Chapter 1 - ELEVEN MINUTES MARRIED
The first thing my husband said to me after the cathedral doors closed was:
“Tonight, you finally learn what your family cost mine.”
Roman DeLuca did not whisper it like a lover.
He spoke like a judge delivering a sentence.
Snow drifted over downtown Chicago while photographers shouted our names from behind velvet ropes. Black sedans lined the curb. Men in dark coats watched from beneath the stone arches.
And beside me stood the man half the city feared.
My husband.
For exactly eleven minutes.
I looked up through my veil.
Roman was thirty-three, dark-haired, tall, perfectly controlled.
That control was what made him frightening.
Angry men could make mistakes.
Roman seemed incapable of them.
His hatred for my father had been developing for six months.
Six months since Nicholas DeLuca died during a warehouse operation tied to Charles Whitmore.
Six months since my father’s transportation empire had begun collapsing under investigations, canceled contracts and Roman’s relentless pressure.
Six months since Roman reportedly told one of Charles’s attorneys:
“I’m going to take everything he thinks belongs to him.”
My father’s solution had been me.
Three weeks before the wedding, Charles summoned me to his study.
A contract waited on his desk.
“What is this?”
“Your future.”
It contained marriage terms, corporate voting rights and transfer provisions affecting several Whitmore transportation companies.
Roman’s name appeared beside mine.
“You offered me to him?”
“Don’t be theatrical.”
“He hates us.”
“He hates me.”
“That is not better.”
Charles poured bourbon.
“You will marry him.”
“No.”
His glass touched the desk.
Quietly.
That was always when I became most careful.
“You misunderstand your position.”
“I’m your daughter.”
“You’re an asset.”
I should have been devastated.
Instead, I felt strangely relieved.
Sometimes the cruelest sentence is the one that finally confirms what you have spent years pretending not to know.
“What about Olivia?”
My father’s eyes changed.
My nineteen-year-old sister was in her second year of college.
She knew Charles was controlling.
She did not know everything else.
I had worked hard to keep it that way.
“Olivia remains here,” Charles said.
My stomach tightened.
He smiled slightly.
“Marry DeLuca. Behave yourself. Your sister finishes school without becoming part of this mess.”
“You’re threatening her.”
“I’m explaining consequences.”
I signed.
Now, three weeks later, Roman guided me through the reception ballroom as though we were performing a dance rehearsed by two enemy governments.
Crystal chandeliers.
White roses.
Champagne.
Three hundred guests pretending this was romantic.
Charles looked happier than anyone.
That disturbed me most.
He posed between Roman and me for photographs.
“My two favorite people,” he joked.
Roman’s hand tightened around mine.
My father either did not notice or enjoyed it.
Across the ballroom, Olivia watched me.
She looked beautiful in pale blue.
And scared.
I started toward her.
Charles intercepted me.
“Where are you going?”
“To my sister.”
“Later.”
“She looks upset.”
“So?”
I tried to move past.
His fingers closed around my wrist.
Pain shot beneath the lace.
My breath caught.
Charles leaned closer without changing his smile for the photographers.
“Stop embarrassing me.”
“Let go.”
“You signed the agreement.”
“That doesn’t mean you own me.”
His grip tightened.
“Smile. You’re still useful to me.”
I pulled sharply away.
The tiny pearl fastening at my wrist snapped.
My sleeve slid backward.
Only several inches.
Enough.
I covered my arm immediately.
Too late.
Roman had seen it.
For the first time all day, his expression lost its calculated coldness.
His eyes dropped to my forearm.
Faded marks crossed the skin.
Some years old.
One bruise was not.
Roman looked at me.
Then at Charles.
“Who did that?”
My father gave a small laugh.
“She bruises easily.”
Roman did not move.
Charles lifted his champagne.
“She’s always been dramatic.”
I felt Olivia arrive behind me.
Not beside Charles.
Behind me.
The movement was automatic.
Protective.
Familiar.
Roman noticed.
His eyes returned to my wrist.
“Evelyn.”
I hated how gently he said my name.
Cruelty I understood.
Gentleness made me dangerous to myself.
“Who?”
I looked at my father.
“My father.”
The reception continued around us for several seconds before people realized something had changed.
Roman stepped between Charles and me.
Charles’s smile vanished.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Roman’s voice stayed low.
“You put those marks on her?”
“This is family business.”
Roman stared at him.
I almost laughed.
Charles had spent my entire life using those three words like diplomatic immunity.
Family business.
Locked doors were family business.
Broken lamps were family business.
A fourteen-year-old girl wearing long sleeves in August was family business.
Roman glanced at Olivia.
“Does he touch her too?”
“No.”
My answer came too fast.
Charles smiled.
Roman heard the lie.
Olivia looked at the floor.
Roman’s jaw shifted.
“Olivia?”
“Don’t involve her,” I said.
Charles stepped forward.
“You have no idea what she’s like.”
Roman turned slowly.
“Careful.”
My father actually scoffed.
“You married her to destroy me, DeLuca. Don’t suddenly pretend she’s precious.”
That sentence landed harder than Charles intended.
Because it was true.
Roman had married me as punishment.
He looked at me.
I watched him remember it.
For one terrible second, shame crossed his face.
Then it disappeared beneath control.
He signaled one of his men.
A broad-shouldered security chief named Luca Marino approached.
“Clear the private suite upstairs,” Roman said.
Charles laughed.
“The reception isn’t finished.”
“It is for them.”
“Them?”
“Evelyn and Olivia.”
My father’s face hardened.
“Olivia stays with me.”
I felt her fingers close around mine.
Roman saw that too.
“No,” he said.
Just one word.
Charles moved closer.
“You received exactly what the contract promised. Don’t mistake that for authority over the rest of my family.”
Roman’s eyes went flat.
“I think we’re about to discuss exactly what that contract gave me.”
He escorted us upstairs himself.
Inside the hotel suite, Olivia broke.
The second the door closed, she wrapped both arms around me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Marry him.”
Roman was standing near the window.
He turned.
I looked at Olivia.
She was crying.
“Dad told me.”
My stomach dropped.
“Told you what?”
“That if you backed out, I had to take your place.”
Everything inside me went cold.
“What?”
Olivia nodded miserably.
“He said Roman wanted a Whitmore daughter and it didn’t matter which one.”
Roman went completely still.
“I never said that.”
Olivia looked at him.
“Dad said you did.”
Roman’s face became frighteningly calm.
“No.”
He crossed the room and picked up his phone.
“Luca.”
A pause.
“Lock down every copy of the marriage agreement.”
He looked directly at me.
“And get my attorney here.”
I thought the scars had changed the evening.
I was wrong.
The real change came ten minutes later when Roman’s attorney arrived, opened the contract my father had prepared, and found a rider Roman had never seen.
A rider that named Olivia Whitmore as a substitute bride if I failed to perform.
Roman read it twice.
Then he looked at me.
“I didn’t write this.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because my father did.”
Roman stared toward the ballroom below.
For six months he had believed Charles Whitmore was protecting his daughter by sacrificing her.
May you like
Now he understood something much uglier.
My father had been willing to sacrifice either one of us.
