Chapter 1: The Desperate Hour
The rain in New York City didn’t wash away the grime; it just made the desperation slicker.
Elena Rossi stood outside Rossi’s Panetteria in Little Italy, staring at the red eviction notice pasted to the glass. The bakery had been her father’s life, and his father’s before him. Now, with her dad in the hospital recovering from a heart attack and the medical bills piling up like snowdrifts, the bank was coming for the building.
She needed two hundred thousand dollars. She had forty-two dollars in her checking account.
“I’m sorry, Elena,” the bank manager had said over the phone an hour ago. “Mr. Moretti’s firm has acquired the debt. They don’t do extensions. They do demolitions. They want to turn the block into luxury condos.”
Moretti Capital.
The name was synonymous with ruthless efficiency on Wall Street.
Elena wiped the rain from her face. She wasn’t going to let them take her home without a fight. She adjusted her cheap raincoat, grabbed her bag, and marched toward the subway. She was going to the Financial District. She was going to talk to the devil himself.
The headquarters of Moretti Capital was a sixty-story obelisk of black glass piercing the sky.
Elena bluffed her way past security by claiming she was the new caterer for the executive lunch. She took the elevator to the top floor, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She burst into the reception area.
“I need to see Dante Moretti,” she demanded.
The receptionist, a woman who looked like she was carved from marble, didn’t even blink. “Mr. Moretti is in a board meeting. You can leave your résumé in the bin.”
“I’m not here for a job. I’m here for my father’s life.”
Before the receptionist could call security, the double mahogany doors swung open.
A group of old, angry-looking men in grey suits walked out, grumbling. Behind them stood Dante Moretti.
He was thirty-two years old, six-foot-three, and impossibly handsome in a severe, terrifying way. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than Elena’s bakery. His eyes were the color of cold espresso, dark and unyielding.
“What is this noise?” Dante asked. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated through the room.
“Sir, this woman is trespassing,” the receptionist said, reaching for the phone.
“I’m not trespassing!” Elena stepped forward, ignoring the trembling in her knees. “You bought the debt on Rossi’s Panetteria. You’re evicting a sick old man for a parking lot! I want to negotiate.”
Dante looked her up and down. He saw the wet hair, the worn-out shoes, the fire in her hazel eyes. Most people couldn’t hold his gaze for a second. She hadn’t blinked in ten.
“Negotiate?” Dante repeated, amused. “With what leverage, Ms…?”
“Rossi. Elena Rossi. And my leverage is that I won’t leave until you listen.”
Dante stared at her. A silence stretched, heavy and thick.
Suddenly, he checked his watch.
“Cancel my 2:00 PM, Sarah,” he told the receptionist. Then he looked at Elena. “Come in.”
Elena stunned, walked into the office. It was massive, with a view of the Statue of Liberty.
Dante sat behind his desk. “I have a problem, Ms. Rossi. And you might be the solution.”
“My bakery—”
“Forget the bakery,” he interrupted. “I need to get married. Today.”
Elena blinked. “Excuse me?”
Dante spun a pen between his fingers. “My grandfather, the founder of this company, added a clause to his trust. I cannot inherit the controlling shares of Moretti Capital unless I am a ‘stable family man’ by my thirty-third birthday.”
He looked at the calendar. “My birthday is in two days. The board is trying to oust me. I need a wife. A fake wife. Someone who needs money, someone who isn’t part of my social circle, and someone who isn’t afraid of me.”
He leaned forward. “You seem to fit the criteria.”
“You want me… to marry you?” Elena whispered. “For business?”
“Strictly business,” Dante said cold. “A one-year contract. You play the role of the loving wife in public. You live in my penthouse. You attend galas. In private, we stay out of each other’s way.”
He pulled a checkbook from his drawer and wrote a number. He slid it across the desk.
Elena looked at it. $2,000,000.
“That covers your father’s debt, his medical bills, and ensures you never have to work again,” Dante said. “Do we have a deal?”
Elena looked at the check. She thought of her father in the hospital bed, worrying about the lights being turned off. She looked at Dante—arrogant, cold, and offering her a lifeline.
She took the pen.
“Where do I sign?”
Chapter 2: The Penthouse of Ice
The wedding was a courthouse affair. No guests. No flowers. Just a signature and a cold handshake.
“Welcome to your new life, Mrs. Moretti,” Dante said as they walked into his penthouse on Park Avenue.
The apartment was like a museum. Modern art, white leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows. It was breathtakingly beautiful and utterly soulless.
“Your room is down the hall to the left,” Dante said, loosening his tie. “My room is on the right. We do not cross that boundary. The housekeeper comes at 10:00 AM. Don’t talk to the press. And get rid of those clothes. My stylist will be here in an hour.”
“Is there anything else, husband?” Elena asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Dante paused. He looked at her, a flicker of something—maybe annoyance, maybe intrigue—in his dark eyes.
“Yes. We have the Annual Charity Gala at the Met Museum on Friday. My ex-fiancée, Vanessa, will be there. She is the one leading the campaign to have me removed from the board. You need to be convincing.”
“Don’t worry,” Elena said, lifting her chin. “I’m a fast learner.”
The week passed in a strange blur. Elena was poked and prodded by stylists. Her curls were tamed, her nails painted, her wardrobe replaced with silk and cashmere.
But the hardest part was Dante.
He was a ghost in his own home. He worked eighteen hours a day. He drank black coffee and ate protein bars.
One night, Elena couldn’t take it. She went into the sleek, unused kitchen. She found flour, tomatoes, garlic, and basil.
She made pasta. Spaghetti aglio e olio. Simple, rustic, fragrant.
When Dante came home at midnight, the smell hit him. He walked into the kitchen, looking exhausted.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Cooking,” Elena said, plating a dish. “Sit. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I don’t eat carbs after—”
“Sit,” she ordered.
Dante sat. He took a bite. He stopped. He took another. For a moment, the lines of stress on his forehead smoothed out.
“It’s… good,” he murmured. “My grandmother used to make this.”
“It’s peasant food,” Elena said softly, sitting opposite him. “But it keeps you warm.”
Dante looked at her. For the first time, he didn’t look at her like an employee. He looked at her like a woman.
“Why do you care if I’m warm?” he asked.
“Because you paid two million dollars for me,” she shrugged, hiding her blush. “I need to protect the investment.”
Dante chuckled. A low, rusty sound. “Touché, Mrs. Moretti.”
Chapter 3: The Gala
Friday night arrived.
Elena wore a dress of midnight blue velvet, off-the-shoulder, with a slit that went up to her thigh. She wore sapphires around her neck—Dante’s family heirlooms.
When she walked into the living room, Dante was waiting in his tuxedo. He turned around. He froze.
He didn’t say a word. He just walked over to her, took her hand, and kissed her knuckles. His lips lingered for a fraction of a second too long.
“Ready for war?” he asked.
“Ready,” she breathed.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was transformed. Flashbulbs blinded them as they stepped onto the red carpet. Reporters screamed Dante’s name.
“Dante! Is this the mystery wife?”
“Mrs. Moretti! Look here!”
Dante placed a protective arm around her waist. It felt strong. Safe.
Inside, the elite of New York were circling like sharks in chiffon.
“Dante, darling.”
The crowd parted. A woman walked toward them. She was blonde, tall, and wore a dress made of silver scales. She looked like a beautiful, poisonous snake.
Vanessa Sterling. The daughter of a media tycoon. Dante’s ex.
“Vanessa,” Dante nodded stiffly.
“I heard the rumors,” Vanessa purred, looking at Elena with open disdain. “But I didn’t believe you’d actually stoop this low. Who is this? The help?”
Elena felt Dante tense up beside her.
“This is my wife, Elena,” Dante said coldly.
“Elena,” Vanessa laughed. “Right. I did a little digging. Rossi’s Panetteria. A failing bakery in Little Italy. Tell me, honey, does he pay you by the hour or by the night?”
The people nearby gasped. A hush fell over the immediate circle.
Elena’s face burned. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run.
“I…” Elena stammered.
“Oh, don’t try to speak,” Vanessa interrupted. She held a glass of red wine. “You don’t speak our language.”
Vanessa “stumbled.”
It was deliberate. Calculated. She tilted her glass, sending a wave of dark red wine splashing toward Elena’s blue dress.
Elena squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the cold liquid and the humiliation.
But it never hit her.
Chapter 4: The Protection
Elena opened her eyes.
Dante had stepped in front of her.
The red wine dripped down the front of his pristine white tuxedo shirt. He had used his own body as a shield.
The room went deadly silent.
Vanessa paled. “Dante… I… you got in the way.”
Dante didn’t look at his ruined shirt. He looked at Vanessa. His eyes were no longer cold espresso. They were black fire.
“Apologize,” Dante said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dante,” Vanessa laughed nervously. “It was an accident. And besides, look at her. She doesn’t belong here.”
Dante took a step forward. The crowd instinctively backed away.
“You are right, Vanessa,” Dante said. “She doesn’t belong here. She is far too good for a room full of vipers like you.”
He reached out and pulled Elena to his side, holding her tight against him.
“You asked if I pay her,” Dante said, addressing the crowd, his voice booming. “Let me clarify something. This woman is not my employee. She is not my trophy. She is my wife. She is the only person in this room who has shown me kindness without asking for a cent in return.”
He looked at Vanessa.
“And as for her background? Yes, she is a baker’s daughter. And she has more class in her little finger than you have in your entire trust fund.”
Dante took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
“Moretti Capital is pulling all investments from Sterling Media as of tomorrow morning,” Dante declared. “I don’t do business with people who disrespect my family.”
Vanessa gasped. “You can’t! That will bankrupt my father!”
“Then maybe he should have taught you manners,” Dante said.
He took off his tuxedo jacket—the dry one—and draped it over Elena’s shoulders.
“Come, Elena,” he said softly. “This party is boring. Let’s go get a slice of pizza.”
He led her out of the Met, leaving a stunned crowd and a ruined ex-fiancée in his wake.
Chapter 5: The Contract Burns
The car ride home was silent, but the air was charged with electricity.
When they got back to the penthouse, Elena turned to him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered. “You ruined your shirt. You lost a business partner.”
Dante took off his wine-stained shirt, tossing it onto the floor. He stood there in his undershirt, looking at her with an intensity that made her knees weak.
“I didn’t care about the shirt,” he said, walking toward her. “When she looked at you like that… I wanted to burn the building down.”
“Why?” Elena asked, her breath hitching. “It’s just a contract, Dante.”
“Is it?”
He was standing right in front of her now. He reached out and touched her cheek.
“I haven’t been able to sleep since you moved in,” Dante confessed. “I smell your cooking. I hear you singing in the shower. I see you fighting for your father. And I realized something terrifying.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to leave in a year,” he said. “I don’t want you to leave ever.”
He leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn’t a tentative first kiss. It was a claiming. It was hungry and desperate. Elena wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the contract forgotten, the fake marriage dissolving into something undeniably real.
Chapter 6: The Final Twist
The next morning, sunlight flooded the penthouse. Elena woke up in Dante’s bed, his arm draped heavy over her waist. She felt happy.
Then, her phone buzzed.
It was a news alert.
SCANDAL AT MORETTI CAPITAL: THE BILLION DOLLAR SHAM MARRIAGE.
Elena froze. She clicked the link.
There was a photo of the contract. The signature page. The “Termination Clause.”
Source: Anonymous leak (Vanessa Sterling).
The article was brutal. Dante Moretti hires desperate baker to secure inheritance. Fraud. Deception.
Elena shook Dante awake. “Dante. Look.”
Dante read the screen. His jaw clenched.
“The board meeting,” he said, sitting up. “They’re going to use this to fire me. They’re meeting in an hour.”
“I’m sorry,” Elena cried. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have signed it.”
Dante stood up. He didn’t look worried. He looked determined.
“Get dressed, Elena.”
“Where are we going? To pack my things?”
“No,” Dante grabbed her hand. “We’re going to tell the truth.”
The boardroom was packed. The lawyers were there. Vanessa was there, sitting next to the Chairman, looking smug.
“Dante,” the Chairman said. “This contract is damning. You defrauded the trust. You are removed as CEO, effective immediately.”
“It was a fake marriage!” Vanessa shouted. “He doesn’t love her!”
Dante walked to the head of the table. Elena stood by the door, terrified.
“You have the contract,” Dante said calmly. “It’s true. I hired her.”
“Ha!” Vanessa clapped. “See!”
“However,” Dante continued, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a lighter.
He picked up the physical copy of the contract sitting on the table.
“What are you doing?” the Chairman asked.
“This contract,” Dante said, flicking the lighter. “Was for a business arrangement.”
He set the corner of the paper on fire. He held it up as it curled into ash and smoke.
“But that arrangement is void.”
Dante turned to the door. “Elena, come here.”
Elena walked over to him.
Dante reached into his pocket again. This time, he didn’t pull out a lighter. He pulled out a velvet box.
He dropped to one knee.
The entire boardroom gasped. Vanessa stood up, her mouth open.
“Dante?” Elena whispered.
“The contract is gone,” Dante said, looking up at her. “I don’t want a fake wife. I want a real one. I want to fight with you, I want to eat your pasta, I want to have kids with you who are as stubborn as their mother.”
He opened the box. A yellow diamond, bright as the sun, sat inside.
“Elena Rossi, I love you. Will you marry me? For real this time? No expiration date.”
Elena looked at the man who had saved her, the man she had saved right back.
“Yes,” she cried. “Yes, you idiot.”
Dante stood up and kissed her. The board members, despite themselves, started clapping. Even the Chairman wiped a tear.
Dante broke the kiss and looked at the Chairman.
“My grandfather’s clause said I needed to be a ‘stable family man,'” Dante smiled. “I’d say I just met the requirement. Wouldn’t you?”
The Chairman slammed his gavel. “Motion to remove Dante Moretti… DENIED. Congratulations, son.”
Dante looked at Vanessa.
“Security,” Dante said pleasantly. “Please escort Ms. Sterling out. She’s trespassing.”
Epilogue
Six months later.
Rossi & Moretti’s opened in Little Italy. It was a bakery and a bistro.
Elena was behind the counter, covered in flour. Dante walked in. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He was wearing jeans and a sweater.
“CEO taking a day off?” Elena teased.
“I delegated,” Dante grinned, leaning over the counter to kiss her. “Besides, the boss of this place is much scarier than my board of directors.”
“Your dad is in the back,” Elena smiled. “He’s teaching your grandfather how to make cannoli.”
Dante looked toward the kitchen, where his formerly estranged grandfather was laughing with Elena’s dad.
He looked back at his wife. The contract had been for money. But the payout had been everything.
“I love you, Mrs. Moretti,” he whispered.
“I love you too, Mr. Moretti,” she replied. “Now, put on an apron. We’re short-staffed.”
Dante Moretti, the King of Wall Street, put on a pink apron and started kneading dough. And he had never been happier.
[The End]
