Ivy followed the butler through a corridor lined with oil paintings, past doors that looked older than the building itself, until they reached a study with leather chairs and a roaring fireplace.

A single man sat inside, his back to her, facing the flames. He didn't turn around.

"Sit," the butler said.

Ivy did. The butler left and closed the door softly behind him. In the study, the silence stretched.

Then, finally, the man spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and controlled.

"You've lived in eight different cities in ten years. No record of parents. Multiple jobs. No formal education past high school."

Ivy stiffened.

"You're resourceful," he continued. "Unpredictable. And hard to trace."

He turned, and Ivy's breath caught.

The man was young. Early thirties, maybe. He had dark hair, perfectly cut. Olive skin, a sharp jaw, and eyes like obsidian - cold and unreadable.

Lorenzo Martinelli.

Ivy had never met him before, but she'd seen his face on gossip sites as few times. The billionaire no one ever saw in person. The untouchable, dangerous man with alleged Mafia ties. And now, apparently, interviewing potential wives like they were candidates for a crown.

"Why did you come?" he asked.

Ivy met his gaze without blinking. "Curiosity. And five hundred bucks."

He smiled - barely. "Honest. That's rare," he said. "I like that."

Lorenzo stood, crossing the room with the confidence of someone used to having the world at his feet.

"I don't want someone who wants me," he said, stopping inches from her. "I want someone who can survive me."

Ivy literally felt the heat of the fire on her face. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

"You don't know me," she said quietly.

"No," he agreed. "But I will."

He turned away again.

"Your attendance fee will be handed to you once you step out of here. You'll be contacted tomorrow."

And just like that, the interview was over.

---------------

Outside, the wind had died down. Ivy stepped back into the black car, heart pounding. Her reward for participating in this crazy joke was already tucked inside her clutch. It looked like a fortune to her.

She didn't know what she'd just agreed to, but for the first time in years, the future didn't look empty. It looked dangerous, and she wasn't sure if that scared her... or thrilled her.

The next morning, Ivy stood at the gates of the Martinelli Estate, unsure if she should admire the towering wrought-iron design or be terrified of what waited beyond it. The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, casting long shadows on the gravel driveway.

Her sneakers crunched against it as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. This was unlike anything she'd ever signed up for - and she'd signed up for a lot of crazy gigs.

She'd received a text message at 5 a.m. from the unknown number, telling her to report back at the Martinelli Estate. A sharply dressed man stepped out from the security booth. His suit looked like it cost more than her entire closet.

"Name?" he asked without looking up from his clipboard.

"Ivy. Ivy Wesley."

He checked the list, nodded once, and pressed a button on the panel beside him. The gates opened with a slow, eerie groan.

"Proceed down the driveway," the man instructed Ivy gruffly. "The house is on the left. Do not stray from the path. Cameras are everywhere."

She offered a tight smile and walked through the gates, her heart hammering like a war drum.

The estate was massive. It was the kind of place that screamed old money, Mafia whispers, and generations of secrets. The mansion came into view; a blend of Italian villa and modern fortress, with marble pillars, fountains, and manicured gardens that looked too pristine to be real.

A line of women had already gathered near the front steps. All of them were dressed like they were attending a red carpet event: high heels, red lips, sleek hair. Ivy swallowed, suddenly very aware of her worn jeans and second-hand leather jacket. She was the only one who looked like she got there by bus.

"Who let the janitor in?" one of the girls snickered.

Ivy raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Let them laugh. They didn't know her story. She had survived too much to be intimidated by lipstick and stilettos.

Before she could find a spot to stand, the front door opened with a theatrical sweep. A man in his late thirties stepped out, flanked by two other assistants. He looked like a TV producer: slicked-back hair, expensive shoes, and a tablet in hand.

"Ladies!" he clapped his hands, voice booming. "Welcome to the Martinelli Estate. My name is Victor. I'll be leading today's... interview process."

"Interview?" one girl asked, adjusting her cleavage.

"Yes. Today is less of a party and more of an audition," Victor said. "You're not here to network. You're not here to model. As you were informed last night, you are here to possibly become the legal wife of Mr. Lorenzo Martinelli."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the group.

"Mr. Martinelli is the CEO of Martinelli Enterprises which runs a chain of luxury restaurants across the country and a winery that produces the finest wines and champagne known to mankind," Victor continues. "He is heir to a billion-dollar fortune - and yes, the rumors are true, he's that Martinelli."

Ivy swallowed hard but remained quiet. She couldn't help but wonder why a wealthy, handsome man like Lorenzo Martinelli had resorted to this extreme method of finding a wife.

"I knew it," a red-lipped girl whispered behind Ivy. "This is the Mafia guy audition."

Victor smirked. "Yes, yes. I can see the confusion. But rest assured - this is a legitimate arrangement. Mr. Martinelli is being required by family tradition to marry within the next thirty days. Rather than go through a typical courtship, he's decided to... speed things up."

Ivy's jaw clenched. Yes, she needed money, but she didn't expect to end up on an episode of The Bachelor: Mafia Edition. Why on earth did she come back here?

Even before the question finished forming in her head, Ivy knew the answer. She'd come back here for more. Much more than five hundred dollars.

"You'll be interviewed individually," Victor continued. "You'll get a chance to speak with the man himself - briefly - and if you're selected, there will be a final round with the family."

"Is this even legal?" someone asked.

Victor's grin widened. "Perfectly. All participants will sign another NDA at the end of this exercise. If chosen, you'll sign a prenup and marriage contract. Payment is generous. Dismissal is discreet. Now... if any of you would prefer to leave, the gate is still open."

Ivy glanced around. Three girls immediately stepped out of line and left. Another rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering about rich people and their crazy games.

Ivy stayed. She wasn't here for love. She wasn't even here for adventure. She was here because she needed a way out. A future. Maybe even a second chance.

She lifted her chin and muttered, "Let's do this."

---------------

Inside, the mansion was even more opulent than she'd imagined; massive chandeliers, floors so polished she could see her reflection, and walls lined with classic paintings that looked centuries old.

A line of chairs had been arranged in the grand salon, and the women were called in one by one for their interviews.

Ivy waited. She eavesdropped as the others returned; some looking smug, others confused. One girl was even crying.

"Next, Ivy Wesley," called an assistant with icy blonde hair and perfectly sculpted brows.

Ivy stood up, shook out her jacket, and followed the woman through a set of carved wooden doors into a smaller room: an office with a glass desk, leather chairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the estate.

Victor sat behind the desk. Beside him was another woman, a curvy blonde, with a clipboard and a steely expression.

"This is Chloe," Victor said. "She's Mr. Martinelli's personal assistant."

Ivy nodded. "Nice to meet you."

Chloe said nothing, just assessed her with cool green eyes.

"Tell us about yourself, Ivy," Victor began.

Ivy forced a smile. "What do you want to know? I'm twenty-five. I grew up in Michigan. Left home at sixteen. Been doing odd jobs ever since."

"Why did you leave home?" Chloe asked sharply.

Ivy paused. "It wasn't safe," she said finally.

Chloe exchanged a glance with Victor.

Ivy folded her arms. "Look, I'm not here to give you a sob story. I'm just trying to get out of a life that's been stuck in survival mode. I'm not afraid of rich people, secrets, or drama. I know how to blend in, keep quiet, and hold my own."

Victor raised his eyebrows. "That... was unexpectedly honest."

Ivy shrugged. "What's the point of lying? You'll dig it all up in a background check anyway."

Chloe's lips curled into a smile. "Interesting."

Victor leaned forward. "One more question. If you're chosen, this marriage will come with expectations - public appearances, discretion, and loyalty. You won't be free to come and go as you please. Can you handle that?"

Ivy thought of the moldy apartment she shared with two chain-smoking roommates. She thought of the job she lost last week because the diner went out of business. She thought of her mother's silence. Her stepfather's hands. The bruises no one saw.

She looked Victor in the eye and said, "I've handled worse."

Chloe stood. "Thank you, Chloe. You'll be notified shortly."

---------------

Hours passed. Most of the women were gone. Only four remained, including Ivy. She was sitting in the corner, sipping a glass of champagne someone had handed her, when Victor returned, smiling like he'd just won a game.

"Ladies," he announced, "Mr. Martinelli has made his decision."

A tense silence filled the room.

He turned to Ivy and said, "Congratulations."

Her mouth fell open. "Wait... what?"

"You've been selected," Victor confirmed.

The other women gasped. One of them scoffed. "Her? Seriously?"

Victor ignored them. "You'll be escorted to a guest suite. Tomorrow, you'll be briefed by the legal team. The wedding will take place within the next five days."

Ivy could barely breathe. This was real. She was marrying a billionaire. A man with rumored Mafia ties. A man she'd only met once!

Before she could ask another question, Chloe appeared beside her.

"This way," she said coolly.

-------------

The guest suite was three times larger than Ivy' entire apartment. The bed was king-sized, and the sheets were Egyptian cotton. A robe had been laid out.

There was even a basket of luxury bath products with a handwritten note: "Welcome to the family - temporarily or otherwise. Make yourself comfortable."

Ivy collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

She barely had time to process before the door opened again.

"Mr. Martinelli will see you now," Chloe said from the doorway.

Ivy sat up, her heart pounding. "Now?"

Chloe nodded. "It's a courtesy. He prefers to meet his wife before the wedding."

No kidding, Ivy thought.

She followed Chloe through the mansion, down a corridor lined with family portraits: men in tuxedos, women in gowns, faces with sharp features and cold eyes. They passed stone-faced sculptures that stared as if judging Ivy's every step.

She'd grown up in places where broken windows were normal, and cops didn't show up unless someone died. Here? The silence had its own wealth.

Chloe stopped at a set of double doors and said, "He's waiting."

Ivy hesitated, then stepped inside.

Lorenzo Martinelli was seated behind a mahogany desk. He stood when he saw her, buttoning his suit jacket. He was taller than she remembered, with broad shoulders, a square jaw, and dark eyes that glistened in the warm light.

"You are Ivy, right?" he said.

"And you're the guy who just made the biggest mistake of his life," she replied, trying to mask her nerves with sarcasm.

He smiled faintly. "I find your honesty refreshing."

Ivy walked toward him, trying not to let her legs shake. "Why me?"

"You didn't pretend to be perfect," Lorenzo answered frankly. "You've lived a tough life. You didn't ask stupid questions. And I've always preferred someone with bite."

"Good," Ivy said. "Because I bite."

Lorenzo's smile deepened.

Ivy crossed her arms and asked, "So you're just out here proposing marriage to strangers like it's a business transaction?"

"Because it is," Lorenzo responded promptly. "This isn't about love, Ivy. It's about leverage. Appearances. Strategy."

"And you picked me because...?" She asked dubiously.

"You're smart," Lorenzo said simply. "The others aren't. You? You looked me in the eye and spoke boldly. That kind of nerve isn't easy to find."

Ivy's mouth felt dry. "That's not a compliment. That's a warning."

"It's both," Lorenzo assured her.

He moved toward the window, hands in his pockets, and said, "My world isn't safe. It's sharp corners and sealed doors. But it's also power. Money. Security."

Ivy watched him. "You're telling me all this like I don't already know the rumors," she said.

Lorenzo faced her again and said, "Rumors are smoke. I'm fire."

There it was again - that glimmer of danger beneath the polish. She should've turned and walked out. Instead, Ivy stepped closer.

"Why me?" she asked again. "Why not someone from your world?"

"Because someone from my world knows too much," Lorenzo answered candidly. "But you? You're new. A wildcard."

"And what's in it for me?" Ivy wanted to know.

Lorenzo looked at her then, really looked. "More money than you've ever touched in your life, a reputable status in society, useful connections. And best of all, protection."

Ivy laughed, short and nervous. "Are you trying to buy me?"

"I'm offering you an exit," Lorenzo said. "From whatever corner of the city you've been surviving in. A clean slate. A chance to rebrand yourself and choose a future that's far better than anything you've imagined."

Her stomach twisted. Ivy was both enticed and terrified. Lorenzo's offer sounded too good to be true.

He watched her reaction and smiled slightly. "I don't make offers twice."

Ivy swallowed hard, her mind a whirlwind. She thoughtfully considered what Lorenzo was offering her. Wealth, a marriage of convenience, a new social status. It was indeed a mind-blowing offer. What did she have to lose?

"What happens if I say yes?" She asked cautiously.

"We get married next week," Lorenzo said smoothly. "You move in. You follow the rules. You smile when the cameras are on. And do your best to get along with my family."

"And if I say no?" Ivy asked hesitantly.

Lorenzo shrugged. "You leave with a fancy coffee and a story no one will believe."

Ivy stared at him, weighing the madness. This wasn't a rom-com; this was real. Crazy, risky, and tempting.

Finally, she exhaled. "Alright. I'll think about it."

Lorenzo nodded. "You have twenty-four hours," he said coolly.

Ivy turned to leave but paused at the door. "One more thing, Mr. Martinelli."

He cocked his head.

"If I do this... I'm not playing dumb. I want terms, protection, boundaries," she said.

Lorenzo's mouth curved, just slightly. "Of course. I wouldn't expect anything less, Mrs. Martinelli," he replied.

Ivy did not hesitate. She spun around and hurried out of the office before her knees gave out.

The cathedral loomed ahead, regal and ancient, nestled on a manicured hill at the far end of the Martinelli family estate. Its ivory stone walls were kissed by creeping ivy, and stained-glass windows glimmered like hidden jewels under the morning sun.

The air held a crisp stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath for what was about to unfold.

Ivy stood just inside the arched wooden doors, her fingers trembling slightly as they clutched the delicate lace veil attached to the elegant ivory gown she'd been dressed in. The dress, selected by one of Lorenzo's personal stylists, fit her like a glove, its bodice snug and flattering, the mermaid silhouette cascading around her legs in waves of silk and lace.

"Ready, signorina?" Victor asked softly, his voice carrying the same calm professionalism she'd come to expect from him.

Dressed in a tailored gray suit, he looked more like a groomsman than an assistant. Yet, his watchful gaze never missed a thing.

Ivy swallowed, then nodded.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she said bravely.

Victor gave a small smile and stepped aside. The massive doors opened with a low creak, revealing the grand interior of the cathedral.

The pews were filled sparsely with family and associates, most of whom Ivy had not been introduced to. Yet she could feel their stares, a thousand judgments laced in silken suits and expensive perfume.

She began her walk down the aisle, accompanied by the swell of a single violin. There were no bridesmaids or flower girls. This was not a traditional wedding. It was business. A transaction sealed with vows and a signature. Still, Ivy held her head high.

At the altar stood Lorenzo, immaculate in a black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He looked like something out of a fashion editorial: handsome, poised, and distant. He didn't smile when he saw her, but neither did he frown. Ivy decided to take that as a win.

As she approached, a priest in crimson vestments motioned her into place beside Lorenzo. The ceremony began immediately. Latin prayers echoed beneath the high ceilings, the scent of incense thick in the air. Ivy barely heard the words. Her mind flitted between panic and disbelief.

You're marrying a man you barely know, Ivy thought to herself. You're marrying into the Mafia. This is your life now.

When it was time for the vows, Lorenzo's voice was steady and cold.

"I, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, take you, Ivy Giselle Wesley, to be my wife. To honor and protect, as long as we both shall live."

Ivy hesitated for a breath before responding.

"I, Ivy Giselle Wesley, take you, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, to be my husband. To stand by you, through better or worse, till death do us part."

The priest blessed the rings, and with mechanical precision, they exchanged them. When he announced them husband and wife, Lorenzo leaned in and pressed a polite kiss to her cheek. No lips. No warmth. Just duty.

The guests applauded, soft and controlled. It felt more like the closing of a business merger than the beginning of a marriage.

After the ceremony, Victor led Ivy into a small room at the back of the cathedral where a marriage certificate lay waiting on a heavy mahogany desk. Lorenzo was already there, signing the final document with an engraved fountain pen.

He handed the pen to Ivy without a word. She took it and signed her name with careful strokes: Ivy Wesley-Martinelli.

"Congratulations," Victor said as he collected the papers. "It's official."

Ivy managed a nod, though her stomach twisted into knots. She turned to Lorenzo and asked, "So... now what?"

He looked at her, eyes cool and unreadable. "Now we face my family."

---------------

Lorenzo had disappeared with Victor to take a phone call shortly after the wedding photos. She was left to navigate her way to the formal sitting room, where the rest of the Martinelli family waited to welcome the new bride.

Or judge her.

"This way, signora," one of the housekeepers said in a thick Italian accent, motioning down a corridor lined with oil paintings of Martinelli ancestors who all looked equally intimidating.

Ivy straightened the hem of her cream dress and followed, silently rehearsing her smile. She stepped into the grand salon, an elegant room drenched in warm golds and rich mahogany, the kind of place where secrets whispered against velvet cushions.

Olivia Martinelli sat in a throne-like chair at the center of the room, her silver-streaked hair pulled back tightly. Her hawk-like eyes took in Ivy's every move.

"So," Olivia began, her voice as crisp as the wine that bore her family name, "this is the woman my son married."

Beside her, Isabella and Giulia lounged like cats preparing to pounce. Isabella wore a forest green gown that clashed intentionally with Brenda's understated cream ensemble, while Giulia twirled a piece of her bleach-blonde hair between long, manicured fingers, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Welcome to the family," Giulia drawled.

"Thank you," Ivy said, forcing warmth into her voice. "It's an honor to be here."

Olivia didn't respond immediately. Her eyes narrowed, studying Ivy as if she were a fine wine that hadn't been properly aged.

"Where are your people, Ivy?" Olivia asked, the words laced with subtle condescension.

Ivy's smile tightened. "I came alone. I don't have any family who could attend."

"How convenient," Isabella murmured, lifting a crystal flute to her lips.

"Some people are better off without the weight of the past," Ivy said evenly, locking eyes with her new mother-in-law.

Olivia leaned back, clearly intrigued. "You're not intimidated easily. That's good. This family devours the weak."

"I've had worse than a cold welcome and prettier women throwing shade," Ivy replied, earning a quiet snort from Giulia, who didn't expect the bride to have a bite.

Just then, Lorenzo entered the room with Victor trailing behind him. His eyes scanned the gathering and landed on Ivy, softening slightly. "Hope I didn't miss the warm welcome."

Olivia stood. "A word, Lorenzo," she said crisply.

He nodded, placing a hand gently on Ivy's lower back before following his mother into a side room. The door shut behind them with an ominous click.

Giulia moved closer to Ivy, still smiling sweetly. "Do you know how many women tried to marry my brother?"

"Enough to host your own reality show, I imagine," Ivy replied, deadpan.

Isabella snorted, and for a brief second, the tension cracked. But Giulia quickly recovered.

"You won't last," she threatened.

"Maybe not, but I'll enjoy the ride," Ivy replied boldly.

The door opened again, and Olivia swept out, her expression unreadable. Lorenzo followed, his features carefully composed.

"We're having dinner in the east dining room," Olivia announced for Ivy's benefit. "Let's see how well you handle a proper Martinelli family meal."

The family dining hall was a cavernous space inside the main mansion. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. A long oak table stretched across the room, already set with gold-rimmed china and shining silverware. Servants in white jackets stood silently at intervals.

Dinner was a symphony of passive aggression. Between the veal medallions and the tiramisu, Olivia made several pointed remarks about loyalty, legacy, and the importance of knowing one's place. Ivy responded with grace and veiled wit, never letting her guard down.

It was a game of mental chess, and she was beginning to understand just how high the stakes were.

After the meal, Salvatore Martinelli, the family patriarch, made his appearance. Wheeled in by his nurse, the old man was a commanding presence despite his frailty. His eyes were sharp, missing nothing.

"Ah," he said, his voice a gravelly whisper, "the bride."

Ivy stood and offered a polite nod. "Sir."

"Call me Nonno," he said jovially. "That's what my grandchildren call me. You're family now, aren't you?"

"Yes, Nonno," Ivy responded dutifully.

"Welcome to the family, Ivy," Salvatore said after taking his place at the head of the table.

"You carry our name now," he continued in his raspy voice. "That comes with privileges and responsibilities."

Ivy nodded, unsure if she was expected to reply.

Salvatore continued. "I have a gift for you, my dear. A small incentive, if you will."

Silence descended on the room. You could hear a pin drop.

Salvatore continued, "If within a year you give this family an heir, you will receive my late wife's jewelry box."

There was a sharp intake of breath. Olivia's wine glass paused mid-air, Isabella's fork clinked loudly against her plate, and Giulia rolled her eyes dramatically.

Ivy's heart thudded. "That's... very generous," she stuttered.

Salvatore smiled thinly. "Family is everything. We must ensure our legacy."

Lorenzo's jaw tightened. "Nonno, this isn't necessary."

"It is," the old man snapped. "It's tradition."

The rest of dinner was a strained affair. The food was exquisite, but Ivy could barely taste it. Every word from Olivia and her daughters was laced with veiled insults.

"So, Ivy," Isabella said, dabbing her lips with a napkin, "where did you say you went to school?"

"I didn't," Ivy replied, trying to keep her voice even. "I dropped out at sixteen."

"Ah," Giulia said with mock sympathy. "Such a shame, but not everyone's cut out for academics, right?"

Olivia interjected coolly. "We'll have to work on your etiquette. A Martinelli wife should reflect the family's status."

Ivy felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but she forced a smile. "I'm a quick learner," she said tightly.

Lorenzo stayed quiet through most of the meal, occasionally offering her a glance that could have meant anything. Ivy wasn't sure whether he was embarrassed by his family's treatment of her or simply indifferent.

After dessert, Salvatore raised his glass. "To our new bride. May she bear the next generation of Martinellis."

Ivy sipped her wine automatically, aware of all the eyes watching her. The moment the toast ended, Olivia stood.

"Come, girls. I believe we've endured enough formality for one evening," she said frostily.

The three women rose and swept out of the room, heels clicking on marble. Lorenzo remained seated, swirling his wine.

"You handled that well," he said quietly.

Ivy looked at him, her expression guarded. "They hate me."

He didn't deny it. "They'll get used to you. Or not. Doesn't matter."

"It does to me," Ivy said.

He met her eyes for the first time with something close to vulnerability. "Try not to take it personally. In this family, respect is earned."

Ivy nodded slowly. "Then I'll earn it," she vowed.

A flicker of something crossed Lorenzo's face: respect? Surprise? Ivy couldn't tell. He stood and offered his hand.

"Come. I'll show you to your room."

---------------

Ivy's suite was on the third floor of the west wing. It was ornate, enormous, and suffocatingly silent. A fire crackled in the marble fireplace.

A king-sized canopy bed dominated the room, draped in silk. French windows overlooked the vineyard. Lorenzo showed her around without much ceremony.

"This is yours," he said. "If you need anything, ring for Anna. She'll take care of it."

Ivy followed him as he turned to leave. "Wait. Are you not... staying?"

Lorenzo hesitated at the door. "No. I'll be in my room. It's across the hall. We'll take this one step at a time."

Ivy nodded, though disappointment twisted in her chest.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Martinelli," he said before closing the door behind him.

Ivy stood there for a moment, in a room filled with luxury but cold as ice.

One step at a time, she thought.

I'll survive this, she assured herself. Just like I've survived everything else.

---------------

The next morning, sunlight seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold, coaxing Ivy out of a restless sleep. She blinked at the unfamiliar ceiling, ornate with subtle molding and bathed in soft white.

For a moment, she thought it was all a dream - until she turned her head and saw the velvet chaise lounge, the fresh bouquet of white orchids on the nightstand, and the faint outline of her wedding dress hanging in the closet.

She was in the Martinelli estate. She was married. And she was alone.

The suite was unnervingly silent. Ivy sat up slowly, the silk sheets gliding off her skin like water. She had never slept on anything this soft, never known what it felt like to be surrounded by such extravagance. Even the air here smelled expensive, like lavender and money.

As her bare feet touched the warm floor, Ivy felt the echo of her old life tug at her. In her tiny apartment, she'd wake to the creak of the ceiling fan and the distant wail of the neighbor's baby. Here, silence was its own kind of noise... too clean, too calculated.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts. Ivy quickly grabbed the silky robe draped over a nearby chair to cover herself.

"Come in," she called, wrapping the plush robe tighter around herself.

The door opened gently, and in stepped a petite woman with salt-and-pepper hair neatly pulled back into a bun. She wore a navy-blue uniform and a warm, practiced smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Martinelli. I'm Anna. I'll be your personal maid," she said with a respectful nod.

Mrs. Martinelli. It still sounded strange.

"Hi, Anna," Ivy said, offering a tentative smile. "You don't have to call me that. Ivy is fine."

Anna's smile remained professional. "That is not allowed, ma'am. I must refer to you by your title."

"Oh, I see," Ivy said quietly.

"I've drawn a bath for you, and breakfast will be served shortly," Anna said. "Mr. Martinelli has already left for the day, but he asked me to make sure you're comfortable."

He left without saying goodbye?

Ivy's face faltered for a second. "Did he... say where he went?"

"I'm afraid not," Anna replied. "He rarely discusses his schedule with the staff."

Right. Of course, he didn't.

Ivy followed Anna into the adjoining bathroom, where an enormous marble tub gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier. Steam rose from the water, infused with rose petals and something herbal. It looked like a scene from a spa commercial.

"This is... nice," Ivy said, stepping closer.

Anna gave a small nod. "Would you like me to assist you with anything?"

Ivy shook her head quickly. "No, no. I've got it."

She wasn't used to this: being pampered, being waited on. It made her skin itch a little. Ivy had always done things for herself. Asking someone to pour her a bath felt like cheating at life.

Anna seemed to sense her unease. "Take your time, ma'am. I'll lay out your outfit and wait outside."

Ivy sank into the bath once Anna left, letting the warmth envelop her. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

Everything felt surreal. The soft jazz music playing through hidden speakers, the way the bathroom had heated floors, the monogrammed towels that were fluffier than any pillow she'd ever owned.

It was paradise... but it wasn't home.

When she emerged thirty minutes later, Anna had laid out a pale-yellow designer dress with delicate lace sleeves. Ivy touched the fabric like it might disappear beneath her fingers. There were tags still attached, probably brand new, chosen for her before she even arrived.

She dressed in silence, then let Anna guide her to the dining hall. The hallway was a grand showcase of polished floors, gilded sconces, and cold portraits of stern-looking men with the same angular jawline Lorenzo had inherited. Their eyes followed her as she walked.

"They were all Martinelli men," Anna said quietly, catching Ivy's gaze. "Mr. Lorenzo's ancestors. Powerful, ruthless, but respected."

Ivy swallowed. That wasn't comforting, she thought.

This dining room was different from the one they'd had dinner in last night. This one was massive and formal, with a long glass table that could seat thirty. Only six places were set, but it felt like a performance all the same.

For a split second, Ivy toyed with the idea of turning around and running out of the mansion, but she knew that wasn't possible. This was what she signed up for. And now, it was time for her to face the music.