Chapter 1

ONE

Laura

P reparing to be a bride is exhausting. Even more so when you barely know the groom .

The clipping of the gardener's shears outside the floor-to-ceiling window lined up with the thud of my footsteps as they hit the treadmill. Running had to be invented by the devil himself; I detested it. After my short but furious workout session, the mirror showed how red and shiny my face was, sweat dripping down and making me look like an overly oiled tomato.

The sun beamed into the home gym, adding more heat to my already melting body. I had to convince Daddy to get some blinds. Bill, the gardener, shuffled from one hedge to another as I tried to keep up some sort of pace. My lungs felt like they were going to explode, my pulse contributing to the cacophony of noise in my ears. Hitting the lower speed button, I gave in to defeat.

Three weeks to my wedding day wasn't enough to try to shave off the extra pounds I had. I didn't even care about them, really, but my mother sure did.

'Laura, should you be eating pasta?'

'Laura, look at the way your stomach bulges in those trousers.'

‘Laura, have you come across this new diet?'

I tried to reason with her that Massimo had seen me in all my not-entirely slim glory, and he still wanted to marry me, but she was having none of it.

'There will be pictures, my dear. Pictures last forever.'

By twenty-six, I'd expected my life to have been a bit more exciting than sitting around waiting to marry the man my father chose for me. Thank god he was my type, at least. Tall, dark, and handsome, the classic trio. Massimo Ricci wouldn't have been out of place on the cover of one of those rippling ab magazines. By far, he's hotter than any of the guys I'd briefly dated at university. Other than those illicit dalliances, my parents kept me on a tight leash—and not even in a good way. My parents filled my days with dinner parties and events, gallery visits whenever another one of my mother's friends decided to pick up a paintbrush or have some other wealthy mid-life crisis.

A life of champagne and caviar wasn't so bad, but recently things had become more strained between my parents. While they hadn't exactly married for love, their relationship has always been easy. Mother hosted, Daddy worked. Elijah, my brother, and I followed them about in a suitably gendered manner. Elijah followed Daddy into business, while I spent my days with the same fake smile plastered on my face as my mother did.

Would it be any better becoming Massimo's wife? The letters he sent me every few weeks promised passion and desire, a marriage filled with excitement. Maybe I could finally put my degree to use by starting a business. I found it laughable that my brother would inherit everything, despite me having a business degree. At least, laughing spared me from crying about it.

I leaned my sweaty head against my hands, elbows resting on the treadmill's console, attempting to convince my pounding heart that it needn't burst out of my chest. After all, people exercised daily and lived to tell the tale. The wobble in my legs only added to my body's protest. It wasn't even like I disliked my body; a little softness felt good on me. However, my mother's dismay at being slimmer than me, at fifty and after having two children, was hard to ignore. She seemed oblivious to the fact that while Elijah took after her willowy appearance; I favoured my father. I inherited his overly large blue-green eyes and his pale English skin tone. Even our hair was the same mousy brown colour. No wonder Elijah was the golden child; he was her spitting image, with his blond hair and long legs.

What she despised the most was that I didn't hate myself. If I had, she'd at least have known I was suffering and striving to change, which would have validated her feelings about me.

But fuck her. Massimo was going to marry me as I was, and I would finally be free. I'd have my own home, my own allowance, and I'd be able to do whatever I wanted. I couldn't bloody wait.

After wiping off the equipment, I headed to my room, stopping by the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. As I leaned back against the counter, it occurred to me I had no idea what my new home with Massimo looked like. He wasn't one for social media, and he'd never sent pictures. According to my mother, he had a few homes, mostly in Southern Italy, but his primary residence was in London. That's where we'd begin our married life.

Sipping my ice-cold water, I glanced over the sleek expanse of my mother's kitchen. It was the heart of our home and was as perfect and controlled as she was. Hell, the entire house was like the inside of a brand-new fridge—all spotless, white and chrome. And cold. There wasn't an ounce of warmth or comfort. Everything shone, yet nothing made me feel any sense of belonging. We'd only moved into the new mansion two years ago, in a leafy suburb of Manchester. I'd wanted to stay in the south, near my friends, but Daddy had insisted we move. The house was bigger than our old one, but felt a million miles away from my old life. And far too sterile. A little colour would liven it right up.

'Oh, sweetie, you've been working out,' my mother said as she walked into the room, eyeing my red face. I focused on her and forced a smile. 'Good, good. This came for you.'

She thrust an envelope toward me, her eyes glittering at Massimo's neat, cursive writing on the front.

My pulse leapt all over again as my mind raced to what delicious words it might contain.

'Aren't you going to open it?' she asked, a little too eagerly, pressing a button on the coffee machine. It whirred into action, depositing a dark, heavily scented espresso into a petite white cup.

'After I shower, I'm sweating like a pig.'

'Laura Eloise Redgrave, you are a woman. You do not sweat like a pig.' My mother's face hardened, and I struggled to hold back a laugh.

'So what do you call this?' I showed my sweat-stained t-shirt.

'Just a light sheen, sweetie.'

'Well, my light sheen and I are going to shower off. What are we doing for dinner tonight?'

My mother set one of her fake smiles on me and glazed over as though she was checking a mental diary of events. 'I have dinner with the girls from the country club. Daddy is out with Elijah on some business thing. You'll have to fend for yourself.'

I maintained enough decorum not to punch the air with my fist and say fuck yes.

'No problem,' I said as I took my water and my envelope and headed for the stairs in the large, open foyer.

'There's avocado and prawn salad in the refrigerator. You don't need to order anything in.' Her voice wafted after me, and I rolled my eyes. As if I was going to waste a night-in on my own on a fridge salad.

T he crunch of mother's tires on the gravel driveway rose from outside as the evening sun cast luscious streaks of golden light through my windows. With spring newly abound, it felt like my life was unfurling like a new flower. The sweet scent of almond shampoo lingered in my freshly washed hair as I laid back on my bed, tearing into Massimo's letter.

My fingers trembled lightly while my eager eyes danced over the page. Biting my lip, I tried to savour the moment. I'd received a letter for each of the three months of our engagement, and with each one, my desire for my soon-to-be husband grew. After Daddy proposed the idea, it took weeks for me to agree to marry him. Dads didn't pick their daughters' partners in England, at least not since the Victorian era. I'd thought he'd gone bananas at the idea.

Until I met Massimo.

He towered over me, his dark hair sweeping over his tanned forehead. His words tinged with a deeply attractive Italian twang, and I'd practically wet my knickers on the spot. When he'd swept my hand up in his warm fingers and pressed a kiss to it, I'd made an illegible peep as my eyes bugged. Like my very own fairytale prince, he rescued me from my parents' overbearing tower.

It would have been perfect had I only got to spend more time with him ahead of the wedding itself. I hoped he wouldn't work as hard once we married. We had two weeks booked in paradise to get to know one another after the wedding, on his multi-million-pound yacht. Daddy had been on it once for a business meeting and told me all about it. The yacht had a chef and staff on call, and it had been decorated to the nines. I couldn't wait.

Finally, giving in, I read the letter. It was shorter than the others, but still left me squirming on the bed.

Sweetest Laura ,

How I countdown the minutes until I can see you again. The last few weeks have felt like an eternity without another glimpse of your beautiful smile. My heart aches to hold you close, to run my fingers through your hair and feel your warmth against me. Night after night, I drift off to sleep with your gorgeous face filling my dreams and your name lingering on my lips. I long for the moment we can finally be together again, just you and me. How I suffer, my darling. Do you suffer as I do?

I cannot wait to wake up to the sweet melody of your voice every day, my love. To wrap you up against my chest and drink from your lips like a man desperate for the smallest taste of your divinity.

I count down the minutes, Laura.

Your love,

Massimo

My duvet squished beneath my bare feet as I wriggled on the bed, clutching the letter to my chest. Massimo was like something from my storybooks. A billionaire with dashing good looks and so utterly devoted to me already. I grinned up at my ceiling and pushed down the quiet whispers of doubt that crept up into my head.

You don't even know him.

Why would he want you?

It's a business deal.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I banished the niggles from my mind. No-one had demanded he send me letters. No-one had asked him to be so charming when we'd met. He'd been the perfect gentleman, engaged and interested. There were no red flags, so my brain needed to knock it off already. Not every guy was all Tinder dates and booty calls. He could be good without being too good to be true.

We could be happy.

We would be happy.

Together.

A note slipped from the envelope, a hardness in the middle of its folded centre. I opened it and stared. The golden credit card held my name on the front. Running my fingers over the raised lettering, I read through the briefer note.

A gift for you.

Buy yourself whatever your heart desires. Clothing for our trip. Jewellery. Anything that makes you smile.

There's no limit.

M x

I squealed as I sat up and read the note twice more. While my parents were wealthy, they kept Elijah and me on small stipends compared to our friends. To foster independence, so they said. But my fiance apparently had no such reservations. With absolute glee, I pulled up my phone's browser and immediately set to doing a bit of shopping therapy. My engagement ring sparkled in the last streaks of the evening light, sending dancing reflections across my thighs.

It reminded me that soon I'd no longer be the woman living at home under my parents' rule. No, the woman I was shopping for would be a wife to a very wealthy and adoring man. I needed clothing that said sophisticated and poise. Less English rose and far more European chic.

I had some research to do.

And some money to spend.