A WEEK LATER
The pen scratched its final mark, and the contract was sealed in a whirlwind. A triumphant, if slightly theatrical, moment. I was introduced to the gathered employees as the company's new largest shareholder—a partner who would work with them from this day forward. Applause surged, and I flashed a bright, practiced smile, waving dismissively as if I were a queen greeting her subjects. After several hours of tedious waiting and back-patting, the formal event was finally adjourned.
We went back to the company before retreating to my office. The celebratory mood vanished as quickly as the flashbulbs. I still had paperwork—pages of non-disclosure agreements and preliminary reports—to cover before the day was out. When I was finally done, Tank and I headed downstairs. I had already discharged Mr. Wang and the others, instructing them to rest early today.
Down in the car park, the late afternoon light glinted off the polished hood of Xavier's sedan. That's where I met Damion, Xavier's new bodyguard. The man was built like a granite statue, clearly capable of handling a small war. And yes, forgive me for noting it, but he was undeniably gorgeous—though he had nothing on Xavier, whose beauty was sharper, more dangerous.
"Ma'am this way please," Damion murmured, his voice a low rumble.
I was ushered into the back of Xavier's car. The door shut with a heavy, isolating thud, leaving us alone. Xavier was utterly silent, his expression unreadable as he held out a tablet.
"I was able to do some digging, thanks to a director who needed a bigger boat," he finally said, his finger tapping a highlighted article on the screen. "It turns out the rift in the company is wider than we thought. Taxes are piling up, workers haven't been paid for months, and funds are missing. They'll be in ruins soon."
I read the devastating details. This was better than I'd hoped.
"This is the perfect opportunity, then, isn't it?" I stated, handing the tablet back. "Soon, he'll be desperate for foreign capital. He'll secure funds through any means necessary."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm here to help, Xavier. Not just as a partner, but as a friend of his wife. I've earned their trust. I'm going to strike a deal with him, a very specific one, and the rest will be history."
Xavier's expression remained intent. "Is there any way I could provide direct assistance? Data access?"
"No. Not yet," I replied, shaking my head. "My move must appear flawless, strictly business. You must remain the silent, wealthy husband. When the acquisition is ready—when I need the final, , lips. He lifted my leg, his hand trailing up to the angry, reddened part of my heel, a stark reminder of the sacrifices required for my flawless public performance.
"You are in pain, yet you managed to command a room and sign a majority stake contract in these stilettos," he noted, his voice husky.
I turned my head away slightly. Our collaboration didn't erase the memory of his condescension this morning. I wouldn't let him forget it either.
He ignored my silence, sliding his hand into his overcoat and retrieving a sleek tube of anti-inflammatory balm. Uncapping it, he began applying it to my skin, rubbing smoothly and gently. I winced.
He looked up, his brow furrowed. "Stop trying to pretend you aren't human. Did I hurt you?"
"Just… tender," I admitted, focusing on the ceiling.
I didn't reply, turning my head slightly to stare out the window. The fact that we were speaking civilly didn't erase the memory of his harsh words this morning.
He slid his hand into his overcoat and recovered a small, sleek tube—an anti-inflammatory balm. Uncapping it, he began to apply the cool cream to my skin, rubbing smoothly and deliberately over the surface. I winced.
He looked up at me, his gaze intense. "Did I hurt you?"
"A little," I admitted, pulling my foot back reflexively.
He went slower, more deliberate. "We were supposed to attend that ghastly diplomatic dinner tonight, but I cancelled it. I told them we couldn't make it.
I felt a surge of guilt. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," he replied simply. "But I also didn't want to go. Don't worry about it. It's been rescheduled for next week, and by then, you'll be able to walk without grimacing."
He pressed the end of his black rollerball pen. Damion immediately opened the door.
"Sir, you called?"
Xavier pointed at the ruined, beautiful heel I had slipped off. "Dispose of the shoe, Damion. It's damaged."
"That was the only pair in the UK!" I scolded him, genuinely upset at the waste.
He didn't spare me a glance. "Don't mourn damaged goods, Allura. We'll replace them. We only wear the best—and the best isn't damaged."
We drove home. Xavier got out of the car, rounding the vehicle to open my door. The cold evening air made me shiver, and without a word, he draped his heavy, black bear fur coat over my shoulders. It was a potent symbol of his power, a silent extension of his identity. Draping it over me was a public statement, but he didn't care for trivial talk.
This wasn't just a coat; it was a symbol of his power and influence. Wearing it was an announcement, a declaration that could certainly start an uproar—yet he didn't care in the least.
The guards at the entrance all bowed low in reverence as we approached. Inside, Madison and the others stared, their eyes widening at the sight of me cocooned in Xavier's imposing garment.
"Welcome home, sir, Ma'am," Madison greeted us smoothly, recovering quickly. "The warm bath has been prepared, and dinner is ready. Which would you prefer first?"
"A bath first, please, Madison," I said, feeling the need to wash the day's façade away.
I quickly shed the heavy coat, handing the significant garment back to Xavier. I wasn't Samantha Giovanni when I was under that fur; I was Allura, his accomplice, and I was too self-conscious of the power that implied to wear it a second longer than necessary.
I finished my evening routine, slipping into a soft, white silk pajama set before heading downstairs.
Xavier was already seated at the massive mahogany dining table. He was laser-focused on his tablet, a sheet of blue light reflecting in his eyes. His long, dark hair, usually tamed in a neat ponytail, was unbraided, a thick, raven cascade falling over each shoulder. His long legs were kept rigidly aligned, his posture unnervingly straight, seemingly engrossed in whatever demanded his absolute attention.
I drew a heavy dining chair out, the slight scrape of wood against the floor the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Madison, our housekeeper, glided over, already dishing a generous portion of creamy mashed potatoes, a side of crisp salad, and half a dozen grilled shrimp onto my plate.
The table was an extravagant spread: a glistening Australian lobster, a truffle-infused macaroni and cheese mold, a crystal bowl of vibrant ketchup, a whole roasted chicken, and a platter of golden chicken nuggets, all splayed out on fine china of every conceivable size and shape.
Madison moved toward Xavier, her movements hesitant. "Sir, would you care for some mashed potatoes, or perhaps a portion of the lobster?"
He didn't look up, his voice cutting and sharp. "No. Just bring me a cup of black coffee and some plain crackers, Madison. That's all."
She nodded and quickly returned with his simple request, setting it carefully beside his plate. He barely acknowledged it, let alone touched it, his eyes still glued to the screen.
I didn't comment on his loss of appetite. He would only associate it with me "practicing my pretense" on him, a cruel remark that always caused a painful, private ache. But I'd learned to wall it off; outside the terms of this contract, there was, indeed, no business between us.
Suddenly, he slammed the tablet face-down on the table, the sharp clack echoing in the cavernous room.
"In two days," he stated, his voice deep, hoarse, and undeniably commanding, "we'll be heading to the first summit since I officially became a Patriarch."
I paused, my silver spoon half-way to my mouth, still clutching a lump of mashed potato.
"You've got to perform exceptionally well for the public. Your demeanor, your silence, your posture—everything matters," he continued, leaning forward slightly. "It's a private meeting between us Mafia families. There will be no paparazzi, but there will be real guns, real threats, and all sorts of political maneuvering. Be prepared for anyone, and for anything."
I finally lowered the spoon, savoring the last bit of the dish before replying. "Yes, I understand. I will. So, what dress will you have me wear?" I asked, keeping my tone deliberately light.
He waved a dismissive hand, signaling to his attendant, Damion, who immediately stepped forward to take the discarded tablet.
"You'll know when the time comes for it. Don't bother about it yet."
Damion retreated, leaving us alone again. We remained silent, neither of us daring to initiate a conversation. The atmosphere was thick, tense, and almost inhumanely cold, broken only by the quiet clink of my fork against the china.