Chapter 3 The Drawer He Warned Her About

Emily paced the length of the guest bedroom like a lioness trapped in a gilded cage. The mansion was quiet now-eerily so. But Liam's voice echoed in her ears, over and over again.

"Don't ever open that drawer in the study."

If he hadn't wanted her to, he shouldn't have said a word. Telling someone not to open something was the fastest way to guarantee it got opened-especially when that someone was raised by a nosy Latina grandmother who thought every locked door hid either cash or sin.

Her curiosity wasn't just a quiet itch-it burned. Why make her sign a contract? Why pay off her debts, rescue her brother, and throw her into this fake engagement? Something about Liam Westwood didn't add up.

When the silence became unbearable, she tiptoed out of her room.

The study door was ajar. Moonlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. His scent lingered in the air-cedarwood and smoke. Probably imported. Probably expensive.

She stepped inside.

The drawer was in the mahogany desk. Sleek, expensive. Locked, of course. But she'd worked enough shifts as a bartender to know how to pop a cheap lock. A hairpin from her bun and a bit of instinct, and-

Click.

It slid open.

Inside were photos.

Dozens of them.

Emily picked one up.

Her heart dropped.

It was a picture of her.

Outside her old apartment. Carrying groceries. Laughing with her brother.

Another-her at the hospital. One from two years ago, at her college graduation.

Her hands trembled.

Why did Liam Westwood-a billionaire she'd never met before last week-have photos of her dating back years?

She dug deeper. A folder. Inside: documents, a background check, a list of her family members, her old addresses, even a file on her brother's medical condition.

"What the hell..."

"You're not very good at following directions."

The voice behind her made her blood run cold.

Liam stood in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His expression was unreadable.

"I-" she stammered, "I heard something. I-"

"Don't lie to me, Aria."

She swallowed hard. "Why do you have those photos of me? Why do you know everything about my life?"

He took a slow step forward, then another, until he was inches away. "Because I needed to be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"That you were clean. That you weren't planted by someone. That you weren't tied to the mafia who's been gunning for my family for the past five years."

Her stomach knotted. "Mafia?"

He smiled, dark and humorless. "You really thought you were marrying a regular billionaire?"

"I don't know what I thought!"

"Well, here's the truth," he said, voice low. "My father was killed by a rival mafia. My company is legit now, but the shadows don't go away that easily. I needed someone no one could trace. You were perfect."

She stared at him. "So you've been stalking me?"

"Monitoring," he corrected. "For your safety. For mine."

Her hands clenched. "You think that makes it better?"

"I think you're in this now. Whether you like it or not."

He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "Why me, Liam? There are hundreds of women who'd line up to be your fake wife. Rich girls, models, actresses. Why someone like me?"

He looked over his shoulder, something unreadable in his gaze. "Because none of them would have asked that question."

Then he was gone.

Emily sat on the floor for a long time, heart racing. Her world was spiraling, and the man at the center of it wasn't just rich or dangerous-he was something else entirely.

He had picked her for a reason.

And whatever reason that was... it was buried deep in secrets he didn't want her uncovering.

---

The next morning came too fast.

They had brunch with Liam's investors at a private estate, and Emily had to play the role of the charming fiancée.

"You're glowing, Aria," one woman commented, sipping mimosa. "Liam always said he'd never fall, and yet here you are."

Emily smiled politely. "He just needed the right storm."

Liam chuckled beside her. "And she's been a Category Five."

The laughter felt too tight, too rehearsed.

When the guests finally dispersed, Liam pulled her aside.

"You did well."

She looked up at him, trying not to notice how good he looked in a crisp black suit. "I'm not here to be your doll."

"No," he said softly, "you're here to be my shield."

Her breath caught. "From what?"

"From war."

He didn't elaborate. Just walked away, leaving her standing under the blistering sun, suddenly chilled.

---

Later that night, she tried calling her brother. No answer.

She tried again.

Nothing.

Panic welled up. She stormed into Liam's study.

"Why can't I reach my brother?"

He looked up from a file. "He's under heavy medical care. Likely sedated."

"But I want to see him."

"You will. In time."

"In time?" she repeated. "He's all I have left!"

Liam rose from his chair and stalked toward her. "And I said you'll see him. But you agreed to this deal. That means playing your role and trusting me."

She shook her head. "You don't understand trust. You manipulate it."

"Maybe," he said, voice low. "But I never lie."

Then he leaned closer, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. "Do you really think I'd let anything happen to him after all I've invested?"

Her throat dried. "I don't know what to think anymore."

He didn't kiss her.

He didn't need to.

The intensity in his eyes alone unraveled her.

She turned away before he could see what that look did to her.

Back in her room, Emily pulled the blanket up and stared at the ceiling again.

Whatever she thought this was-it was more.

More secrets. More danger.

More of Liam Westwood's darkness.

And somehow, that darkness was starting to draw her in.

She groaned. "I can't believe I'm attracted to a man who literally has a mafia PowerPoint presentation on me. I need therapy, or tequila."