Chapter 1 - The Apology and the Contract
“I owe you an apology,” Lucian Moretti repeated, his deep baritone reverberating against the polished concrete and expansive glass of the Halcyon penthouse.
I blinked, still gripping my faux-leather portfolio as if it were a riot shield. My mind replayed the absurd image of myself huddled behind a cheap sublet couch brandishing a wooden mixing spoon while two armed henchmen waited outside my door. “You sent hitmen to my front door at midnight, had your surveillance team track my six-minute crying jag outside a discount liquor store, and now you’re apologizing?”
“Gideon is private security, not a hitman,” Lucian replied smoothly, gesturing to the monolithic bald man standing by the elevator foyer. Gideon gave a polite, almost imperceptible nod of confirmation. Lucian poured two glasses of sparkling mineral water from a crystal carafe resting on the black marble kitchen island. “And my team was verifying an operational breach. You happened to misdial a private, encrypted satellite line reserved exclusively for three people on earth. When an unidentified number sends a furious, profanity-laced tirade to that terminal, the protocol dictates immediate threat assessment.”
“I typed an eight instead of a nine,” I muttered, cheeks flaming with lingering embarrassment. “Because my treacherous ex-fiancé decided our wedding vows were optional.”
Lucian slid a heavy tumbler across the cool stone toward me. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. He wasn't the shadowy, grizzled movie gangster I had imagined during my sleepless night of panic. He was impeccably tailored, striking in an austere, aristocratic way, with high cheekbones, dark hair brushed back with careless precision, and eyes the color of a winter sky over Lake Michigan.
“Kyle Bradley,” Lucian said casually, picking up his own glass. “Senior associate at Vantage Capital. Engaged to you for fourteen months. Currently sleeping with your first cousin, Madison Delaney, an aspiring lifestyle influencer with maxed-out credit cards.”
The cold water caught in my throat. I coughed, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “Did you run a full forensic background check on my entire ruined life before breakfast?”
“I don't enter into business partnerships with strangers, Miss Delaney,” he said simply. He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty Chicago skyline. “When my men confirmed your identity last night, I looked into Caldwell & Rowe. Your firm is bleeding cash because your primary commercial backer pulled out last quarter. You are underpaid, underappreciated, and your portfolio showcases an undeniable talent for minimalist structural elegance that your superiors routinely claim as their own.”
I bristled, caught between indignation and the sting of his dead-on accuracy. “So you summoned me here out of pity?”
“I don't possess pity,” Lucian said, turning back to face me with a sharp, calculating tilt of his chin. “I possess twenty-two thousand square feet of raw architectural space that requires twelve million dollars in custom buildouts, furnishing, and interior architecture. I need a principal designer who has no social ties to the Chicago elite, no desire to leak my domestic layout to architectural digests or rival syndicates, and who owes me nothing.”
“I don't owe you anything right now,” I pointed out fiercely.
“Exactly,” he murmured, the faint ghost of a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “You texted me with genuine fury, Harper. In a world where everyone lies to my face, flatters my ego, or trembles when I walk into a room, your mistake was extraordinarily refreshing.”
He laid a thick, black leather folder on the island between us.
“The retainer is three hundred thousand dollars upfront. Five percent commission on total expenditure upon completion. Complete creative control, provided every specification passes my personal security protocols.” Lucian tapped his manicured fingers against the leather. “Take the job, save your firm, buy your own apartment, and show Kyle Bradley what happens when a woman stops crying over a boy and starts designing palaces for men.”
My breath hitched. The money alone was life-altering. It would clear my student loans, establish my independent reputation, and give me total financial immunity from the wreckage of my broken engagement.
“And what do you get out of this?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “Besides throw pillows and bespoke lighting?”
“A home,” Lucian answered softly, the humor fading from his gray eyes, replaced by an ancient, guarded darkness. “Something I have not had in a very long time.”
May you like
I looked at the contract. I looked at the vast, echoing shell of the penthouse. Then I looked into the eyes of Chicago’s most dangerous man.
I picked up the pen.
