Chapter 1

Damon

I stand by the expansive windows in my Manhattan office, looking down on the city lights. There’s a sprawl of towering buildings and bright billboards below—little squares of neon that could pass for a modern art installation if I squint just right. It’s past eight in the evening, but I never bothered to turn the overhead lights on. I prefer the hushed glow of desk lamps and the skyline’s flicker through the glass.

I’m holding a sleek invitation in my hands. It arrived this morning in an embossed envelope, thick parchment that practically screamed money. The swirling gold script reads: Leonardo Astor & Gianna Rossi request the honor of your presence... and so on. Leo’s wedding, in Tuscany, in a month’s time. The event’s already picked up headlines: Golden Son Marries Italian Socialite. Each time I see coverage, I feel an uncomfortable twinge beneath my ribs.

My younger brother is the darling of the Astor family. Always has been. He’s the living embodiment of everything charming, charismatic, politically savvy—and I’m the older one who’s apparently supposed to stand there clapping like a seal. If I had the choice, I’d RSVP with a polite decline and stay holed up in my office to finalize a new real estate acquisition deal. Unfortunately, “polite decline” isn’t in my mother’s vocabulary. Not for this wedding.

An insistent chime interrupts my train of thought. I glance at the phone on my sleek mahogany desk and spy the name Nora Kim glowing on the screen. My personal assistant. Probably calling from her home office—she’s unstoppable, even at this hour.

I step over to the desk and pick up. “Nora,” I say, quiet but direct.

“Good evening, Mr. Astor.” She always greets me like that, a half-tease because I’ve told her she can use my first name, but she insists on formality when we talk business. “Any chance you’ve seen the wedding invite yet?”

I breathe out slowly. “Yes. And I suppose you’re about to discuss a ‘strategy’ for how I handle it in the press?”

“Something like that,” she replies, a smile evident in her voice. “Are you free tomorrow for a PR meeting? We should decide how to position your attendance—especially if you’re going alone.”

The same muscle in my jaw tightens, the way it’s done since I was a teenager. “I have a busy schedule,” I say, leaning back in my leather chair. “You know I don’t relish public speculation about my personal life.”

“Mr. Astor,” Nora begins carefully, “this isn’t just any wedding. Your entire family will be present. Society pages, tabloids, your investors—everyone is expecting to see the Astor brothers side by side, beaming for the cameras. You do realize if you arrive unaccompanied, the press will circulate old narratives about you being some unfeeling, aloof workaholic who can’t hold a relationship?”

Her words match the dull ache in my head. She’s right, of course. My mother’s calls have already suggested, in her polite but pointed way, that I should bring someone so I don’t look like the lonely older brother overshadowed by the shining bride and groom. “The old narratives never bothered me,” I say at last, though my tone lacks conviction.

“Because you usually don’t care what people think,” Nora answers, “but in this case, negative press could affect your image—and by extension, Astor Holdings. Investors want stability. They want reassurance that the man in charge of their billions is charming and stable.” She gives a short laugh. “At least outwardly.”

I rub the back of my neck and stare at the invitation on the desk. Leonardo Astor & Gianna Rossi. Their names loop in fancy gold script. The wedding in Tuscany might as well be the Oscars for how much fanfare it’s getting. Leo thrives on that. I do not.

“Nora,” I say, “do we have any suitable candidates?” I hate hearing myself say the words. This is how I’ve skirted personal relationships for years—methodical, by the book, with NDAs and discreet companionship arrangements. It’s less painful, less complicated.

She exhales, clearly relieved I’ve come around. “I’ve actually done some vetting. We could approach one of your past... acquaintances.”

“That’s not an option,” I cut in. “My previous girlfriends all had their own agendas. I’m not letting history repeat itself.”

“Understood,” she says, her calm never wavering. “We can hire someone new—someone who isn’t trying to get a ring or a photo op for personal gain. This would be strictly business. A short contract, an NDA, a clear exit plan. You’d appear engaged for the wedding, and then quietly part ways. No scandal, no heartbreak, no uninvited headlines.”

I clench my jaw at the word heartbreak. I’d like to believe heartbreak doesn’t exist in my world. “All right. Vet some fresh names. Make sure they’re prepared for high-pressure media coverage, big family drama, and formal events. I don’t want to babysit.”

“Of course,” she agrees, as if she already has a file labeled Operation Fake Fiancée. “I’ll finalize a short list tonight and send it over in the morning.”

I glance at my watch. It’s late, but Nora has always operated like a machine when it comes to organizing my life. “Thank you. I’ll see you in the office first thing tomorrow.”

We hang up, and I remain there, phone in hand. This is one of those moments I realize how strange my life has become: meticulously orchestrating a personal life so nobody suspects it’s all smoke and mirrors. It’s a sensible trade-off for privacy, in my view. My brother—he thrives on public adoration. I prefer results, not applause.

Yet the idea of parading a stranger as my fiancée at a family wedding has my gut in knots. My entire upbringing hammered the importance of appearances into my head: the Astors are old money, though I’ve earned my share of the fortune on my own. If that means faking normalcy for a few days under the Tuscan sun, so be it.

I place the invitation in a drawer and lock it. Then I stroll out of my office and into the corridor of the penthouse suite. My reflection glides across polished floors and the glass walls that overlook Manhattan. I’ve lived here for five years, an upgrade from my old loft after I sold my first set of boutique hotels for a massive profit. The decor is minimal: charcoal-gray couches, a few abstract paintings in black frames, carefully chosen lighting. No personal photos, no knickknacks, just a testament to my preference for order.

In the mirror’s reflection, I see what everyone else probably sees: a tall man in a tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. My ash-blond hair is neatly trimmed on the sides and a bit tousled on top, courtesy of the perpetual swirl of my fingers when I’m thinking. There’s a slight shadow along my jaw, and my eyes—ice-blue, or so I’ve been told—look tired. I’ve got a slight tension in my shoulders from leaning over desk after desk, meeting after meeting. A typical day for Damon Astor.

I pass by my personal bar, where a crystal decanter of single-malt scotch gleams under the recessed lights. Normally, I might pour myself a nightcap, but I decide against it. My mind is on tomorrow’s meeting with Nora and the fias—no, the potential debacle—that could happen if I don’t handle this wedding properly. My father has made it abundantly clear that maintaining a polished reputation is everything for an Astor.

There’s a reason I never let anyone get too close. People talk about “still waters running deep,” but in my case, it’s more like a frozen lake with no fishing allowed. Some might say it’s a lonely way to live. I say it’s simple. Easier to focus on building an empire when emotions don’t get in the way.

I head to my bedroom, stepping through the tall double doors. It’s a large space, dominated by a king-size bed and floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. The bed is covered in soft gray linens, as unwrinkled as new paper. I approach the nightstand and notice I forgot to put my daily journal away. That worn, leather-bound notebook is the only indulgence I allow myself for private thoughts and sketches. I pick it up and flip through the pages briefly.

Most entries are notes about potential real estate developments, lists of pros and cons, sometimes quick sketches of architectural facades. A few pages contain more personal glimpses—frustrations about my father, the occasional flicker of envy toward Leo. I snap the cover shut. No reason to dwell on that right now.

I set the notebook in the top drawer and change out of my suit. After a quick shower, I lie in bed, eyes on the skyline. Instead of drifting off, I think about how complicated this plan is going to be. Hiring a stranger to pose as the future Mrs. Damon Astor. That phrase leaves a strange taste in my mouth. But I’d rather orchestrate an arrangement than deal with the thousand questions that come whenever I show up alone.

Are you seeing anyone?
Damon, how can such a successful man not find someone?
Maybe if you smile more...

I scowl at the memory. My mother has used that line on me since I was a teenager. If only I had my brother’s natural ease with crowds, she’d say, maybe I’d be more likable. But I’m not out to win a popularity contest. I just want to show up in Tuscany, fulfill my obligations, and get out without a massive scandal.

At some point, I drift into restless sleep.

Morning arrives with bright sunshine streaming through the windows. I check my phone to see messages from Nora, reminding me of the 9 a.m. meeting. There’s also a text from my mother, typed with her signature formal punctuation: Don’t forget to confirm your RSVP. We’re counting on you.

I get dressed in a gray suit, no tie, and my usual polished black shoes. Then I head downstairs to my private car. The drive to Astor Holdings HQ takes about twenty minutes in moderate traffic. Outside the tinted windows, Manhattan surges with early commuters, coffee shops alive with lines of bleary-eyed customers.

When I arrive at the office building, I step out into the crisp morning air, nod to my driver, and stride into the marble lobby. Security greets me with the usual deference. I ride the elevator up to the top floor, where Nora’s assistant waves me into the conference room.

Nora Kim stands at the far end of the table. She’s in her forties, with sharp cheekbones and short black hair that frames her face. She’s wearing a fitted black blazer, holding a slim folder pressed to her side. Her intelligence is the first thing people notice. Then they realize she’s also unflappable, no matter how big the storms that rage around the Astor name.

I exhale a curt greeting. “Morning, Nora.”

She smiles politely. “Mr. Astor. Ready for a quick recap of the prospective candidates?”

On the table are a few dossiers, each containing details of some woman’s background, carefully curated to match my needs: no clinginess, no tabloids, no messy exes that might jump out for a payday. This is how I orchestrate my personal life—like reading resumes for a job.

Nora points to the first dossier. “She’s a fashion model, mid-twenties, well-versed in public events. A bit of a risk, though. She’s had flings with celebrities, so there might be paparazzi baggage.”

I nod, flipping the folder. The woman is undoubtedly gorgeous, but my instincts say no. That face in every magazine? Too recognizable. “Next.”

Nora sets the second folder in front of me. “Corporate consultant, around your age. She’s discreet, straightforward. But she’s already left me a few messages about potential brand synergy. I suspect she’s looking to leverage your name.”

I feel a prickle of irritation. “Hard pass.”

The final folder is blank on the front. Nora taps it twice. “This one’s interesting. She’s an actress—off-Broadway background, some minor TV credits, nothing huge. She’s had a few personal hiccups, mostly job instability. But no big red flags in the gossip columns. In fact, she’s practically unknown to the mainstream press.”

“An actress.” I don’t bother hiding my skepticism. “Performers can be drama magnets.”

“She’s also well-spoken, poised, and can handle crowds,” Nora points out. “From what I’ve found, she’s had no major controversies. She’s currently in a rough patch, financially speaking, so the money would be appealing to her. And she’s agreed to a preliminary meet—if you give the green light.”

I flip open the folder and scan the first page. Layla Simone, 32, Theater Arts major. A color headshot is clipped to the corner: she’s got warm brown skin and big, thoughtful eyes. Her dark hair has curls dyed a subtle auburn at the tips. Even in a still photograph, there’s a spark of energy in her expression. I sense a fierceness beneath her composed exterior.

Nora adds, “She’s probably the best candidate for a role like this—someone who can believably ‘act’ the part of a devoted fiancée without overshadowing you. She’s used to playing characters, giving interviews, maintaining composure on a stage. If this entire scheme is about optics, having a professional performer might be ideal.”

I narrow my eyes at the photo. “I don’t want someone who’s going to cause trouble. We just need to appear in love for a few days, keep the press from circling, and ensure my parents aren’t hounding me every hour.”

Nora slides a contract across the table. “Here’s the standard NDA and terms we’ve used in the past, with a few modifications. If you approve, I’ll have her come in for a meeting. We can do it this afternoon or tomorrow.”

The overhead lights reflect off the glossy pages, and I’m acutely aware that I’m about to essentially purchase a temporary fiancée. It’s both ridiculous and necessary.

After scanning the main points—compensation, confidentiality, timeline—I nod and push the contract back. “All right. Set up the meeting. If she seems genuine and not out to use my name, we can proceed.”

Nora’s shoulders relax. She’s obviously pleased. “I think you’ll find Ms. Simone surprising—in a good way.”

I gather the folders, tucking them under my arm. “I’m counting on it. Because I refuse to step into Tuscany with a ticking time bomb on my arm.”

Nora tries to suppress a grin. “Yes, sir. I’ll confirm the meeting details with her.”

As I leave the conference room, I tap my thumb once against the folder—an old habit whenever I’m restless. The hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of the HVAC and the distant chatter from other offices. My employees know to keep a polite distance if they sense I’m deep in thought.

Striding to my corner office, I can’t help thinking how ironically perfect it is to have an actress pose as my fiancée. At least she’ll know how to deliver a convincing performance. The question is: can she sell it to my entire family, especially Leo, who’s always prided himself on spotting “fakers” a mile away? He’s the golden boy, the politician, the social star. I’m the reserved older brother who glowers at cameras. Our dynamic has been that way since childhood.

I enter my office and place the folder on my desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the morning sun shining over Manhattan’s skyline. This job—this arrangement—is a means to an end. Appear at the wedding, look appropriately adoring with a fiancée, and shut down any speculation about me being the perpetually single Astor. That’s the plan.

But a small knot tenses between my shoulder blades. My father will undoubtedly watch my every move in Tuscany, parsing details for weaknesses. My mother will flutter around, criticizing my refusal to “get in the spirit.” And the press will swarm like gulls, waiting to peck at any slip.

If Ms. Simone can handle all that without batting an eyelash, she might just be perfect for the part.

I sink into my high-backed chair, exhaling a slow breath. This is my normal. I can’t quite recall the last time anything in my life felt genuine, uncalculated. Always deadlines, strategies, brand image, investor confidence. Even so, hiring a complete stranger to play my future wife is a new frontier of absurdity.

My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Nora:
Meeting with L.S. confirmed for tomorrow, 1 p.m.
I type back: Acknowledged.

I press the phone to my chest for a second before setting it aside. Twenty-one days until the wedding. That’s three weeks to transform an unknown actress into the perfect fiancée and fool my family’s well-trained eyes. If we pull it off, I walk away from the ceremony with my public image intact—and maybe a smidge of relief that I didn’t have to face them alone.

At the same time, I can’t deny a tingle of curiosity. Who is Layla Simone? What drives a theater actress to sign up for something this wild? Is it purely about the paycheck, or is there something else she’s running from or running toward?

I catch my own reflection in the window once again. My jaw is set in a determined line, the same look I get before a major negotiation. Yes, this is a transaction, a contract. But it involves two people’s lives, entangled for a short—but very public—window of time.

I allow myself a rare, small smirk. She’d better be ready for the Astor circus. Because once we’re in Tuscany, it won’t just be my family. It’ll be the entire press circuit, an extensive guest list of high-profile names, and a celebration that’s guaranteed to appear in every glossy magazine from here to Milan.

Tilting my head back, I glance at the ceiling and let my eyes close. “All right, Ms. Simone,” I say under my breath, “let’s see if you can fake forever in front of the world.”

That’s all it is, after all. A performance. One I plan to control from start to finish. My heart isn’t up for discussion, and neither is my pride. If she can match my discipline, we’ll both walk away unscathed.

I open my eyes and reach for the phone again to schedule my day’s meetings. My chest feels oddly tight, but I ignore it. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll meet the woman who, in a few weeks, will have to sell the biggest show of our lives: pretending to be in love.

I can already hear my brother’s congratulatory tone, see the cameras flashing, and feel the flicker of doubt at the back of my mind. But I shove that doubt aside. This is the best strategy, the safest route, the only way to avoid endless speculation and paternal lectures.

With steely determination, I finalize my schedule and start drafting a mental list of everything that needs to be done before we head to Italy. One last glance at the folder with Layla Simone’s photo. Her dark, curious eyes seem to be staring straight through me, as if challenging me to a duel I hadn’t anticipated.

I set the photo aside, my resolve firm. Tomorrow, we begin the audition of a lifetime—one I need her to ace if I’m going to survive my brother’s wedding without a very public embarrassment. No illusions. No real feelings. Just a contract, a spotlight, and two people playing the perfect part.

I can almost feel the pressure building, like a silent crescendo. But I’ve dealt with high stakes before, and I’ve never flinched. I won’t start now.