CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

T HE CAR MOVED smoothly down the road. A road that wouldn’t dare to have any imperfections. No potholes. No uneven surfaces to jar the elite residents it welcomed home.

And Emma Cappetta was coming home.

She was one of the elite in her chauffeur-driven car. In her designer black skirt suit and red-soled heels with metal tips that clattered on hard floors and sank deeply into newly turned soil.

The car stopped, and Emma stepped out into the night.

Her feet ached, her body hurt and her heart was wounded.

She paused at the bottom of the white stone steps. Her hand resting on the black metal handrail, she stared at the black door and gold knocker, at the entrance to the five-storey Edwardian building she’d called home for almost a year.

She’d only been away for fourteen days, enough to pack up her mother’s life and prepare for today, her mother’s funeral.

But oh, how easily she’d slipped back into her old life in Birmingham, how easily it had welcomed her back, how comfortable she’d felt in the childhood home she’d shared with her mum. The photos of them on the walls. The warmth. The smell. She’d slept so soundly in her old bed with the neighbour’s conversation drifting clearly through the thin walls.

The estate, the crumbling roads, the potholes, the chatter of children out too late playing in the community playground...it had embraced her as if she’d never left.

Two weeks. That’s all it had taken. Two weeks to unmask the lie of the life she’d been living for almost a year. She didn’t belong here in London, in this beautiful house.

This wasn’t... home.

The door opened and she moved through it, her throat tightening as she did.

She took the first step, and another, until she stood face-to-face with the dipped head of the butler.

‘Mrs Cappetta,’ he acknowledged. ‘Would you like some tea to be arranged for you in the sitting room?’

Emma smiled, but it was barely a twitch. ‘No, thank you, James.’ She moved past him, her heels clicking on the marble-floored reception area.

‘Is there anything else I can get for you?’

Dante?

Her nose pinched.

She still wanted him.

And that want was like a constant hunger in her stomach. Inside her. Even now, when the veil had lifted from her eyes and she knew the undeniable truth: that she meant nothing to her husband.

She was a fool.

Today had been her mother’s funeral, and he hadn’t come. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t sent a card.

The one time she’d really needed him, he’d hadn’t been there.

Just like your dad.

Emma’s heart clenched.

What had she expected? Her husband was only ever there for the thrill. For the sex. For her body. Never for anything... real .

‘No, I don’t need anything,’ she told James, because she had no physical needs. What she had needed was her husband’s support. His presence. His compassion.

And it wasn’t just that he hadn’t been there; it was the very fact she needed him at all. That realisation was unravelling everything she’d ever believed about herself, about their relationship. And about this life she’d been living with Dante .

Her heart ached acutely behind her breastbone.

‘If there’s nothing else, Mrs Cappetta...’

‘Thank you.’

James nodded and left her alone.

Alone as she’d been all day.

Just today?

The voice in her head mocked her. Because it was true. It had taken the death of her mother, her funeral, for her to understand.

But now she did understand .

The weight on her shoulders doubled, anchoring her to the spot.

Her eyes moved, taking in the plush silk rugs, the hand-carved and intricate side tables with professional lighting installed to highlight the priceless art hanging in just the right spot to awe and please.

It was a museum of priceless artefacts collected and displayed in a house that showed no signs—no evidence—of the people it housed.

No evidence of them .

It was further proof she didn’t belong here.

The inner-city girl who had grown up surrounded by discoloured high-rises had no business here in Mayfair.

She had no right—no claim—to any of it.

The tendons contracted in her throat.

She hadn’t realised it before, hadn’t seen it, but she was in too deep.

Had she already fallen victim in the same way her mother had? Fallen in—

No . This wasn’t love.

Love didn’t exist. It was an illusion. And her mother had been punished for her folly. She’d been left broken-hearted time and time again. It’s what had killed her, led to a heart attack at forty-three.

Emma straightened her spine.

The lie of love had killed her mother.

And it would kill her too if she allowed these feelings to take hold of her.

Emma slipped off her shoes where she stood and made her way to the spiral staircase. Two at a time, she climbed them.

She entered her bedroom. Their bedroom.

At the sight of the perfectly made bed, heat engulfed her. She couldn’t help thinking of the nights, the mornings or the afternoons she’d spent in it. In his arms.

Sex wasn’t the problem. It never had been. In fact, it’s what had started it all.

Emma couldn’t let herself think of that now.

She moved to the desk positioned by the balcony doors to the view of the secret garden below.

There were only three secret gardens in London. Emma and Dante had visited all of them before they settled on this one. On this view from their bedroom. On this house.

He’d never promised her a home. He’d promised her a year. One year to allow the chemistry that raged between them to burn itself out.

And she hadn’t been able to say no.

She’d agreed to the terms of this marriage because she’d wanted what her mother had never had. Security . Financially and emotionally.

When had it changed? she wondered. When had she started to want... more ? More of Dante’s time? His friendship? Companionship? Support?

Because she wanted all those things, didn’t she? Had needed them today and felt their absence when he hadn’t been at her side.

She couldn’t really be mad; she hadn’t directly asked him to be there. But she’d told him the day and the time of the funeral service.

Emma wanted to wail as the truth assaulted her.

When had she got in so deep that his absence hurt?

She twisted the gold band on her finger.

It meant nothing. It was nothing more than a certificate of purchase. A twelve-month rental plan that she’d willingly agreed to.

And she hated it. Hated herself for how attached she’d become to a man.

For nearly twelve months, she’d waited for him, been ready for him. For him to visit her bed. A bed they shared when he returned from his endless business trips abroad that he’d never taken her, his wife, on. And those trips had got longer. And longer.

Marriage was the lie she’d always believed it was, wasn’t it?

Her relationship with Dante was no different from the relationship her parents shared. A relationship where her mother was always waiting for her father to come back to her.

Emma believed she’d created something different. That she’d been in control in a way her mother never had been.

She sighed. Heavily.

She was still lying to herself, wasn’t she?

It wasn’t the marriage that was the lie. The marriage was everything Dante had promised it would be.

She’d changed. She wanted more. More than she knew Dante could ever give. And knowing that would kill her.

Emma padded back across the room and threw open her walk-in wardrobe. So many clothes. So many gifts he’d given her. So many things .

And he could keep them all.

These things meant nothing, not to her, not to him.

Even she was a possession he kept shiny and clean, in preparation for the time he’d take her out of her box and display her for his pleasure.

She was only an extension of his collection.

She wasn’t part of the elite. This wasn’t her home, and what she’d agreed to wasn’t a marriage.

Not the marriage she needed anyway.

Not anymore.

She opened the drawers and withdrew every velvet box and bag, lined them up on the bed in an array of colours and sizes. Over two dozen gifts he’d presented her with every time he returned to her, right before he’d seduced her. Bedded her. And then left. Over and over again.

She gazed at her left hand, at her engagement ring, the blue stone in its centre. Her birthstone. Then her gaze moved to the plain gold band. Her wedding ring.

They meant nothing. More meaningless gifts.

But the urge was to keep them. To leave them there, to remind herself what happened when you let yourself feel.

No.

She slipped the rings off and placed them in the middle of the pile of gifts.

Would he even recognise the symbolic importance of her rings there with all the other jewels?

She pulled out a single piece of paper and an envelope from her side drawer.

What to write?

She was angry at him, but at herself most of all. Angry for wanting things she’d decided long ago that she couldn’t have if she was to keep her heart safe.

How did she explain this wasn’t about love, that it wasn’t him that had broken his promise? It was her.

She picked up the fancy ink pen and wrote three words he’d understand. Three words that would have given him the permission to end their marriage.

She collected her rings, and dropped them inside the envelope, with her note, and sealed it.

She placed it on her pillow.

When he returned, this would be the first place he’d come. To find her willing and waiting. As she always had been.

Except this time she wouldn’t be here.

Emma turned and made her way out of the room and down the stairs. She slipped her heels back on, walked to the front door and opened it. She stepped outside and gripped the handle to the door. She held on tight, looking back at the lie of the life she thought she could have had.

‘Goodbye,’ she said to the house, to the things and to him.

Emma pulled the door closed and let go of the handle. She let go of all the lies she’d told herself for the last year, and readied herself to face the bold truth of what came next.

Divorce.

Two days later...

Dante Cappetta signed his name with elegant flicks.

It was a simple document. It outlined as much as the first contract he’d presented to her. The only difference was the time they’d remain married.

Dante stared at the empty signature box. He didn’t imagine it would be empty for long. Soon, so very soon, his wife would sign her name without hesitation and bind herself to him for an additional three years of marital bliss.

Four weeks remained on their original marriage contract, but there was no need to wait until then to present her with a new agreement.

He was... satisfied . And he wanted her to have this gift. An early present for being... perfect .

He closed the contract.

But he felt it. An easiness. Something close, he supposed, to contentedness, because the urge was not for more as it always was with the Cappetta men to climb higher peaks, or to parachute over more perilous terrains.

The urge was simply to keep things with Emma the same. To keep her.

He settled into the leather recliner and watched the lights twinkle over the dark city of London.

The Cappetta Travel Empire had its fingers in every pie: airlines, boats, hotels. They had headquarters in every important travel capital, with offices everywhere else they were required, but never had one city taken precedence over another.

Dante simply went where he was most in demand, and before Emma, women chased him . Followed him to any God-given destination, and did all they could to attract his attention.

He’d eventually made a game of which socialite it would be this week. Sometimes they’d tried to seduce him in duos.

But never had he travelled for a woman. Never had he returned to any specific destination because his skin ached to feel a woman’s touch. Never had he tried to beat the sun to make sure he was in a woman’s bed before she woke to wake her with his kiss.

But he did these things for her.

For his wife.

Their marriage was a contract; it was not about love or friendship. It was a way of controlling the fire that raged between them. A way for him to have the one woman who consumed him, again and again, whenever he wanted.

He had thought one year would be enough. Enough to satisfy the hunger.

In the past, Dante had played by the rules his father had written. That playbook had suited him just fine. Until Emma... So many rules didn’t apply to her because she was different from any other woman he’d ever taken to bed.

And that’s why he was proposing they extend their contract by an additional three. Because the heat between them was too hot to ignore. But most of all, because Emma understood the rules of their marriage and she played by them so beautifully. They wanted the same things.

The plane landed without ceremony.

Dante collected the contract, slipped it inside his briefcase and closed the golden clasps.

He descended the stairs and got into the waiting car.

Ten minutes and he’d be back at the house they shared.

He wasn’t so naive. This obsession with her, his little crush, would end. Eventually . Then and only then would he end it.

But not yet.

Three more years should suffice. He was sure. And then he and she would part ways amicably.

He hadn’t spoken to Emma for two weeks. But his people had informed him his wife had returned safely to their Mayfair residence two days ago.

Funerals, they were horrid things. When his father died, Dante had jumped out of a plane rather than attend. And what would have been the point anyway? Burying an empty casket seemed pointless. When people went missing at sea, there were no bodies.

Besides, funerals were for the living to mourn and weep, and to claim closure. None of which Dante required. He’d never loved his father. Never had a relationship with him that required closure. The only thing his father had left him was his playbook, the only inheritance Dante had ever required.

And Dante knew by heart the script his father had written: never give away your power. Always be in control. Let no one get too close. Never let them leave first. Never give them the opportunity to hurt you.

The only woman who had ever done that was his mother.

Technically, she’d left them both. Her husband and her son. But it mattered little. He’d couldn’t remember her. He certainly didn’t need her.

But Emma wasn’t like him. And she had done all the dutiful things she thought a daughter should do for her mother’s funeral. She had wanted closure. She hadn’t felt the need to run from her past by whatever means necessary.

It was why he had never taken her with him when he was away on business. His work took him deep into dangerous territory, exploring unmapped lands and canyons. Emma didn’t want to explore the unknown. She liked the status quo. Normality . And that’s what he gave her.

That’s why they worked so well.

He lived his life, and she lived hers, and then they both came back to each other. No mind games.

If she had a need, he met it. As he had for the entirety of their marriage—as he would continue to do until their marriage ended.

Their arrangement suited them both. And she was content. He knew, because why wouldn’t she be happy? His billions give her access to everything she could ever want, including him.

The car travelled through London’s sleeping streets until it reached the house he and Emma shared. Swiftly, he made his way inside, depositing his briefcase at the foot of the staircase.

Anticipation shot through him.

For twenty-one days he hadn’t touched his wife, hadn’t felt the warmth of her skin.

He’d flown through the night to reach her before the sun rose. Before the staff woke. Before she woke.

He eyed the curling stairs, with intricate carved patterns adorning the white banister. He knew which step creaked and which whined, which could alert her to his presence. They were the final part of his journey back to her.

His body pulsed.

The slow ascent was agonising. But finding his wife soft and pliant would be worth it.

Bed soft, he liked to call it, when the body was torn between waking and dreams. Everything, every muscle, oversensitised. And she’d come awake, alive with him beside her. Touching her.

He toed off his shoes, shrugged off his suit jacket and let it fall to the floor. He removed his tie. Attacked the buttons of his crisp, white shirt with silent precision, letting it float the way of his suit jacket.

The thrill remained the same as ever. The excitement of making love to her ever present.

It moved inside him now, as strong as the night they’d met.

Need.

He unbuckled his belt and guided his trousers and boxers down his firm thighs.

Oh, God, he was hard. So hard.

Naked now, he ascended the stairs with stealthy speed.

Adrenaline pumped through him. He almost growled at the ferocity of the anticipation of surprising her with his unexpected homecoming. But he remained silent.

He wanted to wake her with a kiss. A kiss she’d reciprocate with a speed that always floored him. Excited him beyond measure. Her effortless enthusiasm. Her absolute adoration of him.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, he opened the bedroom door.

Darkness.

He moved towards the bed on silent feet. He couldn’t see a thing, but he knew this bedroom. This bed. His wife. Waiting for him. Curled into herself. Her blond hair would be strewn across the pillow, waiting for his fingers to grip it. He would draw her mouth to his.

He slipped between the sheets, reached for her. ‘Emma?’ he said, calling to her in the darkness. And he could taste it. The longing in every syllable of her name. The yearning to be in her arms and accept her welcome.

Her side of the bed was... cold .

It was a large bed. He moved closer. Stretched out his arms, his long legs, his feet—searching for her. The warmth of her tiny toes to stroke against his. Her soft body to pull into his.

Something on the bed—on her side—clattered to the floor.

He slammed on the lights.

Jewellery boxes. A dozen had toppled onto the floor. He picked up the only black velvet bag to remain on the bed, opened it and withdrew a necklace from within. It dangled between his fingers. A white gold chain tipped with the clearest diamond...

Where was she? It was barely four in the morning.

He dropped the necklace and bag onto the bed.

He pulled back the sheets and stepped out of the bed. His toes sunk into the carpet with every footfall as he opened her walk-in wardrobe. Nothing was out of place. Had she laid out all her jewellery to decide what to wear and forgotten to put them away? Had she gone out last night and had yet to return?

He frowned. Irritation crawled over his skin. Where would she have gone? With whom?

He didn’t keep tabs on his wife, and he didn’t give her a timetable of his whereabouts either. He didn’t tell her if this work trip was any more dangerous than the last. His clients’ needs differed.

He froze.

A white paper edge stuck up at a sharp triangular angle between the headboard and the pillow.

He freed it.

It was an envelope with his name on it.

Dante tore it open.

The contents fell onto the bed.

Her engagement ring.

Her wedding ring.

He stared at them.

She’d taken them off.

She’d never taken off her rings before. Not even in the shower. Neither had he. Not since she’d slipped it onto his finger in the courthouse.

And yet, here they were.

Her rings.

He turned the envelope upside down and shook it. A little rectangular slip of paper slipped free.

Her elegant handwriting swirled before his eyes: “I want out.”

His body tightened with a pulse of emotion he didn’t recognise. Didn’t like.

But he felt stripped down. Exposed beyond his nakedness.

She’d left him?

No, she wouldn’t leave him. Didn’t have any reason to leave—

Realisation dawned.

He’d made a mistake. Miscalculated. By letting his wife know how much he wanted her, he’d given her everything she needed to play him like a fiddle.

She’s never played games before.

No, she hadn’t. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t playing games now. So, what did she want? More money? A larger settlement if she remained married to him?

His temples throbbed. It made no sense. It was completely out of character. And yet, she was gone. But that was what women did, wasn’t it? They left when it suited them.

Dante picked up the simple gold band and slipped it onto his little finger. And there it sat beside his own.

He let out a deep, calming breath.

Emma would come back.

And when she did, he’d close the door in her face.