Chapter 1 - The Departure and the First Rule
Sophia stared at Dominic Moretti until the silence stretched so thin it felt dangerous. The man who owned half of Manhattan was sitting in a staff kitchen, wearing a rumpled white shirt with his sleeves rolled up, offering to play the doting boyfriend to a woman who had spent four years trying to become invisible.
"You're serious," she whispered.
"I don't make unserious offers, Sophia," Dominic replied, his voice a low, steady hum that cut through the hum of the refrigerator. "Your father expects you to fail. Your mother is dying. And your daughter drew a crayon stick figure with the word 'FRIEND' pointing at my head. We are already past the point of conventional boundaries."
Sophia swallowed hard. She thought of Pennsylvania. She thought of the endless stretch of gravel driveway leading up to her father’s farmhouse, the judgments waiting behind the screen door, the quiet agony in her mother’s eyes. Going home alone meant carrying a mountain of pity. Going home with Dominic Moretti—even a manufactured Dominic Moretti—was an absurdity so vast it bordered on genius.
"If we do this," Sophia said, her voice dropping into a hardened register she usually reserved for managing thirty caterers at a high-society gala, "there are rules. Absolute rules."
Dominic raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the marble counter. "Name them."
"Rule one: No lies to my mother. She’s too sick to untangle fiction, but she’s too sharp to be patronized. If she asks how we met, we tell her the truth—you're my employer, and things evolved. We don't pretend you're a Wall Street analyst or a real estate broker."
"Agreed," Dominic murmured. "Truth is harder to dismantle anyway."
"Rule two: You don't flash money. My family doesn't understand billionaires. My father thinks anyone who wears a tailored suit without a grease stain on it is a swindler. Keep the watch in your pocket, leave the black SUVs at the county line, and wear a jacket that doesn't look like it costs more than our tractor."
A faint, dry smirk touched the corner of Dominic’s mouth. "I can dress down, Sophia. I didn't grow up in a penthouse."
"Rule three," she continued, ignoring his comment, her heart hammering against her ribs, "you sleep in the guest room at the end of the hall. My old bedroom has a twin mattress that squeaks if you breathe too hard. And no sleeping arrangements that give my father a reason to reach for his shotgun."
Dominic stood up, towering over her, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, suffocating intensity. "And what about rule four?" he asked softly, stepping a fraction closer. "What happens when your father tries to humiliate you in front of me?"
Sophia’s breath caught. "My father doesn't know who you are."
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"People like your father smell weakness, Sophia. They don't need a resume to know how to twist a knife." Dominic reached out, his warm knuckles brushing a stray lock of hair away from her cheek with a casual intimacy that felt entirely too real. "If I am going to play your boyfriend, I protect what is mine. Even if it's temporary."
Sophia stepped back, her skin burning where he had touched her. "Get your coat, Mr. Moretti. We leave in an hour. I need to pack for Lily."
