Chapter 1 - The Marriage I Never Chose
Thursday morning began with a constitutional law exam I was supposed to be studying for.
Instead, I was standing in my father's downtown office while he told me I was getting married.
Not next month.
Not next year.
Saturday.
I stared at him across the enormous mahogany desk.
"To whom?"
Arthur Shaw didn't answer immediately.
He looked older than he had the night before on television.
My father was one of New York's most powerful politicians, a man who could walk into a room full of senators and make everyone stop talking.
Yet that morning, his hands were shaking.
"Niko Santoro."
I laughed.
It was an automatic reaction.
A defense mechanism.
Because the alternative was screaming.
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
"The Santoros?"
He nodded.
Everyone in New York knew the Santoro name.
They owned nightclubs, restaurants, construction companies, private security firms, and enough legitimate businesses to make their illegal ones difficult to prove.
The newspapers called Niko Santoro a businessman.
People who knew better called him something else.
A king.
A ruthless one.
He was thirty-one, according to the gossip columns, and had taken control of his family's empire after his older brother died.
I had never met him.
And now my father wanted me to marry him.
"Absolutely not."
I turned toward the door.
"Sit down."
"No."
"Elena."
I stopped.
My father rarely used my full name.
He opened a drawer and removed a thick folder.
"I made an agreement."
"You made an agreement with criminals."
"With the Santoro family."
"That's the same thing."
His jaw tightened.
"Listen to me."
"No. You listen to me. I'm twenty-four. I have a law exam in three hours. I have plans."
"Those plans are about to change."
"Because you decided to sell your daughter?"
His face hardened.
"Don't say that."
"Then don't behave like it."
For several seconds, we stared at each other.
Then my father whispered:
"If you refuse, I lose everything."
My anger faltered.
"What does that mean?"
He slid the folder toward me.
Inside were bank statements.
Contracts.
Photographs.
Threatening letters.
My father's political campaign had been secretly financed through shell companies connected to a development project.
If those records became public, he wouldn't simply lose his career.
He could go to prison.
"I was trying to protect you."
"You should have told me."
"I couldn't."
"You could have."
He looked away.
"I made mistakes."
"Then fix them."
"I am."
"By marrying me to Niko Santoro?"
His silence answered.
I closed the folder.
"What happens if I say no?"
"You lose your trust fund."
I stared.
"And?"
"The apartment."
My stomach tightened.
"And?"
"I'll cut you off completely."
I laughed bitterly.
"So this is blackmail."
"It's protection."
"No."
I walked toward the door.
"It's fear."
His voice stopped me.
"Elena."
I looked back.
"I love you."
My eyes burned.
"Believe me," I whispered, "I used to."
I left.
Outside, my best friend Stella was waiting with two iced coffees.
She took one look at my face.
"What happened?"
"I'm getting married."
She smiled.
"Congratulations."
"To Niko Santoro."
The coffee nearly fell from her hand.
"Oh."
"That's what I said."
"We need to leave the country."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"My father."
She hugged me.
"Then we'll figure out something."
But by Friday, everything had moved too quickly.
The dress arrived.
Ivory satin.
Hand-stitched.
Perfectly fitted.
I hadn't given anyone my measurements.
That frightened me.
Someone had been watching me.
Saturday arrived beneath a perfect blue sky.
The cathedral was surrounded by black SUVs.
Men in dark suits stood near every entrance.
Inside, hundreds of guests whispered.
My father waited at the altar.
And beside him stood Niko Santoro.
He wasn't what I'd imagined.
He wasn't old.
He wasn't grotesque.
He wasn't even particularly intimidating at first glance.
He was simply devastating.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair.
Sharp features.
A tattoo disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
He looked like a man who didn't need bodyguards.
The bodyguards needed him.
His eyes found mine.
They were cold.
Assessing.
Judging.
I could almost hear the conclusion forming inside his head.
Spoiled politician's daughter.
Rich.
Reckless.
Trouble.
When I reached him, my father placed my hand into his.
Niko's fingers closed around mine.
"You're trembling," he whispered.
"I'm cold."
He glanced at the sunlight pouring through the cathedral windows.
"Of course."
The contempt in his voice burned.
I smiled politely.
"Don't worry, Mr. Santoro."
His eyebrow lifted.
"You'll have your perfect wife."
Something changed in his expression.
But before he could answer, the priest began speaking.
Twenty minutes later, I was Mrs. Niko Santoro.
The reception was extravagant.
Champagne.
Music.
Photographers.
People smiling as though we'd chosen this.
Niko barely spoke to me.
Then midnight came.
His private penthouse overlooked Manhattan.
The bedroom was enormous.
White sheets.
Crystal chandelier.
Red roses scattered across the bed.
I stood near the window, arms crossed.
Niko closed the door.
Click.
The lock sounded louder than it should have.
He removed his jacket.
"We need rules."
I turned.
"Fine."
"You don't interfere with my business."
"Fine."
"You don't leave this building without security."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"You do now."
I glared at him.
"What else?"
"You don't lie to me."
I almost laughed.
"Interesting rule."
His eyes narrowed.
"And you don't bring men here."
My anger exploded.
"You really believe everything you've heard about me?"
"I've read the newspapers."
"Then you know newspapers lie."
"Usually."
I stepped closer.
"You think I'm some spoiled party girl."
"I think you're young."
"Same thing?"
"No."
He studied me.
Then his voice softened slightly.
"You're afraid."
I swallowed.
"No."
He took one step closer.
I stepped back.
He stopped immediately.
That surprised me.
Then he noticed my hands.
They were shaking.
Something in his expression changed.
"You don't have to be afraid of me."
"I don't know you."
"Neither do I know you."
His gaze dropped briefly.
Then returned to mine.
"Tonight doesn't have to be what you think."
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not going to touch you unless you want me to."
Silence.
I stared at him.
The most feared man in New York had just given me an escape route.
I didn't know whether to trust it.
He turned away.
"I'm taking the couch."
He walked toward the living room.
I watched him disappear.
For the first time all day, I could breathe.
But when I changed into a silk nightgown and returned to the bedroom, Niko was standing by the window.
He looked at me.
And suddenly I realized something.
He wasn't judging me anymore.
He was confused.
May you like
Because I wasn't acting like the woman he had expected.
And neither of us knew that by sunrise, a secret I had guarded for twenty-four years would completely change the way he saw me.
