Prologue
The dress still hung on the back of her bedroom door, untouched—white satin and lace, a cruel reminder of what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.
Nia stared at it with dry eyes. She'd already cried herself empty. Her phone was off. Her curtains were drawn. The city outside moved on, oblivious to the war happening in her chest.
Seven days. That's all that was left before she was supposed to say "I do."
Instead, she got "I can't."
No warning. No explanation. Just a voicemail from the man she'd trusted with her heart, telling her he wasn't ready. That he was sorry. That it wasn't her—it was him.
Classic.
The kind of pain that catches you off guard. The kind that makes everything before it feel like a lie.
She should've seen it. The distance. The shift. The hesitations disguised as silence. But Nia had been too busy believing in love stories she helped create for others. Too busy stitching dreams together for brides who still believed in forever.
She never thought she'd become the broken one.
Her best friend called it a "healing escape." Nia called it a distraction. One weekend out of Nairobi. One night of forgetting.
But what happened next wasn't just forgetting. It was erasure.
Of logic. Of control. Of every rule she'd lived by.
And when she woke up the next morning, tangled in silk sheets beside a stranger—his name, Luciano De Rossi, struck fear and fascination in equal measure—she knew something had gone very, very wrong.
Luciano De Rossi.
A name cloaked in danger.
And now,
somehow… legally tied to hers.
Chapter One
The first thing Nia felt was the silk—warm, soft, and completely unfamiliar.
It clung to her skin like a second layer, whispering secrets in a language she didn't speak. Smooth. Cool. Oddly comforting. But beneath its luxurious touch, there was a throb. A deep, rhythmic pounding at her temples like someone was hammering behind her eyes with cruel precision. She let out a low groan, her body shifting instinctively, slowly as if one wrong move might shatter her entirely. She pressed her palm to her forehead, the skin clammy, fingers trembling.
The motion sent a violent ripple through her stomach. Acid, bitter and sour, curled at the back of her throat. Her mouth tasted of sleep, regret, and something metallic, like secrets swallowed too quickly. She didn't need a mirror to know her lipstick was probably smudged, her hair wild, her soul unraveling.
Something was very, very wrong.
This wasn't the aftermath of a quiet evening in pajamas, wine in hand, Netflix humming in the background. This was… different.
She cracked open one eye.
The ceiling above her was far too high, the kind reserved for places with history, with money. Ivory white, aged with time, and trimmed with golden carvings that curled like vines reaching for forgotten gods. Light filtered in from tall windows, soft and silken, bending gently through sheer curtains that billowed with an unseen breeze. The air smelled like citrus notes clashing with something musky and expensive. And laced beneath it all was the sharp, instinctive scent of danger.
Everything was too still. Too silent. Too beautiful.
Her breath caught as she sat up fast.
The world tilted violently, and she nearly tumbled back. Her hands flew to the headboard behind her, clutching it with white-knuckled desperation. The silk sheet tangled around her chest as her heart thundered in her throat, a deafening rhythm of panic.
This wasn't her cozy studio apartment with peeling wallpaper and an air conditioner that coughed more than it cooled. There were no mismatched mugs or half-finished books on the nightstand. No familiar scent of lavender and dust.
No.
This room was the antithesis of home. It was opulence and danger wrapped in a golden bow. Marble floors that gleamed like frozen rivers. Crystal sconces casting fractured light across velvet drapes. A vase of white roses sat perfectly arranged beside the bed, untouched by time or human hands.
The kind of room designed to intimidate.
A chill crept up her spine as her eyes moved… and landed on him.
A man was sleeping next to her.
He lay on his side, one arm bent beneath his head, the sheet draped low across his hips. Shirtless. Powerful. Unapologetically male. His skin was the color of sunlit bronze, flawless except for a thin scar that cut just above his collarbone. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, peaceful, as though he hadn't just shattered her world.
His face…
God.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a dream and into something much more dangerous. Tousled dark hair framed a face that was all angles and shadows, softened only by the faint stubble along his jaw. Even in sleep, he held an authority that filled the space like smoke.
Nia's gaze lingered.
She hated how her pulse responded. Hated how some traitorous part of her wanted to trace that scar with a fingertip just to see if he'd flinch.
Who is he?
Her skin prickled. A knot tightened in her chest. She didn't remember him. Didn't remember falling asleep here. Didn't remember any of this.
A sharp pulse of fear shot through her, cold and electrifying.
She opened her mouth, unsure whether she meant to scream or pray.
Then he moved.
A shift. Subtle. Slow.
His eyes opened.
Storm-gray. Sharp. Focused.
They locked onto hers instantly, as if he'd been waiting for her to wake. His gaze was a tether, yanking her back into the uncertainty that clawed at her throat. He didn't speak. Didn't blink. Just stared at her with a quiet intensity, like a hunter watching the first twitch of prey.
And
Nia…
She didn't know whether to run or beg him not to let go.
Then he spoke.
"You're awake."
His voice was rough with sleep but threaded with command, like velvet over steel.
Nia's heart pounded harder, every beat louder than the last. She scrambled to wrap the sheet tighter around her. "Who the hell are you?"
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Didn't reach for the sheet or retreat like a man caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instead, he remained unbothered, still lounging like a king in his den, as if her panic was a passing breeze.
"Luciano," he said simply, like the name alone should have calmed her.
His voice was calm, controlled, the kind of tone that didn't just expect obedience, was built on it. Generations of it.
She stared at him, brow furrowed, confusion sinking into the creases between her eyes. "Luciano…?"
A slow, dangerous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The kind of smile that promised nothing good. The kind that belonged to men who never said please.
"Luciano De Rossi."
The name detonated in her skull.
She'd heard it before. The name whispered in marble-floored boardrooms and echoed in back alley bars. She'd seen it printed in headlines with too much ink and not enough truth. Billionaire heir. Private empire. Mafia whispers trailing his every move like shadows.
The kind of name cloaked in danger.
The kind of name women like her didn't wake up next to.
Unless something had gone very, very wrong.
Nia's mouth went dry. Her thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no…" Her voice cracked beneath the weight of disbelief. She looked around, really looked this time.
The velvet chairs were museum-worthy. The double doors were guarded. Two men in black suits stood motionless beyond them, their hands clasped in front, guns holstered and visible beneath tailored jackets. The crystal decanter across the room caught the light, untouched, precise, like everything else in the room.
This wasn't a hotel. This wasn't a one-night stand.
This was something else entirely.
A cage made of silk and gold.
"What happened last night?" Her voice was a breath, fragile and paper-thin. "How did I get here?"
Luciano sat up, the sheet sliding low on his waist. It should have been intimate. Vulnerable, even. But he wore it like armor—relaxed, assured, in complete control.
His eyes met hers again, and this time they weren't just gray—they were burning. Cold fire. Controlled chaos.
"You really don't remember?" he asked, voice dipping slightly, almost disappointed.
She shook her head, a slow movement that made her temples throb harder. "No."
Luciano reached for the nightstand without ever looking away. He picked up a folded piece of paper and held it between two fingers dangerously.
He offered it to her in silence.
Nia hesitated, her stomach twisting into tighter knots. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out, the sheet slipping down her shoulder unnoticed. She unfolded the paper with a shaky breath.
The scent of it hit her first. Subtle—cologne, ink, danger.
Then she saw it. Her signature.
And her blood ran cold.