Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Five-Minute LieThe phrase “This woman is my wife” didn’t just echo through the Plaza ballroom; it detonated. The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke on. A few feet away, Jean Dubois looked as though he had swallowed glass, his eyes darting frantically between Matteo Cipriani’s immaculate tailoring and my ninety-dollar T.J.
Matteo’s thumb brushed lightly over my knuckles—a grounding, deliberate touch that reminded me of his low whisper: Trust me for five minutes.
My mind was a chaotic storm. I had spent eighteen months making myself invisible at Dubois & Laurent, surviving on meager paychecks, swallowing stolen credit, and letting Mabel walk all over me just to pay my rent. Now, the most powerful, untouchable man in New York City was claiming I belonged to him.
"Mr. Cipriani," Jean stammered, stepping forward with a nauseatingly servile smile, his posture bending into an involuntary bow. "I—I had no idea. Ayla is... she’s a valued member of our firm, though perhaps a bit eccentric with her schedule tonight. We were just... engaging in light banter."
Matteo didn't even look at Jean. His gaze remained fixed on Mabel, whose face had gone from flushed triumph to chalk-white terror.
"Banter," Matteo repeated, his voice smooth, low, and laced with absolute frost. "Is that what you call a pack of hyenas tearing apart someone who actually works for a living?"
"Mr. Cipriani, please," Mabel squeaked, her voice cracking. "It was just a joke—"
"Your father’s firm relies heavily on my logistics contracts, Miss Laurent," Matteo interrupted softly, turning his head just enough to acknowledge her. "Tell me, does Richard Laurent know his daughter spends high-society galas publicly harassing my wife? Or should I call him right now and let him explain it to our board?"
Mabel staggered backward, nearly tripping over her own Louboutins. Jean looked like he was about to faint.
May you like
"We are leaving," Matteo announced, his hand sliding firmly from my palm to the small of my back, guiding me forward.
As we walked down the cleared path of stunned socialites, flashbulbs suddenly flared. Someone had finally recovered their wits—and their camera. I didn't care. The doors of the Plaza opened before us like parting waters, and as the cool night air hit my face, the five minutes that would upend my entire existence officially began.
