His Contracted Temptation; Velvet Lies

VALERIA Dante places his hand on the small of my back, nudging me forward. We move past a row of steps that take up space big enough for an actual room and stop in front of the largest brown door I've ever seen. At the rate my heart is beating, I'm sure Dante can hear it too. I'm not usually this intimidated. If meeting a duo of stuck-up billionaires is anything to compare to my past job, this is a pinch of salt... or so I try to convince myself. The hinges groan, and a draft of chilled air rushes past, carrying the faint scent of oak and polish. An older man dressed in a tuxedo steps forward. "Master Dante, miss," he bows, "welcome home." "Thank you, Augustine. How are you faring?" Dante's tone softens, a flicker of warmth I've never heard before. "Very well, Master Dante. Dinner is ready. Your parents are waiting." Augustine steps aside, revealing the exquisite interior of the mansion. Chandeliers dangle from high ceilings, their bright light traveling across the room, accentuating the contrast of my green dress against the white walls of this house. Everything is so minimalist yet elegant; whoever picked this must have great taste. "Tesoro mio, sei a casa!" A shrill voice drifts our way. I turn to face a middle-aged woman who looks like the female version of Dante. Her black hair is styled in a short wolf cut that gives her a chic look, and I recognize her immediately as Florence Romano, Dante's mother. She spreads out her hands, a radiant smile on her face as she beams up at him. "It's good to see you too, Mom." Dante lowers himself to hug her. Florence pats his cheek tenderly, then asks a few questions in Italian. Dante must have said something unpleasant. Soon she turns to face me, smile replaced with a frown. Her gaze lingers on my neckline, then my shoes, like she's cataloging flaws. I meet her stare, chin high, pretending I don't feel like prey. "This is Valeria Torres, Mom," Dante says immediately, pulling me to his side. "Valeria, this is my mother, Florence." "Torres," she says my name lazily, probably trying to fix a family to it. Then, "What happened to Alex?" Florence says sharply, eyes blazing with unfiltered disgust. Right. "We broke up, Mother," he says tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Pfft. Oh, please," Florence says, the words dripping with disdain. "I'm starving, Mom," Dante says, smiling. "Am I not allowed to eat again at my parents'?" She nods grimly, her eyes raking over me one last time before she looks away. Just like I expected. Shrewd doesn't even cut it-the devil wears Prada is more like. A wave of roasted meat, butter, and herbs hits me the second I step in, warm and inviting in a way the house itself isn't. The table gleams under chandelier light, every dish laid out like art. "Hello, Dad," Dante says to a man I instantly recognize as Lucas Romano. Dressed in black slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a sleeveless cardigan, he looks every inch the composed patriarch. His eyes, though steady and assessing, carry that quiet authority that could make anyone shrink. Anyone but me. "Hello, son," Lucas says, his gaze on me. "This is Valentina, my girlfriend. Valentina, this is my father, Lucas Romano." The pride in Dante's voice makes me wonder if there's more to him and Alex's story than he's letting on. From the looks of things, he doesn't seem to give a fuck about my presence, pushing the wrong button. In fact, my fake boyfriend seems to gloat at their disapproval. "Huh." Lucas' brows rise slightly, silent amusement in his voice. "Welcome to my humble home, Valentina. You don't mind introducing yourself over dinner, do you?" Humble home indeed. I plaster the most sincere smile I can pull. "Your home is beautiful, and it'll be my pleasure." Dinner begins with an appetizer that consists of red wine and caprese salad. I feel Florence's gaze follow me while I eat. Good thing I know dining etiquette well enough to eat a full-course meal without embarrassing myself. "So," Florence lowers her glass, "Valeria, tell us about yourself. Who are your parents?" Dante's gaze flicks to his mother, a warning glint in his eyes, then he shifts in his seat, adjusting his cufflink. "I'm an orphan." I flash a bleak smile, gaze lowering back to my meal. "Sorry to hear that, but if you don't mind, I'm curious if you have any living relatives?" There's not the slightest hint of remorse in her voice, and I can already tell where this conversation is headed. "Not at all." I take a bite of my salad. "I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone enough." "Rainer Maria Rilke," Lucas says, eyes narrowing not in disapproval but silent calculation. "Interesting," Florence murmurs, voice dipping low. "So, all relatives are dead. I can only imagine how hard it is, navigating through life alone, left only with the legacy of the deceased," she says slowly. Then, as if she didn't just belittle me, she says through a smile, "So, which companies do you own?" Dante's lips twitch in impatience. He lifts his wine glass, hiding the faint smirk of disbelief behind it. "The Romanos are a very enterprising family." The unspoken words in her statement are supposed to make me flinch, if only she knew who I really am. "I don't own any companies, but," I place a palm over Dante's, stroking it fondly, "I don't think Dante minds my socioeconomic status." Dante snickers quietly beside me. I can almost see the smile on his face. "Young people," Florence laughs nervously, waving off my statement. "Don't they just remind you of Romeo and Juliet, Lucas dear?" She lets out a long, dreamy sigh, and Lucas makes an agreeing sound. "Darling, what would happen if an eagle lived in the midst of eagles?" "The eagle, I suppose, would begin to act like a chicken," I say easily. "Good thing you're smart. You see," her voice rises, sharp and direct, "In our world, dear, heritage isn't something you build, it's something you preserve. We invest wisely-in business, in alliances, and yes, in marriage. Surely you don't imagine this little... arrangement with my son could ever become anything lasting?" There's no trace of emotion in her features, just dark green eyes boring into my soul and an air that's convinced me she would shred me into pieces if I dare go against her will. "Florence," Lucas says, placing a hand over his wife's. "Dante dear, how has work been?" Her radiant smile returns. Dante clears his throat. "Work has been going well, thank you." "Good to know you don't have too much on your shoulders. Maybe you can make time to fix the issue between you and Alex," she suggests. "You've always had a generous heart, Dante, but perhaps it's time you learned generosity doesn't mean lowering your standards. Some people simply weren't raised to understand the weight of our name." My jaw clenches, and I stab my fork into a piece of steak. My relationship with Dante might be a sham, but that doesn't make her words cut lighter. Dante places a hand on my thigh, gently squeezing it. "Alex and I are over. You, of all people, should respect my decision." His tone is firm; his gaze meets mine long enough to send a sympathetic look. "I'm only looking out for you. Besides, she's the perfect girl for you, can't you see? She's suffered two panic attacks since you drove her out of your house because of this," her gaze meets mine, "Valentina." "You've never liked any of my exes," Dante says dryly, tongue sliding over his teeth in frustration. "Well, they weren't good enough, if you ask me. Look at this one, for instance. What could she possibly offer you, huh? You're a business mogul, Dante, so you should know she's an investment one way or the other-" "Not everything has to go your way." Florence holds up her hand. "If your father had married beneath his station, do you honestly believe the Romano name would hold the influence it does today? Legacy, my dear, isn't sustained by affection-it's sustained by association." "Florence," Lucas says softly, raising a brow at his wife. "I've heard all you have to say. Too bad I'm getting married to Valeria." Dante tips his chin, brows lifted faintly. "Dante, your mom and I would not-" Lucas begins, only to be cut short by his wife. "Is this a joke?" Florence's voice comes out as a half-gasp. She leans forward slightly, lips pulled into a thin line, fingers wrapped tight around the edge of the table. "I'm afraid not, Mother."