Chapter 1 — The Woman in His Bed

The first thing I saw was a black wolf tattoo.

The second was a scarred hand resting across my waist.

I lay still beneath the white duvet, trying to work out which mistake I had made first: entering Nico Bellini’s private bedroom or falling asleep in his bed.

Behind me, the man New York newspapers called a crime boss shifted closer.

“Please tell me I’m still asleep,” I whispered.

“You aren’t.”

His voice was rough with sleep. I turned my head. Nico was watching me, dark hair disordered, one arm tucked beneath his pillow. He looked less like a man who could frighten a room into silence and more like a man annoyed to find a stranger occupying half his mattress.

“I was looking for spare linens,” I said.

“At three in the morning?”

“At some point in the morning.”

“You took my shirt.”

I looked down. Black cotton hung from my shoulders.

“A server spilled champagne on my dress.” I swallowed. “I was going to change and sit down for five minutes.”

Nico glanced at the clock. It was seven twelve.

“Your five minutes ran long.”

“I noticed.”

Last night’s Harbor Light fundraiser returned in fragments: a ruined dessert display, a donor demanding a different table, my supervisor telling me I could rest after the guests left. By the time I found this room, I had been on my feet for eighteen hours.

“I’ll get dressed and go,” I said.

I moved toward the edge of the bed. Nico caught my wrist.

“Wait.”

I pulled free. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

A sharp knock struck the door.

Nico was out of bed before I could reach the floor. He dragged on a robe, then stood between me and the entrance.

The doors opened anyway.

An older woman in a navy dress stepped inside, leaning on a polished cane. Two men in dark suits stopped behind her. Her gaze moved from Nico to me, then to the shirt I was wearing.

“Well,” she said. “This explains why you missed breakfast.”

“It doesn’t,” I said.

Nico shut his eyes for half a second. “Rosa.”

His grandmother ignored him. “Who are you, sweetheart?”

“Tessa Ward. I coordinated your fundraiser. I fell asleep here by accident.”

Rosa’s expression changed at my name. Before I could ask why, one of the men behind her touched an earpiece.

“Sir,” he said to Nico, “the photograph has been sent to the agency.”

“What photograph?” I asked.

“A staff member entering this wing,” he answered.

“That was me. I was looking for linens.”

The guard looked at Nico. “There’s a second image. Someone took it from inside the hallway after she changed.”

Cold spread through me. “Who was in the hallway?”

“We’re finding out,” Nico said.

Rosa gripped her cane. “The press?”

“Not yet,” the guard answered. “Her employer received it first.”

I pictured the agency owners opening an anonymous email before I even clocked out. I pictured the contract they could cancel with one phone call.

“Give me my clothes,” I said. “I’ll explain what happened.”

Nico looked at the guard. “Who else received the images?”

“A member of the fund’s board.”

That made no sense. Why would a charity board care where an event coordinator had fallen asleep?

Nico’s jaw tightened. “Keep it out of circulation.”

“I can speak for myself,” I told him.

“I know.”

He said it, then made his decision without me.

“Tell them Tessa Ward is my fiancée.”

Rosa went very still. So did the guards.

I stared at him. “No.”

“It gives us time to find out who took the pictures.”

“It gives strangers a lie with my name attached.”

“The pictures already have your name attached.”

“Then let me deal with the truth.”

Nico’s eyes held mine. “Someone went into a restricted hallway to photograph you. Until I know why, I need them to think you belong here.”

I hated the small part of me that understood his fear.

“I don’t belong to you,” I said.

His face changed, but he did not take back the order.

Twenty minutes later, I came downstairs in my cleaned dress and a pair of borrowed flats. The strap on one of my heels had broken during the fundraiser. I carried both shoes because I refused to leave anything else behind.

My supervisor, Paige Holloway, waited in the entrance hall with a tablet against her chest.

“Tessa.” Her eyes flicked toward Nico, who had followed me downstairs. “Can we talk?”

“Here is fine.”

Paige lowered her voice. “The owners terminated your contract.”

I had expected a lecture. The words still knocked the air from me.

“Before asking what happened?”

“They saw the photograph.”

“Then show it to me.”

Paige hesitated. Nico extended a hand, but I stepped between them.

“I asked.”

She turned the tablet.

The first image showed me entering the private wing with a stack of folded tablecloths. A timestamp sat in the corner: 2:47 a.m.

The second had been taken farther down the corridor. My back was to the camera as I held my stained dress in one hand and reached for a bedroom door with the other.

It felt ugly to see myself watched at a moment when I had thought I was alone.

I read the email above the attachments.

Ask your coordinator what she was doing in Bellini’s bedroom.

No signature. No explanation.

“Did the owners give my name to the sender?” I asked Paige.

“I don’t think so.”

“Have they replied?”

“Not yet.”

“Tell them not to. Forward me the original email with its attachments.”

Paige looked startled. “Tessa, they’ve already made their decision.”

“And I’m making mine.”

I held her gaze until she nodded.

Nico moved closer. “I can have my lawyers speak to your agency.”

“No.” I tucked the borrowed flats under my arm. “You’ve done enough speaking for me this morning.”

For once, he had no answer.

Outside, cold air hit my face. A black SUV waited at the curb, its driver standing beside an open door. I walked past it and ordered a car on my phone.

While I waited, a message arrived from Paige. She had forwarded the email.

I opened the attachment details, then paused.

The sender had included both pictures in one message. The first had been taken at 2:47. The second at 3:16.

But the email draft had been created at 1:58 a.m.

Nearly an hour before I entered the private wing.

I looked back at the house. Someone had prepared the accusation before I gave them a reason to make it.

My phone buzzed again. This time the message came from an unknown number.

Ask your mother why the name Bellini scares her.