Chapter 3 - The Black Amex and the Penthouse Rules
The ink on the contract felt heavier than lead.
Twelve hours after the gala, I found myself sitting on a cream-colored Italian
leather sectional inside Enzo Romano’s three-story penthouse overlooking the
Chicago riverfront.
The floor-to-ceiling glass walls revealed a panoramic view of the morning
skyline, where fog drifted between steel and glass towers like white silk
ribbons. The penthouse was immaculate—minimalist architecture, dark walnut
floors, contemporary museum-grade sculptures, and a deafening, echoing quiet
that felt entirely devoid of human warmth.
Across the low glass coffee table sat Marco, Enzo’s chief of legal operations
and the bodyguard who had choked on his champagne the previous evening.
Marco slid a matte-black American Express card and a set of titanium key fobs
across the table toward me.
"Your commercial debt with First National Bank was settled forty-five minutes
ago, Miss Parker," Marco said, his tone entirely professional, though the faint
twitch around his eyes betrayed his lingering amusement from the night before.
"The release of liability documents have been filed with the state registry. You
are legally debt-free."
I stared at the black card sitting on the glass.
Three hundred thousand dollars of suffocating, soul-crushing debt—the debt my
former business partner had abandoned me with before fleeing the
country—vanished with a single wire transfer before breakfast.
"Where is he?" I asked, looking around the cavernous penthouse.
"Mr. Romano is on a private secure conference call with our maritime directors
in Singapore," Marco replied. "He instructed me to review the engagement
protocol with you before the jeweler arrives."
"The jeweler?"
Right on cue, the heavy walnut double doors of the private elevator chimed.
Two men dressed in immaculate gray suits stepped out, carrying heavy
velvet-lined aluminum security cases, followed by a distinguished older woman
wearing white cotton gloves.
"Good morning, Miss Parker," the woman greeted me with a crisp British accent.
"I am Madame Laurent from Harry Winston. Mr. Romano requested a selection of
five-carat-plus emerald-cut engagement solitaires for your fitting."
My mouth parted slightly. "Five carats?"
"Mr. Romano does not believe in modest stones," Marco remarked dryly from the
sofa.
Before I could answer, the heavy frosted-glass doors of the corner executive
study clicked open.
Enzo stepped into the living room.
He had traded the dark shirt from the previous night for a bespoke charcoal
three-piece suit without a tie, the crisp white collar unbuttoned at the throat.
He was rolling down his sleeves, a sleek gold pen tucked between his fingers.
His amber eyes found mine instantly.
"You slept poorly," he noted, walking over and taking a seat in the single
leather armchair opposite me, resting his elbows on his knees.
"I spent the night wondering if I had entered a legally binding hallucination,"
I replied sweetly.
Enzo smirked. "The hallucination comes with full healthcare benefits and a
platinum spending limit."
He gestured toward Madame Laurent. "Show her the options."
Madame Laurent opened the velvet cases. Inside lay twelve of the most
breathtaking diamond rings I had ever laid eyes on. Platinum bands encrusted
with pavé diamonds, centering massive, flawless emerald-cut stones that
refracted the morning sunlight into blinding prismatic beams across the ceiling.
Enzo didn't look at the display. He looked at my eyes as I scanned the velvet
trays.
Without hesitation, his long fingers reached into the second tray, lifting a
magnificent, vintage-inspired six-carat emerald-cut diamond flanked by tapered
baguette side stones.
"This one," Enzo decided.
"Mr. Romano," I protested, pulling my hands back into my lap. "That ring looks
like it could purchase a private island. It’s too much."
"Julian Cross bought Camille Lauron a three-carat princess cut from a commercial
retailer two weeks ago," Enzo said, his tone icy and detached. "My fiancée does
not wear commercial stones, Natalie. Give me your left hand."
His voice wasn't harsh, but it possessed that quiet, absolute gravity that left
no room for debate.
I slowly extended my left hand across the coffee table.
Enzo took my fingers in his large, warm hand. His touch was firm, sending that
familiar, electric heat racing up my arm. He slid the heavy platinum band onto
my ring finger.
The ring fit flawlessly. Exactly a size six.
"How did you know my ring size?" I asked, staring at the glittering stone.
"I told you," Enzo murmured, his thumb gently smoothing over my knuckles before
releasing my hand. "I don't do anything halfway."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket. "We have our first public engagement
tonight."
I looked up in alarm. "Tonight? What engagement?"
"The Autumn Symphony Gala at the Lyric Opera House," Enzo said, checking his
watch. "Julian Cross and Camille Lauron will be sitting in the private tier
directly across from our box."
May you like
My stomach flipped. "Enzo... this is moving too fast. If Julian suspects—"
"Julian won't suspect anything," Enzo interrupted, stepping closer until he
stood directly over me, looking down with intense, unyielding focus. "Because by
tonight, Natalie... everyone in this city will believe you are the only woman I
have ever looked at."
