My Boss Offered Me $10,000 To Be His Fake Fiancé — Now I’m A Prisoner In His Penthouse
Part 2
The platinum ring felt heavier than handcuffs when I finally slipped it back onto my finger.
Three days bled into one another, marked only by the shifting light against the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I didn’t leave the gilded cage of the penthouse.
Instead, I sat on the velvet sofa wearing cashmere sweatpants, reading the financial dossiers Craig had left on the coffee table.
If I was going to play an asset manager, I needed to know his assets.
Thursday afternoon, the heavy oak doors clicked open without the doorman announcing anyone.
Rachel Rossi stepped into the foyer holding a silver pastry box tied with baker’s twine.
She didn’t look like a woman dropping in for a neighborly chat.
She looked like a predator inspecting a new hunting ground to see if Craig was just hiding an escort.
I didn’t panic.
Walking behind the marble island, I didn’t have to search for the espresso pods or the specific porcelain cups.
I knew exactly where they were because I had dusted them every Tuesday for a year.
Rachel leaned against the counter, watching me move with the fluid grace of a woman who owned the kitchen.
“My brothers exist to please my father,” she said, taking a sip of the bitter espresso.
“Speaking of my brothers, Tyler has been in a foul mood this week.”
“One of his associates was hospitalized by a street-level guy, and whoever did it vanished.”
My hand resting on the marble counter went perfectly still.
“An occupational hazard, I assume,” I replied smoothly.
Before Rachel could press further, the elevator hummed and Craig stepped out.
He didn’t hesitate.
Wrapping a heavy arm around my waist, he pulled me flush against his side and pressed a firm kiss to my temple.
He smelled of rain and gunpowder.
“I hide her because men like your brothers don’t know how to look at a woman without drooling,” Craig said, the warning clear.
Rachel smirked, picking up her leather gloves.
“The christening is Sunday at Saint Jude’s.”
The second the elevator doors slid shut behind her, Craig dropped his arm from my waist.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted.
“Did she ask about the docks?”
“No,” I whispered, my heart beating frantically against my ribs.
“She asked about the loan shark, because she knows someone hit him and she’s looking for Brian.”
Craig’s head snapped up, his eyes hardening into dark chips of ice.
“Pack a small bag, because we need to be ready to move.”
Sunday smelled of holy water and floor wax.
We sat in the third row of the massive cathedral, looking like the untouchable future of the south-side syndicate.
Craig’s hand slid across the wooden pew, his thumb slowly stroking the side of my hand.
It was a grounding anchor that told me Brian was safe in a cabin off the grid.
But at the reception downtown, Tyler Rossi cornered me by the mahogany bar.
He smelled like sour sweat masking stale cologne.
“I got a description of the punk who cracked my guy’s skull,” Tyler sneered, leaning his heavy forearm on the bar.
“He left a bloody jacket behind the dumpster, and he left a paystub in the pocket.”
The floor seemed to drop out from under me.
If Tyler had the paystub, he had Brian’s name.
Craig materialized beside us, his localized gravity shoving Tyler back a physical step.
“We’re leaving,” Craig said, grabbing my hand with a grip tight enough to bruise.
He dragged me out to the idling Maybach in the alleyway and shoved me inside.
The adrenaline crash hit me like a freight train.
“He knows,” I choked out, covering my mouth as the car shot out of the alley.
Craig was already pulling his sidearm from his shoulder holster, checking the magazine with terrifying, utter calm.
“Then the negotiation is over,” he said quietly.
As he racked the slide on his weapon, I stared at the man I had agreed to pretend to marry and wondered—was this the day my lie finally got someone killed?
