chapter2

I heard the sound of a bottle being set on a table.

Then the man finally spoke.

"Who is this?"

His tone carried unmistakable impatience.

I looked at the woman standing in front of me — arms still folded, a mocking smile plastered on her face.

"I'm your fiancée," I said.

A brief silence on the other end.

Then he laughed.

That kind of laugh that made it clear he wasn't taking this seriously.

"Look. I'm busy today. I don't have time for your little tantrums."

"Your PR director just blocked my way in. She threw chips at my feet in front of dozens of people."

Marco made a derisive sound, and the sharp crack of a glass breaking came through the line.

"I don't care what anyone told you to say. I'm not in the mood to deal with women playing jealousy games. Don't embarrass me. Go do whatever you came here to do."

His tone was dismissive, as if I were the one making a scene over nothing.

"Isabella is a member of this family. If you can't handle a little friction, then there's no point in you being my fiancée."

He hung up.

The call ended just like that.

Isabella looked like she'd heard a victory fanfare. She covered her mouth, laughing.

"Hear that? He told you to get lost. 'Fiancée' — and you couldn't even keep him on the phone."

She leaned closer, her perfume suffocating.

"You little fraud. Did you really think the Vance name would be enough to push me around?"

I was about to respond when a commotion broke out behind me.

Marco had appeared. His eyes still carried the arrogance of someone who'd been drinking.

Isabella's face transformed instantly. Like a wounded bird, she flew to his side, fingers clutching his sleeve as she poured out her story in a trembling voice. "Marco, thank God you're out here. That woman has been causing trouble — harassing me, claiming she's your fiancée. I told her to leave and she refused. She's making us look like a joke in front of everyone..."

Marco wrapped an arm around her, and his gaze settled on me.

He looked me over from head to toe. Jeans. White shirt. No jewelry. No designer bag.

His brow furrowed.

"You're her?" He released Isabella and took a step toward me. "The Valentina my father mentioned?"

"Yes," I said.

He looked at me again and laughed. "That's it?"

Laughter erupted from the dealers and staff around him. Marco stood leaning against the doorframe, carrying himself with the arrogance of a man who'd already won.

Isabella raised an eyebrow behind him, radiating satisfaction.

"Let me be clear," Marco said, raising his voice as though issuing a verdict. "I don't know what you told my father. But in my world, I set the rules."

"A woman who can't even maintain her own dignity has no business being the mistress of the Moretti household."

He turned and waved toward one of his guards, his voice dropping to a cold command.

"Throw her out. Don't let her dirty up my place."