Chapter 3 - THE DATE EVERYONE WAS WATCHING
By six that evening, the internet had decided Luca Moretti and I were having an affair.
By seven, a local entertainment blog had published a timeline.
According to the article, our “secret romance” had begun four months earlier at a charity banquet I had attended without Ryan.
Luca had also been there.
We had not spoken.
That detail apparently lacked drama, so the writer invented several meaningful glances instead.
By eight, someone had found a photograph of us standing fifteen feet apart near an auction table and circled both our heads in red.
Vegas loved a scandal.
It loved one involving money even more.
I sat at my parents’ kitchen island with Enzo Moretti’s note in front of me and watched strangers rewrite my life in real time.
Luca stood near the window speaking quietly on the phone.
My mother had returned from the hospital only long enough to pack a bag before going back to Dad.
I had tried to make her stay home.
She had looked at me and said, “I have been married to that impossible man for thirty-eight years. I am not leaving him alone with nurses he thinks he can negotiate with.”
Fair.
So now the house felt strangely empty.
Except for the three Moretti security men outside.
And the head of a family half the city whispered about.
Normal Tuesday.
Luca ended his call.
“Bellagio locker access requires the key and biometric verification.”
“Whose biometric?”
“That’s the problem.”
He sat across from me.
“The account was created under a numbered trust.”
“Can you find the beneficiary?”
“Eventually.”
“I hate that word.”
“So do I.”
I looked at the brass key on the counter.
“Can’t we just take it there?”
“We could.”
“But?”
“If someone is monitoring access, we tell them we found it.”
I leaned back.
“So we do nothing.”
“No.”
His eyes held mine.
“We do exactly what you proposed.”
I knew what he meant.
“Put on a show.”
“A convincing one.”
My phone rang.
Ryan again.
I declined it.
Luca watched.
“That’s the fourth call.”
“I’m counting.”
“What if he wants to tell you something useful?”
“Then he can leave a message.”
As if summoned by irritation, a voicemail appeared.
I pressed play on speaker.
Ryan sounded breathless.
“Claire, I know you’re angry. But you’re making a mistake with Moretti. You don’t know what he is. You don’t know what his family has done. Call me before you sign anything with him. Please.”
The message ended.
I stared at my phone.
Luca said, “He assumes I want Henderson.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
“Would your family?”
“Yes.”
I appreciated the distinction.
“Why?”
“The property would strengthen our distribution network.”
“So Ryan isn’t wrong that it has value to you.”
“No.”
“But you don’t want it.”
“Not like this.”
I studied him.
“You expect me to believe the feared Luca Moretti has ethical acquisition standards?”
His mouth curved.
“You’ve been reading comments.”
“I have been reading everything.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Answer me.”
His expression became serious.
“My grandfather had one rule about business.”
“What?”
“Never take from someone who doesn’t understand what they’re giving you.”
I thought about Enzo’s note.
“And your rule?”
“I don’t make permanent decisions for temporary advantage.”
“That sounds less moral.”
“It probably is.”
I almost smiled.
Then my phone buzzed.
A calendar invitation.
FROM: Ryan Bennett.
SUBJECT: Emergency Marital Asset Review.
Attached document.
I opened it.
Luca moved around the island.
“Wait.”
“I’m not signing.”
“I know.”
We read together.
The document was fourteen pages of legal language.
I was not an attorney, but I understood corporate contracts well enough to know when someone buried a knife inside paragraph nine.
“Here.”
I pointed.
Spousal acknowledgment of contingent inheritance rights.
Luca read it twice.
“He wants you to disclaim any challenge to transfers initiated before final divorce.”
“Meaning?”
“If your father’s ownership changes hands before your divorce is complete, you agree not to treat resulting proceeds as hidden marital assets.”
I felt sick.
“He wants protection.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he expects a transfer.”
I looked toward Enzo’s note.
Henderson.
Romano ledger.
Bellagio 614.
Everything pointed in the same direction.
I closed the document.
“Dinner.”
Luca looked at me.
“What?”
“We need our public date.”
“Tonight?”
“Ryan thinks I’m afraid of you.”
“Most people are.”
“That must be exhausting.”
“Sometimes it saves time.”
I stood.
“If they want me isolated and uncertain, I want them to see me doing the opposite.”
Luca studied me with an expression I was beginning to recognize.
He was assessing risk.
Not deciding for me.
Assessing.
“Where?” he asked.
“The Elysian.”
His eyebrows rose.
It was one of the most visible restaurants on the Strip.
Glass walls.
Celebrity chef.
Paparazzi near the entrance every night.
“You don’t believe in half measures.”
“I spent five years married to a man who mistook restraint for weakness.”
I picked up my phone.
“I’m trying something new.”
Two hours later, I stood in my apartment wearing a black dress Ryan hated.
That detail gave me more satisfaction than it should have.
He had once told me the dress made me look “too intense.”
What he meant was that strangers noticed me when I wore it.
Tonight, I wanted to be noticed.
I pinned my hair back, put on red lipstick, and deliberately left my wedding ring on the dresser.
Then I looked at myself.
I expected to see a woman pretending.
Instead, I saw someone I had not seen clearly in years.
Me.
The intercom rang.
“Mr. Moretti is downstairs,” the doorman said.
“Send him up.”
Luca arrived five minutes later.
He wore a black suit, white shirt, no tie.
His gaze moved over me when I opened the door.
For half a second, his control slipped.
It was small.
A pause.
A slight inhale.
But I saw it.
“You clean up well,” I said.
His mouth shifted.
“So do you.”
“That almost sounded surprised.”
“I’m choosing my words carefully.”
“Why?”
“Rule one.”
No touching without warning.
I smiled despite myself.
“Good memory.”
“I remember everything that matters when I’m worried.”
The same phrase he had used about the hospital garage.
Something in my chest shifted.
I ignored it.
“We need photographs.”
“There will be plenty.”
“I mean convincing ones.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“How convincing?”
I stepped closer.
Not touching.
“Hand at my back. Maybe hold hands walking in.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“You’re nervous.”
“I’m furious.”
“Those can coexist.”
He was right again.
Very annoying.
I exhaled.
“Ask.”
His gaze held mine.
“May I put my hand on your back when we enter?”
“Yes.”
“May I hold your hand if photographers crowd us?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Unless I initiate.”
Something warm entered his eyes.
“Understood.”
The drive to the Elysian took fourteen minutes.
By the time we arrived, someone had tipped off photographers.
Six cameras turned toward the SUV before the driver even opened the door.
My stomach clenched.
Luca noticed.
“Last chance.”
“To leave?”
“Yes.”
I thought about Ryan’s document.
Vanessa’s airport smile.
My father’s face when he saw Enzo’s note.
“No.”
Luca stepped out first.
Then he turned and offered his hand.
Not grabbing.
Offering.
I took it.
Flashbulbs exploded.
Questions followed.
“Claire! Is your marriage over?”
“Luca, are you and Vanessa divorcing?”
“Were you seeing each other before they left?”
“Claire, did Ryan cheat first?”
Luca’s hand settled lightly against my lower back.
Exactly where we had agreed.
We walked.
I kept my head high.
At the entrance, a reporter shouted, “Luca, are you two together?”
He looked at me.
Not the camera.
Me.
“Dinner first,” he said.
The crowd laughed.
The clip would be everywhere in ten minutes.
Inside, I released a breath.
“That was good.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I expected you to threaten someone.”
“I’m trying to make a good first-date impression.”
“This is not a real date.”
“I remember.”
The hostess led us to a table near the center of the room.
Of course.
Everyone looked.
Some pretended not to.
A casino executive I knew almost walked into a chair while staring at us.
I opened the menu.
“This is humiliating.”
“You wanted visible.”
“I underestimated how visible.”
Luca poured water into my glass.
“You can still leave.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Tell me something true.”
His expression changed.
“About what?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Because if we’re going to investigate our spouses together, I need to know who I’m actually sitting with.”
He leaned back.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did you love Vanessa?”
He did not look away.
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt strangely.
Not because I wanted him not to.
Because I understood.
“Do you still?”
He considered.
“I love who I thought she was.”
I lowered my eyes.
“That’s worse.”
“Yes.”
A waiter approached.
We ordered.
After he left, Luca asked, “Did you love Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Still?”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
No judgment.
No satisfaction.
That mattered.
I traced the edge of my glass.
“What happened with Vanessa?”
“We met seven years ago. She was funny. Reckless. Smarter than people assumed.”
“That sounds like her.”
“She made rooms louder.”
I smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
“We married after eighteen months.”
“Was it good?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
“Her father began treating the marriage like a merger.”
I looked up.
“Victor.”
“Yes.”
“He wanted access?”
“To everything.”
“Did Vanessa help him?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer surprised me.
“You don’t know?”
“I know she passed information she should not have passed. I know she lied about seeing him. I know she pressured me to approve investments that benefited Romano Development.”
His jaw tightened.
“But I don’t know when she stopped being my wife and started being his daughter first.”
The phrasing stayed with me.
I knew exactly what it was to realize someone had reordered their loyalties without telling you.
Our appetizers arrived.
Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
Ryan and Vanessa in Cabo.
Except this one had been taken from across the street.
Not social media.
Someone was watching them.
Under it, a message:
THEY ARE NOT IN CABO ANYMORE.
I showed Luca.
His expression sharpened.
A second photo arrived.
A private airfield.
Ryan entering a jet.
Vanessa behind him.
Timestamp: forty minutes earlier.
Destination board visible through glass.
LAS VEGAS.
“They’re coming back,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Luca’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then said, “We’ll come now.”
He stood.
“What?”
“Bellagio called.”
My pulse jumped.
“The locker?”
“Someone just tried to access 614.”
“Who?”
“They failed biometric verification.”
My chair scraped backward as I stood.
“Do they have video?”
“Yes.”
“Then we go.”
Outside, the photographers erupted again.
Luca’s hand found my back.
This time I barely noticed.
We reached the SUV.
The moment the door closed, he showed me a still image sent by Bellagio security.
A man in a baseball cap stood at the private vault entrance.
Face partially turned.
I knew him anyway.
“Ryan.”
Luca nodded.
My husband had landed in Las Vegas before the flight photo even reached me.
Which meant the Cabo pictures had been delayed.
Staged.
Everything was staged.
I stared at the image.
Then at Luca.
“He doesn’t have the biometric.”
“No.”
“So whose does he need?”
Luca’s phone buzzed.
Another security still.
This one showed Ryan standing beside a woman at the casino entrance.
Her face was clear.
May you like
My breath stopped.
It was my mother.
