Chapter 1
Ayla Morris hated galas.
She hated expensive dresses she could not afford and conversations described as networking that were usually only opportunities for successful people to display what they possessed and provoke envy in those who had less.
More than anything, she hated humiliation.
On the night of the charity gala at the Plaza Hotel, surrounded by colleagues who pretended to be friends, she believed she was walking into the worst evening of her life.
Before leaving her apartment, she stood in her small bedroom staring at the simple black dress hanging from the closet door while her phone vibrated in her hand.
Kitty’s name appeared on the screen.
Ayla answered immediately. Kitty was the only person who knew her completely.
“I do not want to go, Kit.”
The desperation in her voice was stronger than she intended.
“A charity gala is only a parade of inflated egos and handbags that cost more than my car.”
Kitty laughed from the other end of the call, warm and familiar, although the sound did little to ease the pressure in Ayla’s chest.
“Jean forced you, did he not?”
“He practically subpoenaed me. Mandatory attendance, dress well, represent the company.”
Ayla crossed the room and picked up the most presentable handbag she owned.
“My version of dressing well is a T.J. Maxx dress from last year. Their version is Chanel directly from Paris.”
“Ayla Morris, you look beautiful in anything.”
Kitty spoke with the certainty of a nurse accustomed to stubborn patients.
“If anyone insults you, I will leave this shift and come there personally.”
“You are working at the hospital. We both know you cannot leave.”
Ayla laughed, although the sound came out strained.
“I will call if I need you.”
Behind Kitty’s voice were the recognizable sounds of the hospital: machines, subdued conversations, and movement through hallways.
“Ayla, listen to me.”
Kitty’s tone became serious.
“Be careful around Mabel. She is a snake pretending to be a friend, and you know it.”
“I know. She pretends so well that sometimes I convince myself it might be real.”
“She wants to use you. You are talented, beautiful, and genuine. She has nothing genuine, and that eats away at her.”
Kitty paused.
“Promise you will be careful.”
“I promise.”
Ayla looked at her reflection while holding the dress against herself.
“Now go save lives. I love you.”
“I love you too. You are going to be extraordinary tonight, even if the only purpose is proving you are better than all of them together.”
After the call ended, Ayla stood alone in the center of her apartment, holding a dress that felt too inexpensive for an event that already seemed hostile.
Two hours later, she entered the Plaza Hotel.
The ballroom’s display of wealth struck her immediately. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and immense arrangements of imported flowers filled the room with a fragrance that seemed almost aggressive in its expense.
Against that setting, her black dress appeared even simpler.
She resisted the urge to turn around.
Her colleagues had gathered near the bar. Their clothing was clearly designer, their jewelry authentic and costly, and their makeup professionally applied. Even the way they held champagne glasses appeared rehearsed.
Mabel Laurent noticed Ayla first.
The smile she offered was so false that Ayla could almost feel the bitterness beneath it.
“Ayla, I am so pleased you came.”
Mabel approached slowly and examined her from head to toe.
“What an unusual dress. Is it vintage, or perhaps from a thrift store?”
“It is from last year.”
Ayla kept her voice steady.
“I like it.”
A platinum-haired colleague laughed sharply.
“Last year? Mabel wears something new every week. Imagine repeating a dress.”
Another woman lifted a wrist covered in bracelets.
“And no jewelry? Not even an inexpensive necklace from Walmart?”
“I do not care much for jewelry. I prefer simplicity.”
“Of course.”
Mabel’s false sympathy deepened.
“You have always preferred simple things. It is almost charming in a rustic way. A small-town style that certain people can carry.”
She tilted her head.
“You almost manage it.”
Ayla heard the cruelty beneath every word but said nothing. Challenging Mabel inside the ballroom would only create a larger scene.
She excused herself and walked toward the bar, needing a glass in her hand to conceal the trembling in her fingers.
Jean Dubois appeared beside her before she had finished reaching for the champagne.
She recognized him from his expensive, unpleasant cologne.
“Ayla, you came.”
His voice carried disappointed surprise.
“Yes.”
He examined her clothes and shook his head faintly.
“I expected more effort. This is an elite event, and appearance matters more than you seem to understand.”
His gaze moved over the dress again.
“People judge. You are presenting a very simple image of our company.”
The humiliation burned through her chest.
“I understand, Mr. Dubois.”
“Good.”
He gave her a condescending smile.
“Circulate. Establish contacts. Demonstrate that you know how to behave in society. That is why you are here.”
He walked away and left her standing at the bar, wishing she could disappear.
Across the ballroom, Matteo Cipriani was engaged in a business discussion that should have held his attention.
He had attended only because his position required a public appearance. He would have preferred to be almost anywhere else.
While 2 businessmen discussed details with him, movement near the bar attracted his notice.
At first, the observation was casual.
Then he recognized the woman.
The brown hair falling loosely over her shoulders, the delicate way she moved, and the manner in which she attempted to occupy as little space as possible brought back a memory from 3 weeks earlier.
On an ordinary Monday morning, Matteo had stopped at a downtown café before an important meeting. While waiting for espresso, he watched a young woman stop to assist an elderly lady struggling with several heavy bags.
The woman spoke patiently, smiled without calculation, and offered help despite appearing late for work herself. She asked whether the lady needed transportation and offered her telephone number in case further assistance became necessary.
In Matteo’s world, almost every interaction involved strategy, payment, fear, or advantage.
The kindness had been genuine.
He had remembered it.
Now the same woman stood inside the ballroom wearing a dress that was not designer and no conspicuous jewelry. Even so, her natural beauty exceeded that of women who had spent considerable sums attempting to create the same effect.
Something in the scene was wrong.
Her posture indicated discomfort, and a group was forming around her with the unmistakable preparation for public cruelty.
“Boss, are you listening?”
Kyle Torres, Matteo’s capo and right-hand man, interrupted his thoughts.
Matteo did not look away from Ayla.
“Who are those women near the bar?”
Kyle followed his gaze.
“Laurent Inc., a luxury-marketing company, unless I am mistaken. Why?”
“Because they are about to do something extremely foolish.”
Matteo watched Ayla’s body tighten.
“I do not tolerate gratuitous cruelty, particularly when it is public and directed toward someone innocent.”
Kyle recognized the tone and the tension in Matteo’s shoulders.
“Where are we going?”
“To intervene.”
As Matteo began crossing the ballroom, Mabel raised her voice.
“Did everyone see the dress?”
The volume was deliberate.
“It looks like something from a street fair. T.J. Maxx may be a generous assumption. Perhaps it came from a church bazaar.”
Laughter spread through the group.
“She did not even style her hair properly,” another colleague added. “She looks as though she came from a farm. No effort, no class, and no understanding of an event like this.”
“She does not belong here,” the platinum-haired woman said. “It is like bringing someone from a swap meet to a gala. The rest of us are expected to pretend she represents the team.”
Mabel saw Ayla standing close enough to hear and arranged her expression into false surprise.
“Ayla, we did not notice you.”
She paused theatrically.
“We were discussing different styles. Yours is unique. It has the quality of a small-town girl arriving in the city before she learns how to dress.”
The others laughed.
“Everyone remains at her natural level,” Mabel continued. “Yours is almost folkloric.”
“The trees in the park probably appreciate the rustic quality,” another woman added.
Tears burned behind Ayla’s eyes.
She turned toward the exit.
Mabel delivered the final blow behind her.
“She has always been inappropriate for our social group. She can be sweet, but she lacks refinement. It is not her fault. Some people are born to be basic.”
The group laughed again.
Ayla felt something break inside her.
She had almost reached the exit when the atmosphere changed.
A current of focused energy seemed to move across the ballroom. Conversations quieted, people shifted, and a pathway opened.
Even with her back turned, Ayla felt the presence approaching.
Matteo crossed the room with the calm certainty of a predator fully aware of his power. Guests moved aside instinctively. Kyle followed several steps behind, wearing the faintly entertained expression of a man expecting to witness something memorable.
The laughter stopped as Matteo reached the group.
Mabel saw him and immediately lost color.
Everyone present knew who Matteo Cipriani was and understood the combination of wealth, influence, and danger attached to his name.
He did not look at Mabel first.
His attention remained fixed upon Ayla.
“Amore mio, I have been searching everywhere for you.”
Ayla turned so quickly that she nearly lost her balance.
The man before her was the most beautiful and dangerous person she had ever seen. His dark eyes seemed capable of looking through her. His black hair was perfectly arranged, his jaw sharply defined, and his suit probably cost more than 6 months of her salary.
“Excuse me?”
The question emerged weakly.
Matteo took her hand with a gentleness that contradicted the intensity of his gaze. He brought it to his mouth and kissed the back with deliberate reverence.
“You disappeared, and I became concerned.”
Then he turned toward the women.
The gentleman vanished from his expression and was replaced by something cold.
“Who are you?”
His voice remained low.
“Are you the people who were troubling my wife?”
Silence settled through the ballroom.
Ayla stared at him.
He had called her his wife before hundreds of people, and she did not know him.
Mabel appeared close to fainting.
“Your wife?”
Her voice trembled.
“Matteo Cipriani has a wife? Since when?”
Matteo placed an arm around Ayla’s waist and drew her close.
“Yes. Ayla is my wife. She always has been.”
His attention returned to Mabel.
“And you are?”
Mabel began shaking.
“I did not know. None of us knew she was married to you. Please accept our apologies. We were only joking.”
“Joking.”
The word sounded like a warning.
“An interesting description for deliberate humiliation and systematic cruelty.”
He moved forward, and the women moved back.
“You mocked her clothing, called her unsophisticated and basic, and laughed because she did not wear expensive jewelry.”
His gaze hardened.
“You treated her existence inside a room you considered exclusively yours as an offense.”
The platinum-haired woman had begun crying.
“Mr. Cipriani, we never would have behaved that way if we had known who she was.”
Matteo smiled without warmth.
“So your cruelty depends upon the victim’s perceived importance.”
He paused.
“That makes the conduct worse.”
Another woman’s hand shook so violently that her glass fell.
“Please, sir. We are sorry.”
“You publicly humiliated my wife. That was a serious mistake, and serious mistakes produce consequences.”
Matteo turned to Ayla.
The coldness disappeared from his face.
“Amore, are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
Ayla could barely understand the scene.
“Not physically.”
He nodded once, then looked back at the group.
“Leave. All of you.”
His voice was final.
“If I hear another word about my wife from any of you, you will regret learning what the consequences are. I do not make empty threats.”
They fled with such haste that several nearly stumbled in their heels.
The rest of the ballroom remained silent.
When the women were gone, Ayla stepped away from Matteo.
“What did you just do?”
Her voice came out louder than intended.
“We do not know each other. Why did you call me your wife?”
He smiled, beautiful and dangerous at once.
“I prevented the humiliation from continuing.”
“You called me your wife.”
“It was the only statement certain to stop them immediately.”
He moved half a step closer.
“I have seen you before, Ayla.”
She stared at him.
“Three weeks ago, inside a café. You wore a light-blue dress, your hair was pinned up, and you stopped to help an elderly woman with her bags.”
Ayla remembered the morning.
“You noticed that?”
“I remember everything about you from that moment.”
His intensity disrupted her breathing.
“When I saw the same woman being attacked tonight, I could not remain where I was.”
He offered his arm.
“Now everyone believes we are married. We should dance and provide the audience with a convincing performance.”
“You are completely insane.”
“Completely.”
He guided her toward the dance floor.
May you like
His hand settled at her waist, and the contact sent a sharp reaction through her body.
“You are fascinated,” he said. “You may admit it.”
