Chapter 1

Eleanor's POV

The crystal chandelier cast golden light across the private auction hall, its brilliance reflecting off the polished marble floors and expensive jewelry adorning the elite guests.

I smoothed my black silk evening gown and took another sip of champagne, savoring the bubbles on my tongue as I tried to calm my nerves.

I had just stepped into the rest area when I felt it—that familiar prickle at the back of my neck that meant predatory eyes were watching me. My champagne glass froze halfway to my lips as I turned, and there he was.

Dante.

A month. It had been exactly one month since I'd walked out of his penthouse with tears streaming down my face and my heart shattered beyond repair.

He looked exactly the same—devastatingly handsome in his perfectly tailored black suit, dark hair styled with that effortless precision that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary. His storm-gray eyes locked onto mine across the room, and I saw something flicker in them.

He moved through the crowd like a predator stalking prey, and I felt my carefully constructed composure begin to crack.

"Excuse me," I said politely as he approached, tilting my head with what I hoped looked like polite confusion. "Do I know you?"

Dante stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—that expensive Imagination scent that used to make me weak in the knees. His eyes narrowed as he studied my face, searching for any crack in my performance.

"Very funny, Eleanor." His voice was low, dangerous, with that hint of an Italian accent that became more pronounced when he was angry or aroused. "The innocent act doesn't suit you."

I blinked up at him, maintaining my confused expression even as my heart hammered against my ribs. Around us, I could feel the other auction guests beginning to notice our interaction. In this world, everyone knew who Dante Moretti was, and they knew better than to interfere in his business.

Before I could respond, he stepped closer and slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body as he draped it around mine, and suddenly I was enveloped in his scent, his presence, his overwhelming masculinity that had always been my downfall.

His arms came around me, pulling me against his chest with a possessiveness that made several nearby conversations pause. I could feel the interested stares, the whispered speculation.

"There's my girl," he murmured against my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "You've gotten better at this game, haven't you? One whole month of ignoring my calls, my texts, my visits to your apartment. Very impressive, baby."

His voice dropped to that intimate register he used to use in bed, the one that made promises of pleasure and possession. "So tell me, sweetheart—my place or should we get a hotel room? I've missed you."

The casual assumption in his words—that I would simply fall back into his arms, into his bed, into the same pattern that had defined seven years of my life—sent a spike of anger through my chest. I pressed my hands against his chest and stepped back, breaking his hold on me.

"Sir, I think you have me confused with someone else," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos in my chest. "I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your hands to yourself."

I saw the moment his expression shifted from amused indulgence to genuine irritation. His jaw tightened, and his eyes went cold in a way that would have terrified anyone else in this room.

"Eleanor Marie Sinclair," he said, using my full name like a warning. "Enough."

I continued to look at him with that same polite confusion, even as I scanned the room for Luca. Where was he? He'd promised to stay close tonight, to help maintain this charade until I could figure out my next move.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who Eleanor is," I said, taking another step back. "And I really think you should—"

"Cut the act, Eleanor." Dante's patience was clearly wearing thin. "Whatever game you think you're playing, it's not funny anymore."

"I'm not playing any—"

"There you are, darling."

The familiar voice behind me made me sag with relief. Luca appeared at my side, resplendent in a crisp white suit that made his dark hair and olive skin look even more striking. He moved with the same lethal grace as Dante, but where Dante was all sharp edges and barely contained violence, Luca carried himself with a more refined menace.

He positioned himself slightly in front of me, a subtle but unmistakable claim of protection. In his hand was a small gift bag—his winnings from tonight's auction, no doubt.

"Dante," Luca acknowledged with a polite nod that didn't reach his eyes. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight."

"Luca." Dante's voice had gone flat, businesslike. These two had history—professional history that involved territories and agreements I was only beginning to understand. "I was just reacquainting myself with an old friend."

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," Luca said smoothly. "My fiancée was in a car accident several weeks ago. She suffered a severe concussion, and her memory has been... affected. She's still receiving treatment for the trauma."

I watched Dante's face carefully, saw the exact moment the word 'fiancée' registered. His entire body went rigid, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. For a second, I thought he might actually throw a punch right there in the middle of the auction hall.

"Fiancée?" The word came out like a curse.

As Luca spoke, my mind drifted back to that horrible morning in the hospital. I'd woken up with my parents hovering over my bed, their faces creased with worry and love. The doctors had explained about the concussion, the memory issues that might persist, the need for rest and rehabilitation.

And I'd realized I had a choice. I could tell them the truth—that their daughter had spent seven years as the secret mistress of a man who would never marry her, who had made it clear that she wasn't good enough for his family name. Or I could take the gift the universe had handed me and start over.

The lie had come so easily. The confusion, the gaps in memory, the need for space and time to recover. My parents had been so relieved that I was alive that they'd accepted everything without question. And when the Rossini family had approached about a marriage alliance, when Luca had agreed to play along with my charade in exchange for a mutually beneficial arrangement, it had felt like fate.

"That's right," I said softly, stepping out from behind Luca to peer at Dante with wide, innocent eyes. "Luca has been taking such good care of me during my recovery."