom.
Even the table cards carried tiny gold initials—E and C.
I looked at Ava.
She was wearing the champagne satin gown I'd helped her choose three days earlier.
"You told me you hated him."
Her lower lip trembled.
"I didn't mean—"
"How long?"
Ethan moved toward me.
I stepped back.
"Don't."
He stopped.
Around us, conversations were dying one by one.
People were watching.
Not ordinary people.
Chicago bankers.
Judges.
Real-estate developers.
Politicians.
Men whose names appeared on buildings and women whose donations could decide which museums survived another decade.
And several people whose wealth never appeared on any public filing.
That was what happened when the Bennett family celebrated with the DeLuca family.
Everyone important came.
My mother appeared beside me.
Margaret Bennett never rushed.
Tonight, she did.
Her fingers closed around my wrist.
"Claire."
I turned toward her.
For one foolish second, I expected her to pull me into her arms.
Instead she leaned close.
Her smile remained perfectly composed for the guests watching us.
"Do not embarrass this family."
I stared at her.
"What?"
"Lower your voice."
"My fiancé was kissing Ava."
"I can see that."
The calmness in her answer hurt more than yelling would have.
"You can see that?"
Her fingers tightened.
"We will handle this privately."
A laugh escaped me.
It didn't sound like mine.
"Ethan was supposed to propose to me tonight."
Mother glanced around the ballroom.
"Which is exactly why you need to control yourself."
Behind her, Ava began crying.
Actually crying.
As though she were the injured one.
Ethan touched her shoulder.
That small gesture finished something inside me.
I looked at my mother.
Then at my sister.
Then at the man I'd planned to marry.
"You're worried I'm going to embarrass the family?"
"Claire—"
"No."
I gently removed my mother's hand.
"I understand."
Her face relaxed slightly.
She thought she'd won.
I smiled.
"I won't embarrass anyone."
Then I turned around.
And nearly walked directly into Roman DeLuca.
The ballroom changed whenever Roman entered a space.
No one announced him.
No one needed to.
At thirty-eight, Ethan's older brother controlled more of Chicago than any newspaper dared print.
DeLuca Construction was legitimate.
DeLuca Maritime was legitimate.
The hotels, warehouses, logistics companies, private security firms and restaurants were legitimate.
What existed underneath those businesses depended on who was telling the story.
Federal investigators called Roman DeLuca an organized-crime figure.
Politicians called him Mr. DeLuca.
People who owed him money called him sir.
And people who betrayed him usually stopped talking about him altogether.
He wore black from collar to shoes.
No tie.
Dark hair brushed back.
A thin line of tattoos disappeared beneath his collar.
One tattoo covered part of the hand holding a small velvet box.
My velvet box.
Or what should have been mine.
Roman looked past me.
At Ethan.
The expression on his face barely changed.
That was somehow worse.
"Ethan."
His brother swallowed.
"Roman, this isn't—"
"Don't insult me by finishing that sentence."
Silence.
Roman looked at Ava.
She lowered her eyes.
Then he turned to me.
"I found this beside the terrace doors."
He offered me the box.
I didn't take it.
"Ethan's?"
"It appears so."
I stared at the letters engraved underneath.
C. E. B.
Claire Elizabeth Bennett.
My initials.
My stomach twisted.
Ethan had brought the ring.
He had planned the proposal.
Then sometime between arriving at the hotel and walking onto the ballroom floor, he'd chosen my sister instead.
"Keep it," I said.
Roman's gaze stayed on me.
"I don't want it."
"I wasn't offering you the ring."
That made me look at him.
Across the ballroom, Ethan took a step forward.
"Roman."
Roman didn't turn.
"Not now."
Two words.
Ethan stopped.
I had never seen anyone shut Ethan down that easily.
My mother approached.
"Roman, I'm sure everyone is emotional. Perhaps we should postpone whatever conversation you're attempting to have."
Roman finally looked at her.
"Margaret."
Her expression tightened.
The way he said my mother's name told me something I hadn't known.
They disliked each other.
Deeply.
Roman returned his attention to me.
"Walk with me."
"No."
The corner of his mouth almost moved.
"Good."
I blinked.
"Good?"
"You shouldn't follow dangerous men merely because they ask."
"Then why ask?"
"To see whether you would."
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
Nearly.
Roman gestured toward the terrace.
"Five minutes. Public balcony. Glass doors remain open. Everyone here can see you."
It was an oddly careful offer from a man rumored to terrify half the city.
"Why?"
His eyes flicked toward Ethan and Ava.
"Because what happened tonight wasn't an accident."
My chest tightened.
"What does that mean?"
"Five minutes."
He walked away.
I should have left.
I should have found my coat, called a car and disappeared before anyone could photograph me crying.
Instead I looked across the ballroom.
Ethan was arguing quietly with Ava.
My mother stood between them.
And the three of them looked less like people shocked by a spontaneous betrayal than people trying to solve a problem.
Their problem was me.
So I followed Roman.
The terrace overlooked the Chicago River, the city glittering beyond the glass.
Roman stopped far enough from me to keep the conversation private without trapping me.
"You knew," I said.
"Not about them."
"But about something."
He placed the velvet ring box on a small table.
"I knew my brother intended to propose."
"That's hardly classified intelligence."
"I also knew your mother insisted the proposal happen tonight."
I frowned.
"My mother?"
"She called Ethan three times this morning."
"How would you know that?"
"Because Ethan uses a company phone."
Of course he did.
"And?"
"And at 6:14 this evening, Ethan told our family attorney the engagement needed to happen before midnight."
A cold sensation moved down my spine.
"Why?"
Roman watched me carefully.
"Do you know what happens to your father's voting shares tomorrow morning?"
I stared at him.
"My father's shares?"
Thomas Bennett had died three years earlier.
Cancer had taken him in eight brutal months.
My mother had handled the estate.
I had received the house he'd bought for me, several investments and what I'd been told was a minority interest in Bennett Holdings.
Nothing unusual.
"I own twelve percent."
"No."
Roman's answer was immediate.
"You own thirty-one."
I laughed once.
"That's impossible."
"It's documented."
"My mother would have told me."
Roman said nothing.
That silence was answer enough.
I stepped closer.
"Why would she lie?"
"Because thirty-one percent makes you the largest individual shareholder."
My breathing slowed.
"And tomorrow?"
"A restriction in your father's trust expires."
"What restriction?"
"You gain direct voting authority."
I stared through the glass at my mother.
She was watching us now.
Roman continued.
"If you married Ethan before the transfer, a marital consolidation agreement prepared by your mother's attorneys would have placed portions of those voting rights into a joint trust."
"I never signed anything."
"You were supposed to tonight."
My head snapped toward him.
"After the proposal."
Roman nodded.
"A celebration document. Something sentimental. Something buried between engagement photographs and champagne."
The humiliation inside me began transforming into something colder.
"Did Ethan know?"
"Yes."
The word cut cleanly.
"Ava?"
"I don't know."
"My mother?"
Roman glanced toward the ballroom.
"You already know."
I did.
I simply didn't want to.
I thought about Mother's grip on my wrist.
Do not embarrass this family.
She hadn't been protecting me.
She'd been protecting the plan.
"So Ethan was going to marry me for my shares."
"Partly."
"And instead he decided he wanted Ava."
"Apparently."
I folded my arms.
"Then their brilliant conspiracy just destroyed itself."
Roman's expression remained unreadable.
"Not necessarily."
"What does that mean?"
"Your mother can still pressure you into signing a revised agreement."
"She can pressure all she wants."
"Good."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep doing things I hoped you would."
My eyes narrowed.
"What do you want from me, Roman?"
For the first time that evening, something changed in his face.
Not softness.
Interest.
"I want to make you an offer."
"No."
"You haven't heard it."
"You're Ethan's brother. I've reached my lifetime limit for DeLuca men tonight."
This time, he actually smiled.
It vanished quickly.
"Marry me."
I stared at him.
Inside the ballroom, someone dropped a glass.
Maybe they'd read his lips.
Maybe the universe had impeccable timing.
I waited for Roman to laugh.
He didn't.
"You've lost your mind."
"Possibly."
"Your brother cheated on me ten minutes ago."
"Technically, you aren't married to him."
"That is your defense?"
"It wasn't intended as one."
I shook my head.
"You cannot be serious."
"I am."
"Why?"
"Because if you marry me, your voting shares remain under your control."
"And you gain what?"
"An alliance."
"With Bennett Holdings?"
"With you."
That answer irritated me because a small part of me reacted to it.
I ignored that part.
"I don't know you."
"You know enough."
"I know people cross streets to avoid you."
"Usually effective."
"I know federal prosecutors have spent years trying to put you in prison."
"They're welcome to keep trying."
"And I know my mother would probably faint."
"That would be a bonus."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
Roman's eyes warmed for half a second.
Then he became serious again.
"This isn't revenge, Claire."
"It certainly sounds like revenge."
"If you want revenge, throw champagne on Ethan and post the video online."
"What you're proposing is considerably more insane."
"Yes."
"Why me?"
Roman reached inside his jacket.
I stiffened.
He noticed.
Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew a folded document.
Not a weapon.
Paper.
He handed it to me.
The first page contained my father's company letterhead.
I recognized it instantly.
My hands began trembling.
"Where did you get this?"
"My father kept it."
"Your father is dead."
"So is yours."
I looked up.
Roman's father, Vittorio DeLuca, had died eighteen months before mine.
"What is this?"
"An agreement our fathers drafted twenty years ago."
I unfolded the remaining pages.
There were references to Bennett Holdings.
DeLuca Enterprises.
Voting trusts.
Protection clauses.
Contingency succession.
My eyes moved faster.
Then stopped.
At the bottom was a signature.
Thomas Bennett.
My father.
But beside his signature was a handwritten sentence.
Not typed.
Written in the slanted blue-black script I'd seen on every birthday card he had ever given me.
If Margaret breaks the agreement, Roman must protect Claire.
I stopped breathing.
"Your father wrote this?"
"Yes."
I looked at Roman.
"What agreement?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead he turned toward the ballroom.
My mother had disappeared.
So had Ethan.
And Ava.
Roman's jaw tightened.
"Claire."
"What?"
"Your mother's leaving."
"Let her."
"Not alone."
I followed his gaze.
Through the far doors, I caught a glimpse of my mother moving quickly down the corridor.
Ava was beside her.
Ethan followed.
And in my mother's hand was a leather folder I recognized from my father's study.
One she had told me was empty.
Roman looked down at the document in my hands.
"There's another page."
I turned it over.
A sealed envelope had been attached to the back.
My name was written across the front.
Claire—only open this if Ethan betrays you.
My heart stopped.
May you like
The handwriting belonged to my father.
And the envelope had been sealed three years before Ethan ever proposed.
