Chapter 3 - Rules of Engagement
The following morning dawned gray and heavy, the sky weeping a cold autumn drizzle against the massive glass windows of the penthouse.
When I entered the sprawling, minimalist dining room, wearing a simple navy dress I had owned since my pre-marriage days, Tiberio was already hard at work. He sat at the far end of a twenty-foot walnut dining table, a cup of pitch-black espresso beside his right hand, a high-end tablet open, and three sleek monitors displaying live stock tickers, site reports, and structural engineering schematics.
He had changed into a fresh white dress shirt, the sleeves neatly buttoned at his wrists, his platinum hair combed back with military precision. Not a single trace of exhaustion betrayed the fact that we had been awake until dawn discussing the destruction of my father.
As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I noticed something else: his chair was positioned at an exact forty-five-degree angle from the doorway. He could see both the main entrance of the dining room and the private elevator foyer without turning his head. He refused to sit with his back exposed, even inside his own heavily guarded fortress.
Without looking up from his screens, Tiberio slid a heavy leather folder across the polished wood toward me.
I opened it. Inside were black Amex cards bearing my name, property deeds, vehicle registrations, corporate insurance papers, and a comprehensive security protocol.
I flipped through the pages, my eyebrows rising. “Four armed bodyguards trailing me to my bridal shop in Brooklyn? I don't think so, Tiberio.”
He took a slow sip of his espresso, his gray eyes finally lifting to meet mine. “Two.”
“Zero,” I countered firmly.
“One,” he bartered, his voice dropping into an unyielding tone. “Waiting across the street inside an unmarked vehicle. Absolutely non-negotiable, Brena. Grant Walsh has desperate friends, and desperate men do stupid things.”
I stared him down for five long seconds. I knew better than to push a mafia boss past his absolute limits on day one of our sham marriage, but I also refused to be treated like a helpless porcelain doll.
“Across the street,” I agreed finally. “And they better not interfere with my deliveries or frighten my elderly tailor, Mr. Geller.”
Tiberio gave a single, curt nod. “Done.”
Later that afternoon, I stormed into his private home office while he was reviewing stress-test calculations for a high-rise foundation in downtown Manhattan.
“You’re canceling the Holston Grand Hospital Foundation Gala in three days,” I stated, leaning my hands flat against his heavy mahogany desk.
Tiberio didn't flinch. He slowly lowered his digital stylus and looked up at me. “It’s a public gathering filled with wealthy socialites, reporters, and your father's inner circle. It is an unnecessary risk while we are still solidifying our public narrative.”
“If we pull out now, the gossip columns will smell blood in the water within twenty-four hours,” I argued, leaning closer, my hazel-green eyes flashing. “They’ll assume our sudden marriage is a sham, or that you’re locking me away like a prisoner. If you want my father to truly believe I chose you willingly, and if you want the high-society world to accept us, we need to walk into that ballroom arm-in-arm while the wedding cake is still fresh in everyone's minds.”
Tiberio studied me. The silence in the room stretched so long I could hear the faint hum of the server racks in the corner.
A slow, dangerous smile touched the corner of his hard mouth. “You are disturbingly good at social warfare, Brena.”
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“I run a high-end bridal studio for wealthy women who spend thousands of dollars on dresses just to survive rooms full of judgmental snobs,” I retorted, straightening up. “Deception and public presentation are my daily bread-and-butter.”
He leaned back in his leather executive chair, watching me with a look that was equal parts respect and suspicion. “Restore the RSVP. We’re going.”
