My parents’ living room looked like something out of an Architectural Digest spread. Tufted settees sat at right angles to carved wood tables; porcelain tea sets jostled for space next to priceless tchotchkes. Even the air smelled cold and impersonal, like generically expensive freshener.
Some people had homes; my parents had a showpiece.
“Your skin looks dull.” My mother examined me with a critical eye.
“Have you been keeping up with your monthly facials?”
She sat across from me, her own skin glowing with pearlescent luminosity.
“Yes, Mother.” My cheeks ached from the forced politeness of my smile.
I’d stepped foot in my childhood home ten minutes ago, and I’d already been criticized for my hair (too messy), my nails (too long), and now, my complexion.
Just another night at the Lau manor.
“Good. Remember, you can’t let yourself go,” my mother said. “You’re not married yet.”
I held back a sigh. Here we go again.
Despite my thriving career in Manhattan, where the event planning market was more cutthroat than a designer sample sale, my parents were fixated on my lack of a boyfriend and, therefore, lack of marital prospects.
They tolerated my work because it was no longer fashionable for heiresses to do nothing, but they were salivating for a son-in-law, one who could increase their foothold in the circles of the old money elite.
We were rich, but we would never be old money. Not in this generation.
“I’m still young,” I said patiently. “I have plenty of time to meet someone.”
I was only twenty-eight, but my parents acted like I would shrivel into the Crypt Keeper the second midnight struck on my thirtieth birthday.
“You’re almost thirty,” my mother countered. “You’re not getting any younger, and you have to start thinking about marriage and kids. The longer you wait, the smaller the dating pool becomes.”
“I am thinking about it.” Thinking about the year of freedom I have left before I’m forced to marry a banker with a numeral after his last name. “As for getting younger, that’s what Botox and plastic surgery is for.”
If my sister were here, she would’ve laughed. Since she wasn’t, my joke fell flatter than a poorly baked soufflé.
My mother’s lips thinned.
Beside her, my father’s thick, gray-tipped brows formed a stern V over the bridge of his nose.
Sixty years old, spry, and fit, Francis Lau looked every inch the self-made CEO. He’d expanded Lau Jewels from a small, family-run shop to a multinational behemoth over three decades, and a silent stare from him was enough to make me shrink back against the couch cushions.
“Every time we bring up marriage, you make a joke.” His tone seeped with disapproval. “Marriage is not a joke, Vivian. It’s an important matter for our family. Look at your sister. Thanks to her, we’re now connected to the royal family of Eldorra.”
I bit my tongue so hard the taste of copper filled my mouth.
My sister had married an Eldorran earl who was a second cousin twice removed from the queen. Our “connection” to the small European kingdom’s royal family was a stretch, but in my father’s eyes, an aristocratic title was an aristocratic title.
“I know it’s not a joke,” I said, reaching for my tea. I needed something to do with my hands. “But it’s also not something I need to think about right now. I’m dating. Exploring my prospects. There are plenty of single men in New York. I just have to find the right one.”
I left out the caveat: there were plenty of single men in New York, but the pool of single, straight, non-douchey, non-flaky, non-disturbingly eccentric men was much smaller.
My last date tried to rope me into a seance to contact his dead mother so she could “meet me and give her approval.” Needless to say, I never saw him again.
But my parents didn’t need to know that. As far as they were concerned, I was dating handsome trust fund scions left and right.
“We’ve given you plenty of time to find a proper match these past two years.” My father sounded unimpressed by my spiel. “You haven’t had a single serious boyfriend since your last… relationship. It’s clear you don’t feel the same urgency we do, which is why I took matters into my own hands.”
My tea froze halfway to my lips. “Meaning?”
I thought the important news he’d alluded to had to do with my sister or the company. But what if…
My blood iced.
No. It can’t be.
“Meaning I’ve secured a suitable match for you.” My father dropped the bombshell with little to no warning or visible emotion. “It took quite a bit of work on my end, but the arrangement has been finalized.”
I’ve secured a suitable match for you.
The fragments from his declaration blasted through my chest and nearly cleaved my outward composure in half.
My teacup clattered back onto its plate, earning me a frown from my mother.
For once, I was too busy processing to worry about her disapproval.
Arranged marriages were common practice in our world of big business and power plays, where marriages weren’t love matches; they were alliances. My parents married my sister off for a title, and I’d known my turn was coming. I just hadn’t expected it to come so…so soon.
A bitter cocktail of shock, dread, and horror sluiced down my throat.
I was expected to enter a lifetime contract after “quite a bit of work” on my father’s end.
Just what every woman wants to hear.
“We’ve let you drag your feet too long, and this match will be enormously beneficial for us,” my father continued. “I’m sure you’ll agree once you meet him at dinner.”
The cocktail turned into poison and ate away at my insides.
“Dinner? As in, tonight’s dinner?” My voice sounded distant and strange, as if I was hearing it in a bad dream. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Being ambushed with news of an arranged marriage match was bad enough. Meeting my future fiancé with zero preparation was a hundred times worse.
No wonder my mother was being even more critical than normal. She was expecting her future son-in-law as a guest.
My stomach lurched, and the possibility of expelling its contents all over my mother’s prized Persian rug inched closer to reality.
Everything was happening too fast. The dinner summons, the news of my engagement, the impending meeting—my mind whirled from trying to keep up.
“He didn’t confirm until today due to…scheduling complications.” My father smoothed a hand over his shirt. “You’ll have to meet him eventually.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s tonight, a week, or a month from now.”
Actually, it does matter. There’s a difference between being mentally prepared to meet my fiancé and having him thrown in my face with no warning.
My retort simmered on low, destined never to reach a full boil.
Talking back was strictly verboten in the Lau household. I was beholden to its rules even as an adult, and disobedience was always met with swift punishment and sharp words.
“We want to move things along as quickly as possible,” my mother jumped in. “It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and your fiancé is, er, particular about the details.”
Funny how she was already calling him my fiancé when I hadn’t met the man yet.
“Mode de Vie named him one of the world’s most eligible bachelors under forty last year. Rich, handsome, powerful. Honestly, your father outdid himself.” My mother patted my father’s arm, her face glowing.
I hadn’t seen her this animated since she scored a seat on the Boston Society Wine Auction’s planning committee last year.
“That’s…great.” My smile wobbled from the effort of keeping itself intact.
At least my match probably had all his teeth. I wouldn’t have put it past my parents to marry me off to some decrepit billionaire on his deathbed.
Money and status came first; everything else came a distant second.
I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down that particular path.
Get it together, Viv.
As upset as I was at my parents for springing this on me, I could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn’t like I could say no to the match. If I did, my parents would disown me.
Plus, my future husband—my stomach lurched again—would be here any minute, and I couldn’t make a scene.
I wiped a palm against my thigh. My head felt dizzy, but I clung to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable.
“So.” I swallowed my bile and forced a light tone. “Does Mr. Perfect have a name, or is he known only by his net worth?”
I didn’t remember everyone who’d been on Mode de Vie’s list, but the people I did remember didn’t inspire much confidence. If he—
“Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family.”
My spine stiffened at the deep, unexpected voice behind me. It was so close I could feel the rumble of words against my back. They slid over me like sun-warmed honey—rich and sensual, with a faint Italian accent that made every nerve ending tingle with pleasure.
Heat slipped beneath my skin.
“Ah, there you are.” My father rose, a strangely triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“How could I pass up the opportunity to meet your lovely daughter?”
A hint of mockery tainted the word lovely and instantly washed away any budding attraction I had to a voice, of all things.
Ice doused the heat in my veins.
So much for Mr. Perfect.
I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people, and my gut told me the owner of the voice was as thrilled about the dinner as I was.
“Vivian, say hello to our guest.” If my mother beamed any harder, her face would split in half.
I half-expected her to prop her cheek on her hand and sigh dreamily like a schoolgirl with a crush.
I pushed the disturbing image out of my mind before I lifted my chin.
Stood.
Turned.
And all the air whooshed out of my lungs.
Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm.
My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.
There were generically good-looking men, and there was him.
And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable.
My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock.
Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke.
“Vivian.” My mother disguised her rebuke as my name.
Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting.
I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but polite smile. “Vivian Lau. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I held out my hand.
A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm.
“So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your name.”
The laziness of his drawl played off the observation as a joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. “Dante Russo. The pleasure is all mine.”
There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting.
Dante Russo.
CEO of the Russo Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man who’d created such a buzz at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get.
He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle.
Why, then, would Dante Russo of all people agree to an arranged marriage?
“I would introduce myself by my net worth,” he said. “But it would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger given the purpose of tonight’s dinner.”
His smile didn’t contain an ounce of warmth.
My cheeks heated at the reminder he’d overheard my joke. It hadn’t been malicious, but discussing other people’s money was considered uncouth even though everyone secretly did it.
“That’s very considerate of you.” My cool reply masked my embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I’m sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your legendary charm.”
A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn’t take my bait.
Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body.
My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, coolness touched my skin like the indifference of a god faced with a mortal.
I stiffened again beneath Dante’s scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of my Cecelia Lau-approved tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps.
I’d even swapped out my favorite red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred.
This was my standard uniform for visiting my parents, and judging by the way Dante’s lips thinned, he was less than impressed.
A mix of unease and irritation twisted my stomach when those dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again.
We’d exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew two things with gut certainty.
One, Dante was going to be my fiancé.
Two, we might kill each other before we ever made it to the altar.
