The photograph appeared on the front page of Milano Oggi's digital edition at 6:02 AM.
Chloe discovered it when her phone buzzed with a frantic text from her father: "What is this?" followed by the link.
The image was grainy but devastatingly intimate: Luca's back to the camera, her facing it, the Isis Necklace gleaming at her throat as his arms wrapped around her from behind. Their reflections in the penthouse window showed their faces—his pressed against her temple, eyes closed; hers tilted back, expression soft, vulnerable. The caption screamed: "FAKE ROMANCE? Insider claims Rossi-Laurent engagement is a business deal to salvage failing jewelry empire."
She stood frozen in the center of the penthouse living room, the silk of her robe suddenly feeling like a shroud.
Luca's office door flew open. He held his own phone, face pale beneath his tan. "Don't answer any calls. Don't look at social media."
"It's Isabella."
"I know." His voice was cold steel. He was already dressed, every inch the CEO ready for war. "She used a telephoto lens from the building across the street. This is a declaration."
"What do we do?" The panic she'd held at bay all night surged forward. "The article says they have a source close to you confirming it's a contract."
"They have no source," he snapped, then softened at her expression. "They have speculation. Rumors Isabella fed them. But rumors are enough to start a fire."
His own phone began to ring—a relentless, shrill sound. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening. "Board members. They'll want blood."
"My parents—" Her voice broke.
"Are protected." He crossed to her, taking her shoulders. His touch was firm, grounding. "The debts are cleared. The necklace is legally yours. That can't be undone. But our credibility…" He exhaled sharply. "We need to move. Now."
"Where?"
"To the one place they won't expect." A grim smile touched his lips. "The wolves are at the door, Chloe. So we stop acting like prey."
An hour later, they stood on the worn cobblestones of the Brera district, outside the familiar green door of Laurent Jewelry Atelier. The morning sun slanted through the narrow street, illuminating the dust motes in the air and the faded gold lettering on the window.
"Here?" she whispered, clutching his hand. Paparazzi had trailed them from the penthouse, their cameras clicking like hungry insects.
"Here," he said, his voice carrying. "Where your heart is. Where this," he gestured between them, "started to become real for me."
He hadn't just brought her to her studio. He'd brought the circus with him.
He raised his voice, turning to face the gathered reporters. "You want a story? I'll give you a story."
Microphones thrust forward. Cameras zoomed in.
"My relationship with Chloe began as an arrangement," he said, and the crowd erupted. He held up a hand. "It began as a business merger, yes. A way to heal a feud between our families. But somewhere between the contract and this morning…" He looked at her, and his expression shifted—the cold CEO vanished, replaced by the man who'd kissed her scar, who'd shielded her from breaking glass. "Somewhere in there, I fell in love with the artist. With the woman who creates beauty from raw stone. Who fights for what she loves. Who looked at a man everyone calls a monster and saw someone worth saving."
Chloe's breath caught. This wasn't in any script.
He turned back to the cameras, his arm sliding around her waist. "Isabella Moretti's photograph captured a private moment between two people discovering that a fake beginning can lead to a very real future. I won't apologize for that. But I will say this: the Laurent legacy isn't failing. With Rossi Industries' backing and Chloe's genius, it's about to become the most celebrated jewelry house in Europe."
He wasn't denying the contract. He was reframing it. Transforming scandal into a fairy tale.
A reporter shouted, "Is it true you paid off the Laurent debts in exchange for her hand?"
Luca's smile was razor-sharp. "I invested in a legacy. And in the woman who carries it. There's a difference."
He guided her toward the studio door, but not before adding, "Our wedding will be at the end of the month. You're all invited."
The door closed behind them, muffling the sudden uproar.
Inside the quiet studio, Chloe leaned against the door, her legs trembling. "They'll rip that apart. They'll find the contract."
"Let them look." Luca paced the small space, running a hand over her worktable, touching the tools she'd used since she was a girl. "The contract stipulates confidentiality, but if it leaks, we'll say it was a prenuptial agreement—which it essentially was. The debts were cleared as an investment, which is true. The only lie left is the timeline of our feelings." He stopped before her. "And that's not a lie anymore, is it?"
She searched his face. "You just announced a wedding date. We don't have one."
"We do now. Four weeks." He cupped her face. "Unless you want out. If you do, tell me now. I'll call them back and say I misspoke. I'll take the fall. You walk away clean."
The offer was genuine. She saw it in the tension around his eyes, in the way his thumb trembled slightly against her cheek.
"Four weeks," she heard herself say. "And then what?"
"And then we build something real. Together." He kissed her, softer now, a promise rather than a claim. "But first, we have to survive today."
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, his expression hardening. "Isabella. She's calling."
"Don't answer."
"Oh, I'm going to answer." He swiped the screen, putting it on speaker. "Isabella. You've outdone yourself."
The honeyed voice filled the quiet studio. "Darling, I just wanted to congratulate you on that delightful performance outside. Very touching. Almost had me believing it."
"What do you want?"
"What I've always wanted. You. Or, barring that, to watch you burn." Her tone turned icy. "You humiliated me when you chose that little artisan over me. Now everyone will know she's just a paid companion."
Luca's voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "Listen carefully. You release one more photo, one more 'insider tip,' and I will release the recording of you bribing a city official for the permits for your boutique hotel. The one you think I don't know about."
Silence crackled through the line.
Isabella's voice returned, thin with fury. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The line went dead.
Chloe stared at him. "You recorded her?"
"I protect what's mine," he said simply, pocketing the phone. "And you, Chloe Laurent, are mine."
The word should have felt like a cage. Instead, it felt like a fortress.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of strategy. Luca's PR team descended, crafting statements, planning a "couple's interview" with a major magazine. He made calls, his voice shifting between warm charm and cold threat as he stabilized board members and silenced gossip columnists.
Chloe worked at her bench, the familiar weight of tools in her hands grounding her. She wasn't designing for him or for the public. She was designing for herself—a new piece, a pair of earrings this time, with diamonds set like teardrops and raw sapphires at their heart. Something that spoke of beauty born from pressure.
As twilight painted the studio in gold, Luca finally put his phone down. He came to stand behind her, watching her hands work. "You're not afraid."
She hadn't realized it until he said it, but it was true. The panic had receded, replaced by a steady, fierce certainty. "You're fighting for us. I should be fighting too."
He rested his hands on her shoulders. "The wedding. It will be a spectacle. Everything Isabella and the rest of them will expect. But at the center of it…" He turned her chair to face him, kneeling so their eyes were level. "At the center, it will be real. If you'll have me."
She looked at this man—the ruthless billionaire who'd become her protector, the ice king who'd melted only for her. She saw the shadows of his past in his eyes, the weight of his empire on his shoulders, and the fragile, stubborn hope he was offering her.
"Yes," she said.
He kissed her again, slow and deep, a vow sealed in the quiet of her sanctuary.
Outside, the wolves still circled. The headlines would scream tomorrow. The doubters would whisper. But inside Laurent Jewelry Atelier, with the scent of metal and wax and his cologne wrapping around her, Chloe knew the truth:
The contract had begun as a cage. But sometimes, she realized as his lips moved against hers, the key to your freedom is held by the person who locked the door.
And sometimes, if you're very lucky, they choose to open it with you.