CHAPTER FIVE
DAMIEN
“…Effective immediately, Damien Moretti will assume the position of Chief Executive Officer of Moretti Global, following a unanimous vote by the board.”
There was a beat of silence before a wave of applause rippled through the boardroom—polite, rehearsed, and just cautious enough to remind me that while they’d voted for me, they hadn’t necessarily stopped watching me.
That was fine. I didn’t come back to be liked.
I sat at the head of the long obsidian table, surrounded by a dozen men in suits that cost more than some people’s annual rent. Some looked at me with quiet approval, others with veiled skepticism, and a few with the kind of wary curiosity that only came when someone unexpected returned to take what was now rightfully theirs.
I let them look.
Two years ago, I walked away from this city. From the company. From the name. I left behind the cameras, the expectations, the weight of something I hadn’t been born into—but had been molded to carry anyway. Not by blood. Not by inheritance. By will.
Now I was back.
Not as a shadow, not as the quiet heir tucked away in Italy, but as the man at the center of the room. The man holding the reins of an empire that wasn’t built for softness or sentiment.
I stood, adjusting the sleeves of my jacket with deliberate ease, letting the quiet settle just long enough to remind them who had the floor.
“We begin implementation of the restructuring plan this quarter,” I said evenly. “Department heads will receive the updated framework before noon. From now on, our operations will run leaner, faster, and without dependency on legacy systems. Any inefficiencies will be removed. Permanently.”
No one objected. They rarely did when the message was clear.
Control, after all, didn’t require noise. Just precision.
Fifteen minutes later, the room was empty, the chairs tucked in and the scent of expensive cologne lingering faintly in the air. Behind the glass walls, I could already hear the buzz building downstairs—press lining up in the lobby, camera crews hovering outside, PR handlers running damage control before anything had even started.
The story had already been written.
The Moretti heir returns. A new era begins.
Let them print whatever made them feel important.
I walked back into my office—a sleek expanse of glass, steel, and silence—and set my phone on the desk just as it buzzed.
Lorenzo:
She’s in. Movers just left. No drama so far.
Another ping followed before I could respond.
Press is circling. You want me to go ahead and announce the engagement?
My thumb hovered over the screen for a second before I responded.
Brielle Lancaster. My fiancée. Technically.
We hadn’t spoken since that dinner.
Not a single word. Not a message. Not a glance. And yet, she’d moved in. Quietly. As expected. As arranged.
She was part of the plan now.
Not because I wanted her there—but because there was no other choice.
Announce it. We control the narrative, or they create one for us. Use photos from the Lancaster dinner. I want the statement on my desk tonight.
Lorenzo’s response came instantly.
Got it. Want me to send her a copy?
No. She’ll find out with the rest of the world.
I locked the screen and leaned back in my chair, watching the sunlight stretch across the skyline.
By morning, the headlines would be live.
Damien Moretti: CEO. Engaged. Settled. Powerful.
They’d get their fairy tale.
They always did.
But none of them knew the real story behind it.
No one knew about the file that sat buried in my encrypted folder.
The photo. The audio clip. The moment I dropped my guard for a fraction of a second—and gave someone like Thomas Lancaster a weapon to wield.
This engagement wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t personal.
It was calculated.
A trade made behind closed doors. A survival tactic dressed up as something clean.
I stared at the screen for a moment longer before closing the folder.
Whatever he thought he had on me—whatever leverage he believed he owned—it wouldn’t matter soon.
And when this was all over—when I’d finally buried every secret Thomas Lancaster had ever weaponized—I’d walk away with everything.
That evening
The penthouse was quiet when I stepped in—until it wasn’t.
Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Feminine. Warm. Light enough to feel foreign in a space like this.
I followed the sound out of instinct, loosening the collar of my shirt as I turned the corner. And there she was.
Brielle.
Leaning against the island, barefoot, hair damp and loose down her back. A wine glass in hand. Laughing at something my housekeeper—Elena, the only staff member who’d been with me longer than my name was saying. It was surreal, like watching someone rewrite a chapter in your house without asking.
The moment Elena spotted me, her face morphed into that tight-lipped mix of panic and respect only reserved for people with titles like CEO and Mr. Moretti.
“Sir.” She straightened instantly, setting the towel in her hand down and backing away. “I was just–she was asking about the kitchen layout. We were—just talking.”
Brielle said nothing. She just sipped her wine and watched me, cool and unreadable.
“I see,” I said calmly, dropping my keys onto the counter. “You can go, Elena.”
She nodded, almost stumbled into a curtsy she hadn’t used in years, and rushed out like the place was on fire.
The silence that followed was louder than any argument.
“You know,” Brielle said eventually, setting her glass down with a little clink, “if you’re going to stalk into rooms like that, the least you could do is say hello.”
“I didn’t realize I needed to greet houseguests in my own home,” I replied dryly.
She tilted her head. “Not a guest, remember? I live here now. Your charming wife-to-be.”
I raised a brow. “Charming isn’t the word I’d use.”
“Neither is husband material, but here we are.”
I didn’t smile.
She stepped around the island slowly, her bare feet making no sound on the polished floors. “For someone who orchestrated this entire circus, you seem awfully irritated by it.”
“You were part of that agreement, if I recall.”
“I was collateral damage in a deal between two men who couldn’t keep their egos in check.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, voice low. “You’re not that important.”
She smiled, sweet and deadly. “Then why am I here?”
A pause. One second. Two.
“Because you look good on paper,” I said finally, pouring myself a drink. “You smile well. You come from a respectable family. You’re smart enough to fake the perfect narrative for the cameras. And you hate me enough to keep your distance.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a soft laugh, brushing past me. “Distance won’t be a problem.”
I turned as she walked toward the living room, her back straight, every step of hers a silent declaration of war. “You can do whatever you want inside these walls, Brielle. Entertain yourself however you see fit. Just make sure that, when the world is watching, you play your role.”
She paused near the window, her silhouette glowing faintly against the city skyline. “And what role is that, exactly?”
I sipped my drink, letting the silence stretch. “The loving fiancée. The doting wife. The woman who has everything she’s ever wanted.”
“And what about you?” she asked without turning around. “What role do you play?”
“I don’t need a role,” I said simply. “I already own the stage.”
She laughed again, soft and bitter. “You really do think this is all yours, don’t you?”
I met her gaze in the glass. “I know it is.”
Another silence. This one longer. Tighter.
She turned fully now, arms crossed. “I don’t care what story you want to sell, Damien. I don’t owe you fake affection. I won’t hold your hand in public and bat my lashes like I’m the luckiest woman alive.”
“You don’t need to,” I said. “Just don’t embarrass me.”
“And what if I do?”
I stepped closer, just enough for tension to spark like a live wire between us. “Then we both burn.”
She didn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of fire.”
“Good,” I said, leaning in just enough to see the flicker in her eyes.
She stared at me for a beat too long. Then said, lightly, “So I’m free to do whatever I want inside, huh?”
“Within reason.”
Her lips curled, teasing and dangerous. “Good to know. So if I decide to sleep with someone else, that’s still within bounds?”
Something in me tightened.
Just a flicker. But it was there.
My jaw flexed
I stepped closer, letting the air stretch thin between us. “Not with my ring on your finger, Brielle.”
Her smirk vanished.
I straightened and stepped back, resetting the space between us.
“You can hate me all you want,” I said. “You can scream into every pillow in this penthouse and count the days until your freedom. But while you wear the ring? I looked her dead in the eyes.
“You’re mine.”