Chapter 1 — The Man I Shouldn’t Have Asked

“Bring someone to my wedding, Laurel. If you can find a man willing to be seen with you.”

Bennett laughed.

The sound came through my phone loudly enough to reach every corner of the studio.

My assistant stopped cutting ribbon. A courier stood motionless beside the door. And the most dangerous man in New York looked up from the stationery samples spread across my desk.

I had put Bennett on speaker because my hands were covered in navy ink.

Apparently, humiliation had excellent timing.

“Congratulations again,” I said, and ended the call before he could hear what he had done to me.

For a moment, the only sound was the radiator knocking beneath the front window.

Then I looked at Ronan Varelli.

“Come to my ex’s wedding.”

He studied me.

I waited for amusement, refusal, or the polite suggestion that I seek professional help.

“Yes.”

My assistant dropped the ribbon.

I stared at him. “You’re serious?”

Ronan set down the invitation sample.

“If he humiliates you again, I stop being your guest and become his problem.”

That was when my judgment returned.

Unfortunately, it arrived after the invitation.

“No,” I said.

One dark eyebrow lifted.

“Forget I asked.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I was angry.”

“I noticed.”

“Then you understand why that wasn’t a real invitation.”

“You asked me to attend a wedding. I accepted.”

He made it sound as ordinary as agreeing to lunch.

Nothing about Ronan Varelli was ordinary.

He wore a charcoal suit without a single visible crease. His dark hair was brushed back, revealing a faint scar near his temple. He had the kind of face that made sensible women look twice and sensible men choose their words carefully.

Outside my window, his driver waited beside a black sedan.

The man was not looking at his phone.

He was watching the street.

I turned to my assistant. “Mia, would you take the delivery into the back?”

“Absolutely.”

She collected the package, ushered the courier away, and disappeared with the speed of someone who intended to ask several hundred questions later.

I faced Ronan again.

“You’re busy.”

“I can rearrange my schedule.”

“You don’t even know when it is.”

“When is it?”

“Saturday.”

“I’m available.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

“I know enough.”

I wiped my hands on a rag. The ink had already settled beneath my nails.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Then tell me why.”

Because my ex had spent years making me feel difficult to love, and I had just invited a man half the city feared to help me pretend that no longer mattered.

I wasn’t going to say that.

Instead, I gestured at the samples.

“You came here to approve stationery for a private dinner.”

“Yes.”

“Somewhere between paper weight and envelope lining, I involved you in my personal disaster.”

“I don’t remember being forced.”

That was the trouble with him.

He never rescued me from an uncomfortable sentence.

He waited until I finished it.

Ronan had first visited Finch Lettering Studio five months earlier, after one of his hotel managers commissioned handwritten menus for an anniversary event.

The manager handled the order.

Ronan came to inspect the finished work himself.

At the time, I had assumed something had gone wrong.

Instead, he asked why the lettering on one place card looked different.

“Because that guest’s name has fourteen letters,” I told him. “Unless you’d like me to make her sound less Italian.”

His mouth had moved slightly.

I had spent the next week wondering whether I had nearly made a Mafia boss smile.

Since then, he had appeared whenever Varelli Industries needed custom work. Sometimes the visits made sense. Sometimes an email would have accomplished everything in thirty seconds.

I hadn’t examined that too closely.

Examining Ronan closely was distracting enough.

“Why did he call?” he asked.

I looked down at the ink rag.

“To check whether I received the invitation.”

“Had you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you answer it?”

“No.”

Ronan glanced at the cream envelope tucked beneath my appointment book.

I had brought it from home that morning, intending to put it through the shredder.

The envelope was expensive. The printing was mediocre.

That bothered me more than it should have.

“He sent it four days ago,” I said. “I thought ignoring it would be the mature response.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m discovering maturity has limits.”

Ronan leaned back in the chair.

“How long were you together?”

“Four years. Engaged for the last eleven months.”

“When did it end?”

“Three years ago.”

I was thirty-two now.

Twenty-nine should have felt far away.

Sometimes it did.

Other times, one particular laugh could put me back in a bedroom with a dress half-zipped and Bennett standing behind me, explaining that certain silhouettes were more forgiving.

As though my body had done something that required forgiveness.

“He married someone else?” Ronan asked.

“He’s about to. Arabella Price.”

“Charles Price’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

Something in his expression sharpened, then settled.

“Do you know them?”

“I know Charles professionally.”

“Of course you do.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I was hoping for one evening without networking.”

“You haven’t agreed to go yet.”

“You have. I’m trying to reverse it.”

“Why?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Then I put the rag down.

“Because I don’t need you to punish him.”

Ronan’s gaze stayed on mine.

“I didn’t offer to.”

“You said you’d become his problem.”

“If he mistreats you.”

“That is exactly the kind of ambiguity I would like eliminated before entering a room with you.”

He waited.

I folded my arms.

“If you come, you’re my guest. We aren’t pretending to date. You aren’t buying the hotel, ruining his career, or arranging for him to get lost somewhere without cell service.”

“I wasn’t planning to buy the hotel.”

“Your reassurance needs work.”

That faint movement touched his mouth again.

“No threats,” I said. “No revenge.”

“And what will you do?”

The question caught me.

I had made rules for him because that was easier than making a decision for myself.

“I’ll attend a wedding,” I said slowly. “Congratulate the couple. Eat something expensive. Leave when I want.”

“Good.”

“You make that sound easy.”

“It won’t be. You can still do it.”

I looked away first.

That was not the answer Bennett would have given.

He would have told me what to wear, what to say, how much to eat, which version of myself would cause the least inconvenience.

Ronan had asked what I intended to do.

I picked up the envelope.

The invitation slid out beneath my thumb.

Bennett Shaw and Arabella Price requested the pleasure of my company at the Halcyon Hotel.

Below the ceremony details sat a web address for the response.

A little box waited beside the words

Will attend

.

“I don’t want to spend Saturday hiding in my apartment,” I said.

“Then don’t.”

“And I don’t want him to think he can still tell me where I belong.”

Ronan stood.

The room seemed smaller when he did.

“Then answer the invitation.”

I looked up at him. “You’re very good at giving expensive-sounding instructions that cost nothing.”

“Only to you.”

My fingers tightened around the card.

He picked up the stationery sample he had approved and laid it beside the order form.

“Send the invoice to my office.”

“You haven’t signed.”

He took my pen.

His hand was large, his signature spare and confident. A thin pale scar crossed one knuckle.

I watched him return the pen precisely where he had found it.

“What time should I collect you?”

“The ceremony is at five.”

“Four fifteen.”

“I can meet you there.”

“You can. I’m offering.”

There it was again.

A choice, left where I could reach it.

“All right,” I said.

He nodded once and moved toward the door.

“Ronan?”

He turned.

“You really remember all the rules?”

“Yes.”

“Every single one?”

His eyes held mine.

“Especially the part where you’re allowed to leave.”

After he went, I sat down at my desk.

Mia appeared in the doorway.

“I am trying very hard to be professional.”

“Try somewhere else for five minutes.”

She vanished.

I opened the response page.

My name was already entered.

Under guest, I typed

Ronan Varelli

.

Then I checked the box.

Will attend.

I pressed submit before I could decide I needed to become smaller, quieter, or more reasonable.

Three minutes later, my phone rang.

Bennett again.

This time, I let it ring twice before I answered.