Chapter 1

LEANDRO brACED HIS PALMS against the cool marble of the kitchen counter, his eyes lingering on the panoramic views revealed by the penthouse's expansive wall of windows. In every direction, high rises seemed to lift from the ground, glistening all over with a mix of lights and reflections, the sky of Manhattan a deep, inky black.

A depth of darkness that matched his mood.

With a grimace that had been in place for almost a week, with the exception of when he'd been forced to don a tight smile for his brother's official wedding photos, he lifted the scotch to his lips, closing his eyes as the sharp, spiced flavour hit him hard.

Which was just what Leandro Valentino wanted.

To be hit, hard.

To feel.

To feel something other than shock and anger and betrayal, to be shaken out of this nightmare and brought back into something resembling reality.

"Is it true? Mother? Father? I don't even know what to call you."

"We're still your parents," Patrizia had sobbed.

"Like hell you are. I'm adopted. And no one thought to tell me?"

Patrizia flinched. "You are our son, in every way that matters?—,"

"Except I'm not. I was not born to you, I am not a part of you. God," he dragged a hand through his hair. "I don't know who you are anymore. I don't know who I am."

Would he ever know who he was?

All of the features that had been so familiar to him before the discovery were now utterly foreign. Where once he'd seen a hint of his mother's nose in his own or the crinkle of his father's eyes in his own face, he now realised he'd been chasing ghosts. Imagining things. Believing himself to be something he was not.

His siblings were not his own.

Nothing about his life made sense anymore.

He drained his scotch then reached for the bottle. Empty. That's right. He'd made a fair go of it the night before, choosing to get drunk in his hotel room and watch sport on TV rather than spend the night with the remainder of the wedding guests, who were all intent on celebrating Andie and Max's incredible love.

Sure, Leandro was happy for Max.

They might not be related by blood, but he'd thought of the guy as his brother for almost three decades. Obviously, he wanted the best for him.

Which was why he'd pushed aside the emotional shitshow that was his life and forced himself to go to the wedding without making a fuss. He interacted with people as required, posed for the damned photos, but that was where he drew the line. He didn't talk to his parents more than was absolutely necessary, and as soon as the cake had been cut, he slipped out of the party and went to his room, preferring to be alone rather than under the spotlight of so many guests.

He set the scotch bottle down on the counter and moved to the fully stocked bar.

Valentino hotels were renowned for their luxury and the penthouses were next level.

He removed a red wine from Napa, uncorked it and poured a glass. It was excellent—robust and full of flavour—he drank more quickly than he should have.

Prior to this week, Leandro had not been a man to drink alone. Not more than the occasional glass of scotch, anyway, at the end of a long day. This week had changed him.

It had changed everything.

He placed the glass of wine down on top of the bar, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. His insides were spinning, his organs in a strange, wonky state of discombobulation. He wanted to go back in time to when things had been simple, to when he'd known where, when and with whom he belonged. But he couldn't. There was no rewinding time, no disputing facts.

At first, when he'd seen the reference to his adoption in a huge pile of documents he'd requested from the family law firm, he thought there'd been a mistake. He'd actually laughed. Because he was a Valentino through and through. He had the same strength, height, symmetrical features, dark eyes. He was one of them. He'd asked his parents almost as a way of bringing them in on the humorous error, but one look at his mother's pale face and his father's shaking hands had sent a blade of lightning through his gut.

It was no mistake.

He was not a Valentino.

He reached for the glass of wine without looking and when his fingers brushed the stem, they missed, knocking it over and onto the thick, cream carpet.

He swore, the spreading red stain a perfect metaphor for the mess of his life. He stared at it for several seconds, knowing he should do something to clean it up. He hadn't been raised to disrespect property. It didn't matter how many billions he had to his name, his mother—or whatever she was—would never have let him leave a mark like that.

Only, he was so angry with her.

So angry with her decisions.

So angry with the secret she'd kept from him, the lie she'd told every day she'd let him call her mama. He was just so angry in general.

He ignored the wine, but recognized the gnawing feeling in his stomach was more than just churning rage. He stabbed a finger against the phone on one of the occasional tables. It connected him to the VIP Concierge straight away.

"Signore, how may I help you this evening?" A male voice came down the line.

"I need dinner," he clipped.

"Of course, sir. Anything in particular?"

Great question. What did he feel like?

Nothing, if he were honest. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He'd pushed food around his plate at the wedding, then had a candy bar sometime the day later. On cue, his stomach gave a growl.

"Burger. Fries. Pizza. Lobster. Spring Rolls." Suddenly, how much he hadn't eaten in the past few days caught up with him. "Some kind of cake. And another bottle of scotch."

"Of course, sir. Right away."

Leandro hung up the phone and dropped his head forward, staring at his bare feet.

The world seemed to tilt beneath him, but not from the alcohol he'd rapidly consumed. No, that's just how it was now. He was untethered, adrift, a lost soul, with no idea where he belonged, nor with whom, and he truly thought that would never change.

It was justabout the least professional thing Skye could do but she stifled a yawn outside the doors to the Presidential Penthouse Suite, pressing the back of her palm to her soft pink lips and blinking quickly to remove the exhaustion from her eyes. She couldn't believe she'd been roped into doing a double shift again, her fourth in a row. She'd wanted to get home on time tonight, to check on Harper, who'd seemed grizzly that morning—most unusual for her daughter. She pushed aside the maternal worry about her little girl, hoping she wasn't getting sick. Skye hated it when Harper was sick. She hated it because the little almost-two-year old was ordinarily such a bundle of energy, so seeing her wan and pathetic and needing to sleep so much pulled at all Skye's heartstrings. But it was even worse because she couldn't just be with her. All Skye wanted to do when Harper was sick or tired was to cancel work, her whole life, and bundle Harper up in blankets and cuddles, holding her dear little body tight. To simply listen to her sweet, soft breaths, inhaling the scent of her hair, feel her rose-petal soft limbs. Instead, more often than not, she had to hand the little girl over to her mother Irena and run out the door to work.

Because, bills.

Because, responsibility.

Because, she was alone, and no one else could help her with the mess her life had become.

But alone was better—so much better—than being in a miserable relationship with someone like Harper's dad. She shuddered just to think of Jay and how long she'd spent under his thumb, clinging to the stupid, na?ve idea that she could change him.

That he'd change.

That he'd love her enough to start treating her right.

Another yawn threatened; she bit it back, returned her hands to the elegant handles of the room service trolley and continued to push it forward. At the entrance to the suite, she pressed the doorbell, and waited.

When she'd first starting working at the hotel, she'd found this kind of thing almost paralyzingly awful. The hotel hosted some of the biggest celebrities in the world. It was not unusual for her to bring a room service cart up and find an Oscar winner in a bathrobe, or a bestselling singer clicking their fingers for the food to be brought in. She'd been petrified! But very quickly, she'd become used to it. She'd come to realise that for all the veneer and glamour that came with wealth and success, these were actually just people, with messy kitchen tables and unwashed dishes in the sink, cell phone chargers strung over coffee tables and the TV running in the background.

Normal people who needed expensive food at all hours of the day or night—and that was her job.

To bring food, lay it out and then leave. Invisible, professional, silent.

She waited for the door to open and was just about to press the button again when one side opened inwards, revealing a man in a button down shirt and trousers. Bare feet. Hair short cropped and dark brown, eyes even darker. Handsome—strikingly so—and somehow a little overwhelming. Features chiseled, lips flattened in a line of disapproval. Disapproval. Of her?

"Yes?" He had an accent, and his voice was gruff.

Cross?

Was it possible this was some kind of game of ding-dong-ditch? That he wasn't expecting her? But, no. There was no way anyone had pranked him with a room service order. It wasn't possible. Guest privacy was an important tenet of the hotel—in-room services could only be requested from a phone line in the corresponding room.

"Room service," she reminded him, eyes dropping to the glass of red wine in his hand.

He looked at the trolley as if seeing it for the first time, then nodded a little jerkily. "Right. Come in."

He gestured into the room. As she walked past him, she caught a hint of his cologne. She couldn't identify any of the flavour notes but it smelled expensive, just like he looked. Just like she knew this room was. One night here cost more than a month's rent for most people.

And while it was a very beautiful, spacious hotel suite, with stunning views of the city she loved so much, she couldn't imagine anyone being content to waste that kind of money on a place to sleep.

Then again, he was probably entertaining. There was enough food on the trolley for multiple people, and a full thousand dollar scotch bottle with four cut-crystal tumblers.

"Where would you like this, sir?"

The man—not a celebrity, though undoubtedly some kind of highflyer—was in the kitchen now, one hip propped against the counter, his eyes resting on Skye's face.

"Here's fine." He gestured to the benchtop.

She frowned. "All of it?"

His eyes moved to the trolley and he grimaced. "Did I order all that?"

"I presume so."

He winced. "Va bene. Sure. All of it." He finished the red wine. "Start with the scotch."

She had been about to lift the pizza off the tray but instead switched to the alcohol, carrying it straight to the man and placing it in front of him, before retrieving four glasses.

"I just need one," he muttered. "Unless you'd care to join me?"

Her eyes widened. She'd been hit on by guests before. It was a bit of an occupational hazard, and she'd always been able to handle herself in those situations. It was usually harmless flirtation, men who were used to calling the shots in their lives thinking a bit of harmless fun with a hotel staffer would idle away a bit of time.

Skye intentionally downplayed her looks when she came to work, wearing minimal make up and scraping her loose, honey blonde hair back into a tight braid, but nothing could hide the fact she had the kind of face women envied and men stared at—with high cheekbones, wide-set crystal blue eyes, naturally pouting lips, and clear, flawless skin. While she'd personally always hated how curvaceous she was, she knew that her hourglass figure was something men seemed to fantasise about, so she kept the stuffy work shirts buttoned all the way up to her neckline, and opted for a skirt rather than trousers, which might have drawn attention to her rounded bottom.

What Skye had never realised though was that downplaying her looks was a bit like trying to dull a star with a permanent marker: it just wasn't possible. So, she'd become practiced at the art of deflection, at polite demurral, resisting without being rude.

But this didn't feel like she was being hit on.

It felt like he was offering her a drink because he was…lonely.

Or, something.

She frowned a little, shaking her head. "I'm working," she explained.

"So?"

"Pretty sure the boss would look down on me drinking that in the middle of a shift."

His frown deepened. "What if he didn't?"

"She," Skye corrected. "My manager is a woman. But it doesn't matter. I can't."

She returned to the trolley, and her mode of polite silence, lifting things off one by one, placing them down, removing the stainless steel lids and stacking them neatly to the side.

She was conscious of him watching her as she worked, but it wasn't creepy. It wasn't like with some of the other guys she'd served, who'd found it hard to accept her demurral.

"Are you close to your parents?"

The question caught her unawares. His voice was thick and husky, his accent European.

She glanced at him, then looked away, her tongue moistening her lower lip as she thought of how to answer that. At the moment, she was so close to them that she lived in her old childhood bedroom. Their help had been essential these past two years. She couldn't have done it without them. Not become a mother; she was naturally good at that stuff.

But leaving Jay…he'd made it almost impossible. His control of their finances, her emails, everything, like tentacles that had become intrinsic to her existence. It was only with her parents' support and help that she'd been able to break free, but it had left her penniless, jobless, and friendless, with a heap of hospital debt from Harper's premature delivery and a week spent in NICU afterwards.

"Yes," she answered. For even though the relationship was not without complexity, she'd always be grateful to them for what they'd done for Harper and her. She wanted to say something to him, like, ‘why do you ask?'. She was curious. Curious in a way she wasn't usually with her well-heeled guests.

But she was a professional, and she needed this job. She wouldn't do anything to risk it, so she offered a courteous smile, took a step backwards and nodded crisply.

"Do you need anything else, sir?"