Chapter 1

1

MAURA

" M arry me, Maura."

The ringing in my ears gets louder and louder until I can barely stop myself from slapping my palms over them and screaming my lungs out. The patrons disappear, and the entire restaurant is just a blur.

My eyes zero in on Martin—his perfectly slicked back blonde hair, the perfect bow tie, the perfect Armani suit, the perfect $250k Patek Philippe shining on his wrist, the perfect row of white teeth.

That's Martin for you. Everything has to be perfect. I mean, he once refused to wear a jacket because of one speck of dust, dust no one could see unless they had microscopic vision. Not to mention the time someone accidentally stepped on his black Ferragamo leather dress shoes, and he straight-up refused to attend the party until he got a new one.

God, it must be exhausting being him.

He's still speaking, his mouth forming words I cannot hear. I feel myself dissociate, my mind wandering to a place far away from here, where he's not across from me, and I'm blissfully free of his presence.

Until everything snaps back into focus.

"...We make sense, baby. Everyone says so. We're a good-looking couple. We're both rich. We belong to the same country club, have the same circle of friends." He leans forward and takes my hand in his. I resist the urge to pull it back. "We'll be the power couple everyone will envy. We'll take trips around the world, buy the yacht you've always wanted, throw parties everyone will kill to get an invite to."

It takes an insane amount of effort not to scoff. Yacht I've wanted? I hate the beach, especially the feeling of sand under my feet. He's the one who's been eyeing the $34-million superyacht to add to his fleet.

I guess even after knowing each other for two decades, the only one he really ever listens to is himself. I'm going to bet everything I have that he has no idea about my favorite color.

My eyes stray toward the shrimp soup in front of me, and I heave a sigh. It's either he doesn't know I'm allergic to seafood, or he intends to kill me right here, right now. I'm leaning toward the latter.

"So, what do you say? We can get married next month in Tuscany or Lake Como or even the Amalfi Coast. The beaches there are divine. We can have the ceremony barefoot. Imagine the society pages filled with photos of our wedding. It will be the wedding of the century!"

And there it is, the real reason he wants to marry me. Not because he loves me and wants to be with me forever. No. Martin wants the prestige and bragging rights that come with being married to Alfred Beck's daughter. He sees me as a notch on his belt, something to help him move higher up the society ladder.

Besides, it doesn't escape my notice that all of our dates are in places where celebrities, millionaires, billionaires, and trust fund babies hang out. It's never somewhere intimate where it's just the two of us. What's the point? Martin needs to be seen. All of his grand gestures are for him and never for me. It's about what makes him look good to others. Never mind what I actually want.

"Maura, people are looking." Martin continues to smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes darting toward the tables behind me. He flips open a small velvet box, revealing a platinum ring with small round diamonds surrounding a massive yellow diamond.

I fucking hate yellow.

He knows it. I know it. Even my mother's dog, Ponyo, knows it.

"Maura," Martin hisses through a smile, his eyes holding a warning. He's never been known for his patience. "This is getting embarrassing. Say yes, smile, and wear the damn ring."

Such a romantic fellow, this guy. Which reminds me that I'm supposed to break up with him today, so this proposal is the last thing I expect. With a sigh, I loosen my hand from under his. "Martin, listen. I can't?—"

His eyes widen at the realization that I'm going to humiliate him in front of dozens of other diners. In the blink of an eye, the earlier mirth and warmth are replaced by hostility, and he squeezes my hand … hard. "Maura, there's a violinist who's waiting for my signal so she can start playing your favorite song in front of us."

The squeeze gets increasingly uncomfortable, already bordering on painful. "What's my favorite song, then?"

It's a question he doesn't expect because he furrows his forehead like I just spoke in another language. "What?"

"You said she's about to play my favorite song. What is it?"

"Mozart."

I can't help the laughter that bursts out of me. "I am not that pretentious, Martin." Just as quickly, I wipe any trace of amusement on my face. "Now let go of my hand."

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and his smile gets faker and faker each second, but he lets go and slides the box to me. "Say yes."

"No." The word rolls off my tongue easily. I have catered to his whims for so long that this feels like a win. I usually just agree with what he wants. I've never put my foot down for anything. This being the first time, I rest both hands on my lap and blink up at him. "I can't marry you. In fact, I'm breaking up with you."

He goes completely still before his head slowly swivels as he glances around us, no doubt taking note of how many are watching us. "You're joking."

"Martin, I'm done with you. I can't do this anymore."

"Why? Haven't I given you everything you wanted?"

"Like what?"

"I … I don't know. Gifts, dates, everything. I take you shopping."

"I can afford to shop."

Martin props an elbow on the table and leans forward. "I'm not supposed to tell you because it's a surprise, but some of our friends are waiting at the penthouse for the engagement party."

I almost choke on my own saliva. "W-what?"

"Come on, Maura. Just say the word, the violinist plays a song or two, then we'll go upstairs."

Fury roars in my veins. He fully expected me to kowtow to him and say yes to everything. If that doesn't speak volumes about how much he doesn't know about me, then I don't know what else does. "I said no. We're through."

Martin runs a hand through his hair. "You can't be serious. Listen, I don't know what your drama is, but can we deal with that later? This is a happy moment."

God, I'm really not getting through him, am I? This is how all of our fights look—him patronizing me, calling me dramatic, and laughing at whatever I say.

Fuck it. I'm done.

The chair scrapes against the white tiles as I back it and stand up, grabbing my purse and slinging it on my shoulder. "Goodbye, Martin."

The smirk on his face disappears when it finally lands on him that I'm deadly serious. I spin on my heel and walk briskly to the doors. It must have taken him a full minute to understand what's happening because I can hear the exact moment he rises from his chair to follow me.

I step out of the restaurant, and the chill of the night air hits me like a refreshing wave, raising hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. I whip my head around, trying to find an escape. I can wait for a taxi, but he'll catch up with me.

Without thinking, I run to the left, my heels clicking on the cobblestone sidewalk.

"Maura! Where the hell are you going?"

As I turn the corner, I spot a guy leaning casually on a big motorcycle under the streetlight. He's like a grim reaper with his black leather pants, black shoes, black shirt, and a black leather jacket slung over his forearm. It's the wrong time for it, but the full sleeve of tattoos on both arms looks … sexy.

A bad idea forms in my head. He could be a serial killer, or he could be waiting for his girlfriend.

"Maura, wait!"

I turn my head slightly to find Martin standing a few steps behind me, hands on his hips, a scowl on his face, his blonde hair already messed up.

"I'll chalk this up to surprise and overwhelming emotions." He shrugs and points a thumb to the restaurant. "Let's go back, say yes, smile, and we'll forget this little drama."

"Fuck you."

The other guy must have heard our exchange because he stands to his full height and rounds his motorcycle, lifting his visor. "You okay, miss?"

I don't have time to dwell on how large he is, how broad his shoulders are, or how I never realized how much I dig the whole all-black leather ensemble until I saw him.

"Stay out of this, pal," Martin bellows and steps toward me.

I waste no time closing the distance between me and the stranger. I can't see his face, but when I rest a hand on his shoulder, it feels like touching a rock. "Please take me away, sir."

"Is he giving you trouble? I can?—"

I shake my head, my tone getting desperate. "Please."

Martin's hand wraps around my elbow, and he wrenches me back. It's so unexpectedly rough that I stumble and almost land on my ass. The only thing that breaks my fall is strong hands wrapping around my waist. The stranger pulls me to him and uses one hand to shove Martin.

"This is none of your business, pal," Martin says.

"I'm making it my business. The woman tells you no; you don't manhandle her, pal." He emphasizes the last word, but Martin can't even hear the hint of danger in the other guy's voice.

"She's my girlfriend, you piece of?—"

"I broke up with you, Martin. Leave."

Martin blinks rapidly as though he can't comprehend the words leaving out of my mouth. "Let's talk, Maura." He moves forward before getting pushed back again.

The stranger turns to me. "Do you want to talk to him?"

I don't even hesitate. "No. I stand by my first request. Take me away from here."

The stranger jabs a finger at Martin. "You heard her, man. If you touch her again, I'm gonna break your fingers."

"You fucker. Who the hell do?—"

"Just so you know, I don't make threats I don't follow through."

The tension between them is so thick I can slice it with a knife. I tug the sleeve of the other guy and whisper, "Let's go."

Martin stands there in disbelief, his eyes flicking to the towering stranger and me climbing on the back of his motorcycle in my heels, the hem of my dress bunched around my knees. I slide the helmet over my head, not even caring if it messes up my hair and makeup.

The engine roars to life, cutting through the silence of the street, and I automatically wrap my arms around the stranger's waist. Is this supposed to feel good? Because it does.

The wind picks up as we start to move, my grip tightening involuntarily. We speed through the city, the lights becoming nothing more than blurry streaks of color in my peripheral vision.

I should be worried about what happened with Martin, but I'm not.

For the first time in a long time, I can breathe.

The wind whips through my bare arms, and the cold air bites at my cheeks, exposed by the open visor. I find myself smiling, feeling light and free. That is until the motorcycle slows to a stop in front of a brick building with posters of tattooed men and women on the windows and a huge neon sign flickering overhead.

It says simply, "Inkd."

The usual Maura would ask what we're doing here, but honestly, I just wanted to get away from Martin. Instead of bombing this guy with questions, I slide down the motorcycle and smooth my dress, looking up to find him without his helmet, his hair mussed up, and his dark eyes staring straight into my soul.

My God. Are my eyes deceiving me, or is this the hottest man I've ever seen in my life?