Chapter Two

Last night, Vincent came home late. He carried the night’s chill with him, and the faintest trace of whiskey. He refused my interview request outright.

“I believe I said this, Evelyn.” He turned, leaning back against the liquor cabinet, his gray eyes calm and flat. “The Moretti family’s business is never discussed publicly. Especially not through the media.”

“Even if the one asking is your wife?” My voice sounded slightly out of place in the quiet living room.

He took a sip. His throat bobbed. Then he set the glass down—gentle, final, leaving no room to negotiate.

“No.” His gaze landed on me like he was assessing an unprofitable deal. “Not even you, Evelyn. Rules are rules.”

My heart sank slowly, an icy mix of humiliation and disappointment creeping along my spine.

But I still nodded, forcing my voice to match his composure. “All right. I understand.”

In that moment, I clung to something pathetic—if even I couldn’t get it, then Scarlett Conti, the parachuted newcomer living off a glossy résumé and mysterious connections, would never get it either.

I was wrong. Completely.

The next afternoon, Mr. Clark beamed as he slapped Scarlett’s shoulder and announced she’d “not only secured the interview permit, she even set the location at the Moretti family’s private club.”

The whole newsroom exploded again. And I stood there, feeling like the noise was coming through thick glass—muffled, warped, unreal.

I lost the position.

No—maybe from the start, I never truly had the right to compete for it.

What I couldn’t endure most was that Vincent didn’t choose me. Between family and “rules,” between me and an outsider, he stayed on that cold line without leaning an inch toward me.

It wasn’t until my partner, Sophia Marino, grabbed my arm hard and dragged me into the break room that I shook loose from the haze.

“Evelyn, wake up.” Sophia lowered her voice, her brown eyes sparking with anger. “This was never competition. Not for one second. She was planted. Look at the editor’s face when he looks at her. This isn’t on you—it’s those damn—”

“Preselected,” I finished for her, my throat dry.

Was I sad? Yes. But it wasn’t only losing the promotion. Something deeper—more hidden—was cracking at the foundation of the world I’d believed was solid.

And when I caught fragments of gossip in the newsroom—“Vincent Moretti’s youth… I heard the Contis are old family friends… Miss Scarlett studied abroad early…”—a vague suspicion cooled into something sharp.

What Scarlett wanted to take from me was probably far more than a chief reporter title.

Scarlett didn’t look particularly triumphant after winning the interview. She just smiled, accepted everyone’s praise, and after Mr. Clark left, she clapped her hands. “To celebrate, coffee’s on me! That new Italian place on the corner—order whatever you want.”

Cheers nearly lifted the roof. Whoever landed the Moretti interview meant the department’s year-end bonus would double—an unspoken promise the editor had effectively blessed. In everyone’s eyes, Scarlett was a gold-plated lucky goddess.

“Scarlett, you’re insane!” a younger reporter yelled. “That’s Vincent Moretti. How did you do it?”

Scarlett’s blue eyes crinkled as she spoke as lightly as if discussing the weather. “Our families have known each other a long time. Old acquaintances.” As she said it, her gaze drifted over me, casual on the surface—then slipped away.

That weightless phrase—*old acquaintances*—was a stone tossed into still water.

“God… don’t tell me…” someone waggled their eyebrows.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” another person cut in, voice still buzzing with excited speculation. “I heard Mr. Moretti’s been married for ages. No one knows who.”

Scarlett only blinked—neither confirming nor denying—then hurried everyone along to pick their coffee. She stayed approachable and was soon surrounded, chatting about which new bar to hit after work.

Someone invited her; she smiled and shook her head. “Next time. I’ve got plans tonight. I just got back—some old friends insisted on throwing me a welcome party.”

“Don’t tell me it’s with…?” The questioner dragged the tone out meaningfully.

Scarlett blinked again, gave an enigmatic smile, and said nothing.

Almost at the same time, my phone lit up.

A text from Vincent. As concise as he always was: “Family business tonight. I’ll be late. Don’t wait.”

I was almost certain that among the “old friends” welcoming Scarlett Conti back tonight… my husband would be there.