Page 86 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
Thankfully the ride up to Aiden’s penthouse in the ultrafast elevator distracted me. Forty-one seconds, he informed me when I stepped out of the elevator and into the most glamorous, expensive penthouse I’d ever seen. Stone walls offset by the occasional black accent wall. Huge windows that overlooked Central Park. The terrace, featuring a saltwater pool, sunken firepit, and its own gazebo at the far end. A massive kitchen with obsidian counters that looked so pristine I wondered if they had ever been used.
And my bedroom. It’s like walking into a dream, from the massive bed with its teal-colored velvet headboard to my own balcony with a soaking tub.
Throughout the tour, Aiden acted more like a tour guide than the man who had looked ready to devour me in the dressing room. I was confused, then embarrassed as we walked through the penthouse. Had I imagined the whole thing?
After the tour, he excused himself and disappeared into his office. I didn’t see him until dinner, a delicious meal catered from an exclusive Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village. The lobster ravioli tasted like ash in my mouth as we went over our story again and again. It was almost eight o’clock when he excused himself for a conference call and I tumbled into bed.
I haven’t seen him since. But in less than ten minutes, we’ll be pretending to be an engaged couple in love instead of boss and executive assistant.
What could go wrong?
The thought of posing with Aiden, selling a lie in front of cameras that will document our every move, makes me want to crawl beneath the down comforter on my massive bed and sleep the rest of the day away.
I glance down at the ring on my left hand. The emerald winks up at me from its resting place inside a circle of tiny diamonds shaped like teardrops. When Aiden slipped the ring onto my finger, I wished it was real. Stupid, of course. But it’s the first time a man has ever given me a ring. And then there were his words, so sweet and unexpected I stood there and blinked at him like an owl.
“It reminded me of your eyes.”
The same line, I remind myself firmly, he’s probably used with countless other women.
The ding of the elevator echoes up the stairs and down the hall. I smooth my hands over the skirt one last time. Straighten my shoulders and do one last check of my makeup.
“Showtime,” I whisper.
I walk out of my room with the enthusiasm of a prisoner walking to their sentencing. But I remind myself as I walk down the long hall with its one wall fashioned of glass that overlooks the city, it could be worse. Much worse.
It’s not even been forty-eight hours, but there’s been no whisper of Brett’s name or my past relationship. For the dozenth time since this whole mess started, I murmur a quiet prayer of thanks that I listened to my dad and petitioned the court to identify me only by my initials in the records pertaining to my case. One of the few positives about cutting myself off from almost everyone those last two years Brett and I dated was that almost no one from college or work knew the extent of the abuse.
Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get through this with the most humiliating and degrading time of my life staying buried in the past.
I descend the stairs, my fingers wrapped around the railing in a death grip. The wall disappears, revealing the stunning two-story living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows. The dark wood-planked ceiling, the low-slung leather furniture done in shades of chestnut, the recessed lighting, all of it screams that a very wealthy man lives here.
A man who is currently standing at the doors leading out to the terrace, shoulders thrown back, one hand on his hip and the other pressing his phone to his ear.
I pause. Even in his own home, Aiden Hawke exudes confidence, control.
And a complete inability to relax.
The low rumble of his voice brushes over my skin like a silky caress, one that heightens my awareness and draws my attention to the dark wisps of hair grazing his collar. If this were a real engagement, I’d walk up behind him, run my fingers through his hair, give his sculpted rear a playful tap. Just because he’s not the right man for me doesn’t mean I can’t notice his near-perfect physique.
But he’s not the right man for me. This isn’t a real relationship. Despite what happened with Brett, I maintain hope I can have a family of my own one day. A husband who loves and respects me, children I can spoil rotten. I’ve seen plenty of examples of happy couples, including my own parents. I need to get out of my own head and start dating again. Every time I’ve tried I’ve panicked, backpedaled.
I need to keep my focus on fulfilling the terms of our arrangement and off Aiden in any personal sense, including lust. As he stated, both when he first proposed this idea and when he presented me with a formal contract to sign last night, the engagement is in name only. No sex, no physical touching unless necessary for the sake of the ruse.
With a silent warning to my hormones, I move down the last remaining stairs in time to hear Aiden say, “Believe it, Cass.”
There’s a pause, followed by Aiden’s quiet chuckle. A genuine laugh that sinks into me and settles low in my belly. I’ve never heard him laugh like that.
“Don’t worry about flying back. We’ll be in Venice on Friday for the masquerade.”
Venice? A thrill shoots through me. He’s talking about the annual charity gala he’s hosted every summer for the past few years. An event sponsored by the Hawke Foundation, a charity put together by the Hawke men with proceeds split between four charities, one for each brother and one in honor of their late adoptive father. They’ve all invested a significant amount into the foundation, but they also each host their own fundraiser every year, stunning events designed to draw the wealthiest donors and raise awareness of the charities they support.
Including the Violet Masquerade, an opulent affair hosted in the Palazzo Pisani Moretta along the Grand Canal. A literal palace with stunning stone staircases, a grand hall with a frescoed ceiling and jaw-dropping chandeliers that’s draped with flowers and filled with music every summer.
Not that I would know. Everything I know about the Violet Masquerade has come from the pictures posted on social media from the lucky guests invited to attend. Aiden’s offered to fly me out every year since I started working for him. But I’ve said no every time, always telling myself it wouldn’t be appropriate, that people might gossip.
Truthfully, though, I didn’t want to see him dancing with one of his girlfriends, wonder what they were doing when they slipped away from the crowds.
“Enough.”
