Harper had been waiting in the hotel lobby for over an hour. Ashley was late again. When the security guard approached with an unusual request, “Mr. Castayaniano would like to see you upstairs, his private suite,” she should have said no. Should have waited for her friend. Instead, she texted. Something came up, rain check.

And followed a stranger to the penthouse. because sometimes the best decisions are the reckless ones. Comment where you’re watching from. The Meridian occupied a restored Bozar’s building in Tribeca that made the plaza look almost modest by comparison, not in size, but in exclusivity. 50 rooms where the plaza had hundreds.

The kind of boutique hotel that rivaled the plaza in luxury, but offered something the plaza couldn’t. Complete privacy. No tourists in the lobby taking photos. No paparazzi camped outside. Just old money, new money, and people who valued discretion above everything else. Harper Reed couldn’t normally afford to walk past a place like this, let alone sit in its lobby for over an hour. But Ashley had insisted on meeting at the Meridian’s bar. It’s gorgeous.

You’ll love it. We’ll get fancy cocktails and pretend we’re socialites. That had been at 10:00 p.m. It was now 11:15. Harper sat on a velvet chair that probably cost more than her monthly rent, checking her phone for what felt like the thousandth time. Her heels hurt. Her dark blonde hair, carefully curled into waves that had taken an hour, was starting to fall.

Her makeup was still perfect, but it wouldn’t stay that way much longer in the lobby’s warm lighting. Ashley’s last text sent 30 minutes ago. 5 minutes away, I promise. The text before that sent 45 minutes ago. OMG, traffic is insane. Be there soon. The text before that, running just a bit late. Order us drinks. Harper looked at her reflection in one of the lobby’s ornate mirrors.

She’d worn her good dress, the emerald green one that made her blue gray eyes stand out. expensive heels that were murdering her feet. She’d even done the smokey eye thing that always took three YouTube tutorials to get right. All for a girl’s night that apparently wasn’t happening. Her phone buzzed. Ashley.

Okay, for real this time, stuck on canal but moving now. 10 men tops. Harper closed her eyes, took a breath. This was the fifth time this month. The fifth time Ashley had been late, made excuses, promised she was almost there. The fifth time, Harper had sat somewhere looking stupid, checking her phone, making excuses to staff who looked at her with pity.

And every time, Harper forgave her. Because they’d been friends since college, because Ashley had been there when Harper’s mom died. Because friendship meant being patient, right? But tonight, sitting in a lobby that screamed wealth she didn’t have, wearing heels that hurt and makeup that was wasting, Harper felt something shift.

She was tired. Tired of waiting, tired of understanding, tired of being the friend who always adjusted, always accommodated, always said, “It’s fine.” when it wasn’t fine. The bartender from the hotel bar appeared. Young guy, sympathetic smile. Miss, we’re closing the bar in 15 minutes.

Would you like me to get you anything before we close on the house? Translation: Your friend isn’t coming, and we feel bad for you. No, thank you, Harper said with as much dignity as she could manage. I’ll just wait a bit longer. He nodded and disappeared. Harper wanted to dissolve into the expensive chair. She didn’t notice the man watching her from across the lobby.

Lorenzo Castelliano had insomnia. Had for years. Most nights he was up until 2 or 3:00 a.m. working or reading or just existing in the quiet hours when the city finally exhaled. Tonight he’d come downstairs at 11:00 to do a final walkthrough of his hotel before attempting sleep. The meridian was his. Had been for 5 years.

He’d bought it from a family friend who’d wanted to retire, transformed it from a fading landmark into one of Manhattan’s most exclusive properties. He lived in the penthouse above it, two floors of space that most people would call excessive, but that he’d made into home.

At 36, Lorenzo ran his family’s operations with the same precision he ran his hotel. The legitimate businesses, the Meridian, two restaurants, a wine import company, were spotless. The less legitimate operations were careful, controlled. He had rules, lines he didn’t cross, and he protected what was his with absolute dedication.

Tonight, doing his walk through, he’d noticed the woman in the lobby immediately. Beautiful. That was obvious, but it was more than that. She sat with perfect posture despite clearly being uncomfortable. checked her phone with increasing frustration, but never cried, never made a scene, just waited with the kind of patience that looked more like stubbornness.

“Who is she?” he asked Marcus, his head of security, who’d appeared silently at his shoulder. “Not a registered guest, sir. She arrived at 10 p.m., waiting for someone who hasn’t shown. We’ve been monitoring to make sure she’s not a problem. She’s been here over an hour, 73 minutes.

Lorenzo watched her check her phone again, saw the way her jaw tightened, the way she closed her eyes and took a breath like she was trying not to scream. Boyfriend? He asked. Unknown, but she’s alone. And whoever she’s waiting for keeps texting excuses. Marcus paused. Want me to ask her to leave? Bar’s closing soon anyway. Lorenzo should say yes, should go upstairs, get the 4 hours of sleep his body desperately needed.

Let the beautiful, frustrated woman wait for whoever was making her sit in his lobby looking increasingly miserable. Instead, he heard himself say, “Bring her upstairs.” Marcus turned to look at him, “Sir, to the penthouse. Tell her I’d like to offer her a drink. Make it clear she can decline. Be professional, but bring her to me.

You want me to bring a stranger to your private residence? I want you to extend an invitation to a woman who’s been stood up by someone who doesn’t deserve her time. Lorenzo met Marcus’s eyes. She can say no, but ask. Marcus studied his face for a moment, then nodded. Yes, sir. Lorenzo headed to the private elevator. This was insane.

He didn’t do things like this. Didn’t invite random women to his home. Maintained boundaries between his personal life and his hotel. Had rules about mixing business with pleasure. But something about the way she sat there, beautiful and frustrated and refusing to leave despite clear abandonment compelled him. He wanted to meet her.

Harper was composing a text to Ashley when the security guard approached. tall guy, professional suit, the kind of presence that said I handle problems. Excuse me, miss. She looked up. Yes. I apologize for disturbing you, but Mr. Castellano, the owner of the Meridian, noticed you’ve been waiting for quite some time. He’d like to extend an invitation.

Harper blinked. An invitation? to join him for a drink upstairs in his private residence, the penthouse suite. Marcus kept his expression neutral, professional. I want to be very clear. This is an invitation, not a requirement. You’re welcome to decline. There’s no pressure. But Mr. Castiano thought you might prefer company to waiting alone.

Harper’s brain shortcircuited. The owner wants me to come to his room. His residence? Yes, Mr. Castayano lives in the penthouse above the hotel. He owns the Meridian. Marcus pulled out a business card, handed it to her. This is his information. You can verify with the front desk if you’d like. I’ll wait here while you decide.

Harper looked at the card. Lorenzo Castiano, owner, the Meridian, a phone number, an email address. This was insane. A stranger, the hotel owner, wanted her to come upstairs to his penthouse for a drink. Every alarm bell her mother had ever installed screamed at her to say no, to leave, to get an Uber and go home and forget this entire embarrassing night, but then her phone buzzed. Ashley, OMG, I’m so sorry.

Traffic is literally not moving. Can we rain check? So sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you. Harper stared at the text. The fifth cancellation this month, the hundth excuse this year. The endless cycle of Ashley being late or cancelling or forgetting plans and Harper just accepting it. She looked at Marcus. This Mr.

Castayano, he’s the actual owner. Yes, ma’am. 5 years. Lives on property. Very hands-on management. and he wants me to come upstairs. He’d like to offer you a drink in conversation in his private residence, which again, you’re absolutely free to decline.” Harper looked at her phone at Ashley’s text at the lobby that she’d been sitting in for over an hour like an idiot. “Fuck it.

” “Okay,” she said, standing. “I’ll go. If Marcus was surprised, he didn’t show it.” “Excellent. This way, please. Harper followed him through the lobby, past the closing bar to a private elevator that required a key card. As they stepped inside, and the doors closed, reality crashed in. What the hell was she doing? She was getting in an elevator with a security guard to go to a stranger’s room, a man she’d never seen, who owned the hotel, but could be anyone.

Could be 80 years old, could be married, could be a predator who collected women from lobbies. The elevator began to ascend. Harper watched the floor numbers climb, checked her reflection in the mirrored walls. This was insane. Excuse me, she said. This Mr. Castiano. How old is he? 36, ma’am. Okay, not 80. That was something. And he does this often. Invites random women upstairs.

Never, ma’am. I’ve worked for Mr. Castellano for 5 years. This is the first time he’s extended this kind of invitation. Harper didn’t know if that made it better or worse. The elevator climbed higher. She could still stop this. Could tell Marcus she’d changed her mind. Could go back down to the lobby, get an Uber, go home, forget this entire night.

But then she thought about Ashley, about waiting, about always being understanding, always being patient, always putting other people’s schedules above her own dignity. No, not tonight. If she was going to do something reckless, at least it would be her choice.

At least it would be a better story than I waited in a hotel lobby for 2 hours while my friend canceled via text. The elevator slowed, stopped. Harper took a breath. The doors began to open and Harper forgot how to breathe because the man standing in the penthouse living room definitely absolutely did not have 80 years. He had maybe 36, maybe 37 tops and he was criminally illegally unfairly attractive.

Tall, easily over 6 ft, dark brown hair that looked perfectly imperfect, like he’d run his hands through it, but it had fallen in exactly the right way. All black suit with the jacket gone, just dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, gold watch catching the light. Face that had absolutely zero business being this handsome on a regular human being.

Strong jaw, straight nose, eyes so dark brown they were almost black. He was holding a whiskey glass, smiled slightly when he saw her. not predatory, more amused. Like he knew exactly what she’d been thinking in the elevator. You came. His voice was deep with a hint of an accent underneath. Italian, maybe. I wasn’t sure you would. Harper found her voice with difficulty.

Neither was I. Definitely. Definitely not 80. More like illegally hot. Should that be a crime? It felt like it should be a crime. Lorenzo gestured to the living room behind him. Floor to ceiling windows showing Manhattan glittering like scattered diamonds. Modern furniture mixed with what looked like actual antiques. Art on the walls that Harper recognized from museums.

A space that was clearly expensive but also clearly lived in. Books on tables, a laptop open, a coffee cup on the counter. Please, he said, come in. Can I get you a drink, wine, something stronger? Harper stepped out of the elevator on legs that felt unsteady.

Marcus nodded to Lorenzo and disappeared back into the elevator, leaving her alone with this stranger in his beautiful, expensive home. Wine, she managed. Red, if you have it. I have several. He moved to a bar area that looked like it belonged in a high-end restaurant. Preference, region, varietal. Surprise me. He selected a bottle, opened it with practiced ease, poured two glasses, brought one to her.

Their fingers brushed when she took it. His hands were warm. Lorenzo Castellano, he said, but you knew that part. Harper Reed. She sipped the wine. It was excellent. Probably cost more than her car payment. So, you invite strange women to your apartment often? Never. You’re the first. Probably the last.

This isn’t a habit. He gestured to the seating area near the windows. Sit, please. Unless you’d prefer to stand by the elevator and maintain your escape route. She laughed, despite herself, moved to the couch. He sat across from her in a chair, respectable distance, not crowding her space. Why? She asked.

Why invite me up here? Because you were waiting for over an hour. Because whoever you were waiting for kept making excuses. Because you looked beautiful and frustrated and like you were considering murder. He sipped his whiskey. And because you stayed, didn’t cry, didn’t leave, just sat there with the kind of patience that looked more like stubbornness. I found that interesting.

Interesting enough to send security to collect me. I sent Marcus to extend an invitation with explicit instructions to make it clear you could decline. Did he? He did. Then you chose to come, which makes this less me collecting you and more you being curious. His eyes held hers. So, are you curious? Yes. God, yes. But Harper wasn’t going to say that out loud.

About why a hotel owner spends his Friday night watching the lobby, she countered, “Insomnia. I don’t sleep well. I walk the property before attempting rest. Tonight I walked past and saw you and decided sleep could wait. He leaned back in his chair. Your turn. Who are you waiting for? Friend. Who’s chronically late? I’m chronically forgiving. Harper sipped her wine.

Tonight I decided to stop. Good. People who waste your time don’t deserve it. They talked about small things at first. Why she’d been at the Meridian. What had brought her to New York. how long Ashley had been making her wait for things. Then bigger things, her work as a marketing consultant, his ownership of the hotel, why he lived above his business, why she tolerated friends who didn’t respect her time. The wine flowed. The conversation never stopped.

Harper found herself relaxing despite the insanity of the situation. Lorenzo was intelligent, funny, direct in ways she appreciated. He didn’t hide his interest, made it clear he found her attractive, enjoyed talking to her, but didn’t pressure. Just offered attention and conversation and really good wine.

At 1:00 a.m., she realized she’d been there nearly 2 hours. “I should go,” she said, not moving. “Should you?” He poured more wine into her glass. “Or should you stay? Continue this conversation and let your friend wonder where you went. That’s petty. That’s fair. She made you wait 2 hours.

You’re simply evening the scales. Harper laughed. Checked her phone. 17 messages from Ashley, ranging from apologetic to panicked. Ashley. OMG. Where are you? Ashley. Harper, please answer. Ashley, I’m at the hotel, but you’re not here. Ashley, are you mad at me? Harper turned the phone face down. You’re a bad influence. I’m an excellent influence. I’m teaching you to value your time. He stood.

Have you eaten? I haven’t. My chef lives on property. I can have food sent up. Stay for dinner, please. She should say no. Should go home. Should not stay in a strange man’s penthouse eating dinner at 1:00 a.m.. What kind of food? She asked instead. His smile was devastating.

What do you like? They ate Italian food that was better than anything Harper had ever tasted at a restaurant. Sat at his dining table with Manhattan glittering outside the windows. Talked about everything and nothing. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers, made her laugh, challenged her when she said something he disagreed with, but in ways that felt like intellectual sparring, not dismissal. At 3:00 a.m., Harper’s phone died.

“I should really go now,” she said, not meaning it. “You should.” Lorenzo stood. “But if you’d like to stay, I have guest rooms. You’re welcome to one. No pressure, no expectations, just an offer so you don’t have to Uber home at 3:00 in the morning.” Lorenzo, think about it. He moved to the windows, looked out at the city. I’m enjoying this. you.

I’d like to continue it, but I understand if that’s too much trust to give a stranger.” Harper studied him. The line of his shoulders, the way he’d maintained distance all night despite clear attraction, the way he’d made everything feel like her choice, her decision, her control. I’ll stay, she said. Guest room with a lock on the door.

All my guest rooms have locks and I’ll be in the master suite on the opposite side of the penthouse. He turned to face her. Thank you for trusting me. I don’t take that lightly. The guest room was beautiful. King bed with sheets that felt like silk. Attached bathroom with products that probably cost more than her skinare routine.

A robe that was softer than anything she owned. Harper lay in the bed staring at the ceiling trying to process what had just happened. She’d come to meet Ashley for drinks. Had ended up in a hotel owner’s penthouse. Had spent hours talking to a man she’d just met. Had agreed to sleep in his guest room. This was insane, but also the best night she’d had in months.

She fell asleep with a smile on her face. Harper woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee. For a disoriented moment, she didn’t know where she was. Then memory crashed back. Lorenzo, the penthouse, 3:00 a.m. pasta. Oh god. She found her phone dead. Found her shoes kicked off somewhere.

Wrapped herself in the borrowed robe and ventured out of the guest room carefully. Lorenzo was in the kitchen making espresso. He’d changed. Gray t-shirt, black jeans, bare feet, hair slightly messy. He looked unfairly good for someone who’d probably slept as little as she had. Morning, he said without turning around. Coffee, please. Strong IV, if possible. He laughed, poured her a cup.

How’d you sleep? better than I expected considering I’m in a stranger’s home. Technically, we’re not strangers anymore. We had dinner, multiple courses. That’s at least acquaintance level. He handed her the coffee. Cream, sugar, black is fine. They stood in his kitchen drinking coffee while Manhattan woke up outside the windows.

It should have been awkward. Instead, it felt comfortable, easy. about last night. Lorenzo started, “If you’re about to say it was a mistake, I was going to say it was the best Friday night I’ve had in years.” He sat down his cup and ask if you’d like to do it again properly, dinner, not at 3:00 a.m. somewhere public. So, you know, I’m not a serial killer.

I already know you’re not a serial killer. Serial killers don’t have this much original art or make this good coffee. So, is that a yes? Harper thought about it. About how easy talking to him had been. About how he’d made her laugh. About how he’d respected every boundary while making his interest clear. About how she hadn’t thought about Ashley once after midnight.

Yes, she said, “But I need to charge my phone and probably deal with the 17 panicked messages from my friend.” Phone charger in the guest room. Take your time. I’ll make breakfast. Harper dealt with Ashley’s messages while eating the best omelette of her life.

Called her friend, endured the worried, “Where were you?” and the guilty, “I’m so sorry I was late.” Listened to the excuses about traffic and work and stress. “It’s fine,” Harper said automatically, then stopped. “Actually, no, it’s not fine. Ash, you were 2 hours late. You’ve been late or cancelled five times this month. I love you, but I’m tired of waiting.

Can we please work on this? Silence on the other end. Then you’re right. I’m sorry. Actually, sorry. Not just saying it. I’ll do better. I promise. Thank you. That means a lot. After Lorenzo drove her home to her apartment in the West Village, walked her to her door like a gentleman. Dinner tomorrow? He asked. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up.

You don’t know if I’m free tomorrow, are you? Yes. Then 7 p.m. He smiled. Thank you for last night, for trusting me, for being the most interesting conversation I’ve had in months. Thank you for rescuing me from lobby limbo. He leaned in, kissed her cheek, soft, respectful, leaving her wanting more. Tomorrow, Harper Reed, wear something nice. I’m taking you somewhere special. He left before she could respond.

Harper went inside, collapsed on her couch, and tried to process. She’d just spent the night with a hotel owner who was obscenely attractive, clearly wealthy, and apparently interested in her. This was either the beginning of something amazing, or the beginning of a catastrophically bad decision. She decided she didn’t care which. Lorenzo took her to his restaurant in Midtown.

Italian naturally. Two Michelin stars. Impossible reservations. He owned it. So they walked past the line and got the best table. Corner booth with privacy and ambiance. You own this too? Harper asked, studying the menu. Three restaurants, the Meridian, some import export businesses. I’m Sicilian. We collect enterprises.

He waved away the menu. Trust me to order. Should I? If you don’t like it, you can order something else, but I think I have good instincts about what you’ll enjoy. He did. Every course was perfect. They talked through dinner about her work, marketing campaigns she was proud of, difficult clients, the freelance life, about his hotels, how he’d bought the Meridian, transformed it, loved the work of hospitality, about his family.

Sicilian, big, loud, traditional. My mother still thinks I should be married with six children by now. And you’re not because because I’m busy and because I haven’t met someone who understood my world, what I do, who I am. He reached across the table, took her hand until maybe now. The chemistry was undeniable. Every touch, every glance, every word loaded with attraction.

When dinner ended, Lorenzo walked her to his car. “Your place or mine?” he asked. Harper’s heart hammered. Is that presumptuous? Extremely. But I’ve been thinking about kissing you since you walked out of that elevator, looking at me like you couldn’t believe I wasn’t 80 years old. She laughed. I wasn’t thinking that. You absolutely were.

You expected an oxygenarian in a silk robe. Instead, you got me. Disappointing. Definitely not disappointing. Good. He moved closer. “So, your place or mine?” “Mine,” she decided. And for the record, I was absolutely thinking you’d be 80. He kissed her then, right there on the street with Manhattan moving around them.

Soft at first, testing, then deeper when she responded, his hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his jacket. Both of them breathless when they finally pulled apart. your place,” he said again. “Now, before I forget, I’m trying to be a gentleman.” They barely made it inside her apartment before kissing again. Against the door, down the hallway, into her bedroom, clothes disappearing between kisses.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Lorenzo said against her neck. “Anytime I’ll stop. Don’t stop.” Harper pulled him closer. Definitely don’t stop. They made love with Manhattan glittering outside her windows. He was attentive and intense, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan. When they finally came together, it felt inevitable. Perfect.

After lying tangled in sheets with her head on his chest, Harper said, “So that happened. That definitely happened.” He kissed her hair. And I’d very much like it to happen again now. Eventually. First, I need approximately 10 minutes to remember how my body works. She laughed. You’re staying. If you want me to, I want you to.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other. And when Harper woke in the morning to find Lorenzo still there making coffee in her kitchen in just his boxer briefs, she realized this was definitely not a one night thing. This was the beginning of something real.

Over the next 2 months, Harper and Lorenzo fell into a relationship that felt both fast and inevitable. They saw each other constantly. Dinners at his restaurants, nights at her apartment, lazy Sundays in his penthouse. The chemistry never faded. If anything, it intensified. She learned more about him, the insomnia that kept him up most nights, his love of architecture and art.

How he’d taken over his family’s businesses at 25 when his father died, the responsibility he felt for his employees, his family, his legacy. And gradually she learned about the other businesses, the ones he’d been vague about initially. The first time she saw that side of him was unexpected. They’d been together 6 weeks. Harper had stayed over at the penthouse, was supposed to leave early for a client meeting, but the meeting canled, and she decided to surprise Lorenzo with breakfast. She was in the kitchen when she heard voices from his office.

The door was slightly open. She wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the tone made her pause. Lorenzo’s voice cold in a way she’d never heard. I was very clear about the terms. You agreed. Now you’re trying to renegotiate. That’s not how this works. A man’s voice nervous. Mr. Castaniano, please. I need more time. The payments are too high. My business can’t sustain.

Your business is operating in my territory under my protection. You pay for that protection. Those were the terms. but I can’t. Then you close your business or you find a way because if you’re 3 months behind on payments, you’re telling me my protection has no value and I don’t allow that message to spread. I’m not trying to.

You have one week full payment or I pull protection and let whoever wants to move into your space do exactly that. Are we clear? Silence then. Yes, sir. crystal clear. Good. Marcus will see you out. Harper moved away from the office quickly, went back to the bedroom, heart pounding. That voice, that cold, controlled threat, that was a side of Lorenzo she hadn’t seen.

When he came to find her 20 minutes later, his expression had shifted back, warm, relaxed. Hey, I thought you had a meeting. Cancelled. She looked at him carefully. Lorenzo, I heard part of your conversation in the office. His expression went guarded immediately. How much did you hear? Enough. Protection payments, territory, threats about pulling coverage. She sat on the bed.

I knew you had other businesses, but hearing it is different than knowing it abstractly. He was quiet for a long moment, then came to sit next to her. I warned you about what I do, what my world involves. I know, and I’m not scared, but I need you to be honest. Was that man in actual danger if he doesn’t pay? Yes and no. I won’t hurt him.

I don’t hurt people over money. But if I pull protection and he’s operating in contested territory, someone else will move in. Someone less careful. That’s the danger. He met her eyes. This is what I do, Harper. I manage territory, collect payments for protection that’s real. I have rules. I don’t hurt innocent people.

I don’t do drugs or trafficking. I don’t cross certain lines. But I do run operations that aren’t legal, that involve pressure and leverage and consequences. If that’s too much, it’s not. She took his hand. But I need you to understand something. I’m choosing this. Choosing you with full knowledge of what that means. I’m not naive.

I’m not pretending you’re just a hotel owner. But I also need to know you’ll be honest with me always. Even when it’s uncomfortable. I will. I promise. He pulled her close. Thank you for not running. For seeing all of me and staying anyway. Thank you for trusting me enough to let me see it. They sat there for a while holding each other.

And Harper realized this was the real test, not the attraction or the chemistry or the easy parts. But this seeing the darkness and choosing him anyway, knowing what his world involved in deciding her love was bigger than her fear. She’d made her choice and she wasn’t changing her mind. One night, 3 months in, she asked directly, “What do you actually do, Lorenzo? Beyond the hotel and restaurants, he was quiet for a moment.

Then, I run my family’s operations. Some are legitimate. You’ve seen those. Others are less conventional. Protection, territory management, import businesses that don’t necessarily follow all regulations.” He met her eyes. I won’t lie to you, but I also won’t give you details that could put you at risk.

Is that acceptable? Harper thought about it about the man she’d come to know, who was generous and kind, who treated his employees well, who had rules and lines he clearly didn’t cross. “Do you hurt innocent people?” she asked. “Never. I have strict rules about that.” “Are you honest with me?” Always then yes, that’s acceptable. I don’t need the details. I just needed to know you’d tell me the truth. He pulled her close.

You’re remarkable. You know that. I’m pragmatic and I’m falling for you. So, I needed to know what I was getting into. And now that you know, I’m still falling. He kissed her then, deep and grateful and intense. That night, they made love differently, slower, more tender, like her acceptance had shifted something fundamental between them. Month four brought Ashley back into focus.

They’d been seeing each other occasionally, coffee, quick lunches. Ashley had genuinely been working on her timing issues, but she’d also been dying to meet Lorenzo. The three of them had dinner at a casual restaurant in the village. Ashley spent the first 30 minutes openly staring at Lorenzo. Okay, she said finally. I need to say this, Harper.

I’m sorry I was late that night because if I hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have met him. And holy [ __ ] girl. Holy [ __ ] Lorenzo laughed. I’m right here. I know you’re gorgeous, like illegally hot. Are you actually real? Can I touch you to make sure? Ashley, Harper said, mortified. What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. You look like you walked out of an Italian fashion magazine.

Do you have brothers, cousins, literally any male relatives who look like you? Several brothers, all taken or too young. Sorry. Tragic. Ashley sipped her wine. “Okay, real talk. What are your intentions toward my best friend?” “Ashley, it’s fine,” Lorenzo said. He looked at Ashley directly.

“My intentions are to keep seeing her as long as she’ll have me, to treat her well, to be the kind of man who deserves her time, which her previous friends apparently weren’t great at respecting.” “Oh, he’s calling me out.” Ashley looked at Harper. “I like him. He’s honest and hot. Mostly hot. Can I touch his bicep just once? No. Harper said. Fine. Ashley shifted gears. But seriously, you’re good for her.

She’s been happier in the last 4 months than I’ve seen her in years. So, thank you for whatever you’re doing. Keep doing it. Later, after Ashley left, Lorenzo said, “I like your friend. She’s chaotic, but she cares about you. She does in her own way. Harper took his hand. And she’s right. I am happier because of you. Good. That’s the goal.

Keep you happy for as long as you’ll let me. Month five brought the first real conflict. Lorenzo’s hotel faced a hostile takeover attempt. A larger hotel chain wanted to buy the Meridian, expand it, turn it into a standard luxury property instead of the exclusive boutique it was. Lorenzo refused.

The chain got aggressive, spreading rumors, trying to poach staff, making noise about building code violations that didn’t exist. Harper watched him work 20our days. saw the stress in his shoulders, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he withdrew slightly, keeping the problems to himself. After a week of this, she confronted him. “Talk to me,” she said.

“What’s happening business? I’m handling it. You’re shutting me out. I’m protecting you from stress you don’t need.” Lorenzo, I love you. He went still. What? I love you. I should have said it weeks ago, but I’m saying it now. And when you love someone, you let them support you. So talk to me. Please let me in. His walls cracked.

He told her everything about the takeover attempt, the pressure, the stress of trying to protect his hotel and his employees, about feeling like he was fighting alone. “You’re not alone,” Harper said. I’m here and I might not know hotels, but I know marketing. I know how to control narratives. Let me help. Harper, I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you. We’re in this together.

Now tell me who’s spreading the rumors. She helped. Used her marketing skills to craft counternarratives, her connections to get positive press, her strategic thinking to outmaneuver the hostile chain. Two weeks later, the takeover attempt collapsed. The Meridian stayed independent.

Lorenzo found her in his penthouse office working on her laptop, pulled her into his arms. “You saved my hotel,” he said. “We saved it together. That’s what partners do. Partners.” He pulled back to look at her face. “Is that what we are?” I hope so because I love you and I want to be part of your life. The legitimate business and the complicated parts, all of it. I love you, too. He said it like a confession.

I should have told you sooner, but I was scared of what it meant. Of how much I needed you. Of losing you if you realized what my world really involves. You’re not losing me. I’m staying for as long as you’ll have me. forever. Then he kissed her because I’m not letting you go ever. They made love in his office, desperate and emotional and perfect.

And afterward, wrapped in each other, he said, “Move in with me, the penthouse. Make it ours.” “Yes,” that was fast because I’ve been waiting for you to ask. She kissed him. Yes, I’ll move in. I’ll make the penthouse ours. I’ll be your partner in everything. Month six brought family. Lorenzo’s mother wanted to meet Harper. Sunday dinner at the family home in Brooklyn. Harper was terrified.

Sicilian mothers are intense. Lorenzo warned. She’ll ask a thousand questions. Judge everything. Probably try to feed you until you explode. Just be yourself. She’ll love you. You don’t know that. I do because I love you and my mother loves what I love. The Castellano family home was beautiful chaos.

Lorenzo’s mother, Rosa, his three brothers and their wives, his sister, assorted cousins, and about a dozen children running everywhere. The noise was overwhelming. The warmth was immediate. Rosa pulled Harper aside within 5 minutes. So, you’re the one who makes my son smile. I try. He’s different now. Lighter, less serious. That’s you. I’d like to think so. Good.

Rosa studied her face. You know what he is? What the family does? I know enough. And you stay anyway. I stay because of who he is, not despite it. Rosa smiled. Actually smiled. Smart girl. Welcome to the family. The dinner was loud and long and wonderful.

Harper held her own with the brothers teasing, played with the kids, helped in the kitchen. By the end of the night, she felt like she’d been absorbed into something larger than herself, something real and warm and lasting. “They loved you,” Lorenzo said on the drive back to Manhattan. My mother doesn’t say welcome to the family unless she means it. Your family is wonderful. They are. And you fit perfectly. He glanced at her.

Which is good because I’m going to marry you someday. So you needed to get along. Harper’s heart stopped. What? Not a proposal? Not yet. But a promise. I’m going to marry you, Harper Reed, when the time is right. When we’re ready. But it’s happening. You should know that. Good, she managed, because I’m going to say yes.

2 months later, 8 months after that first night in the hotel lobby, Lorenzo proposed properly. He took her to the rooftop of the meridian. Had it set up beautifully, string lights, candles, the city glittering around them. down on one knee in the place where they’d first met technically.

Harper Reed, eight months ago, you were waiting for a friend who was late. I sent security to bring you to me. Craziest thing I’ve ever done. Best decision of my life. He pulled out a ring box. You’re brilliant and strong, and you challenge me and support me and make me want to be the kind of man who deserves you. You’ve seen every part of my world, the good and the complicated, and you stayed.

You chose me, and I choose you every day for the rest of my life.” He opened the box. Sapphire and diamonds in platinum. Marry me. Be my wife. Let me spend forever making sure you never wait for anyone again. Because you deserve someone who shows up always. And I will. I promise. Will you marry me? Harper was crying. Happy tears that she didn’t bother wiping away. Yes,

God. Yes. Yes to everything. He slid the ring onto her finger, stood, kissed her with the city watching. I love you, he said against her lips. I love you too so much. No regrets about following a stranger to his penthouse? Not a single one. Best reckless decision I ever made. They married 6 months later.

Small ceremony at the meridian with family and close friends. Harper wore a dress that made Lorenzo forget how to breathe. He wore all black naturally. When the officient said, “You may kiss your bride.” Lorenzo cuped her face and kissed her like they were the only two people in the world. The room erupted in applause. At the reception, Ashley, made of honor, gave a toast.

I’m supposed to tell embarrassing stories about Harper, but honestly, the most embarrassing thing about her is that she tolerated my constant lateness for 10 years, which I’m working on, by the way. Therapy is great laughter. But seriously, Harper, you deserve all the happiness. And Lorenzo, you better treat her like the queen she is, or I’ll fight you.

and I know people also you’re terrifying but I’ll try anyway. More laughter later. Lorenzo whispered to Harper. Your friend threatened me at our wedding. I respect that. She loves me and apparently respects you enough to think you’re worthy of threats. High praise. They danced, cut cake, celebrated with everyone they loved, and late in the evening, they snuck away to the penthouse.

They’re home now officially. “Hello, wife,” Lorenzo said, pulling her close. “Hello, husband.” “Any regrets?” she thought about that night 8 months ago. about waiting in the lobby, about the security guard’s impossible invitation, about saying yes to something insane because she was tired of waiting for people who didn’t value her time. None, she said honestly.

You not one. Best order I ever gave. Bring her to my room. He kissed her and you came. Thank God you came. Best decision I ever made following a stranger to his penthouse. We’re not strangers anymore. No, we’re partners. We’re family. Were forever. Forever. He agreed. Starting now.

They made love in their bed with Manhattan glittering outside. Their hotel, their city, their life. built on a moment of recklessness and trust and the kind of connection that happens when two people choose each other despite all logic. Years later, when people asked how they met, Harper would smile and say, “I was waiting for a friend who was late.

He sent security to bring me to his penthouse.” I said, “Yes.” And Lorenzo would add, “She thought I’d be 80 years old. I wasn’t. The rest is history.” Because sometimes the best love stories start with terrible timing. With friends who are late and strangers who send security to collect you, with saying yes to something insane because anything is better than waiting alone.

Harper had stopped waiting that night and found something infinitely better. She found home. Subscribe to see more dark mafia romance stories. Join our members area for exclusive content and hit that notification bell so you never miss an upload.