The morning after tastes like regret and expensive perfume.

You wake alone in silk sheets that aren’t yours, the city still dark beyond the windows. His name is a blur, his voice a low echo in your head, his hands remembered more clearly than his face. It was supposed to be nothing—one reckless night where you weren’t the boss’s daughter, just a woman who wanted to forget her last name.

You don’t learn the truth until two days later.

Augusto Rinaldi. Son of Enzo Rinaldi.

The words hit harder than a slap. Your father’s oldest rival. The man whose empire has bled yours dry for decades. And him—the stranger from the bar, the man who kissed you like he already knew you—belongs to that family.

So you do the only smart thing.

You disappear.

You ignore the texts that start polite and turn amused, then curious, then insistent. You don’t answer the calls. You pretend the night never happened.

Until the gifts begin.

A bouquet arrives first, arranged in your favorite colors—an odd detail, one you never remember telling him. The next day, a small velvet box waits by your door, jewelry inside that matches your taste perfectly, understated but unmistakably rare. Then comes a white pastry box from your bakery, the high-end one you never visit without a bodyguard, filled with the sweets you always order.

No note. No name.

Just a message on your phone that night.

You shouldn’t ignore someone who’s trying this hard to be remembered.

You stand in your apartment, surrounded by proof that he’s paying attention. That he knows who you are. That he doesn’t care.

And for the first time since that night, you realize the real danger isn’t your father finding out.

It’s that Augusto Rinaldi isn’t trying to intimidate you.

He’s courting you.