Chapter 3 - The Morning After the LieThe sunlight that spilled through the cracked window of Ellie’s Logan Square apartment on Sunday morning was too bright, too real, and entirely too ordinary.
Ellie lay in bed, staring at the water stain on her ceiling that looked vaguely like the state of Michigan. She was still wearing the makeup from the night before, her hair a messy tangle of bobby pins and hairspray. On her bedside table, her phone was vibrating so violently it was practically marching toward the edge.
She picked it up. Fifty-seven missed calls. Ninety-two text messages.
Most of them were from her cousin Sophia, her aunt Martha, and a dozen distant relatives she hadn't spoken to since her graduation. But the most recent text made her stomach drop into her feet.
Daniel: Are you out of your mind? Who is he, Ellie? Is this some kind of sick joke to get back at me? Call me right now.
Ellie let out a dry, humorless laugh. Daniel, who hadn't called her in three months—who had left her to pay the remaining rent on their apartment alone while he chased "ambition" in Milan—was suddenly very interested in her life.
She rolled out of bed, her feet groaning as they touched the cold hardwood floor. She walked into her tiny kitchen, filled her kettle, and stood by the counter, waiting for the water to boil. Her mind kept drifting back to the ballroom. To the feel of Dante Russo’s hand on her back. To the quiet, terrifying authority in his voice when he had called her his wife.
Pretend I'm your husband tonight.
It had been a temporary shield. A beautiful, dangerous illusion that had allowed her to walk out of her cousin’s wedding with her head held high instead of weeping in the bathroom. But illusions didn't survive the Sunday morning light in Logan Square.
A sudden, sharp knock on her door broke the silence.
Ellie froze. Her apartment building was old, the buzzer downstairs had been broken since 2024, and the only people who ever knocked on her door without calling first were the landlord or the mail carrier.
She walked slowly to the door, her hand trembling as she reached for the deadbolt. "Who is it?"
"Marcus," a deep, calm voice replied from the other side. "I work for Mr. Russo."
Ellie’s breath caught in her throat. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Standing in her narrow, carpeted hallway was one of the two massive men who had entered the ballroom with Dante the night before. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, his hair cropped short, his hands folded neatly in front of him. Despite his size, his expression was polite, almost deferential.
"Good morning, Miss Sullivan," Marcus said, offering a small, respectful nod. "Mr. Russo requested that I deliver this to you personally."
He extended a thick, heavy cream envelope made of cotton paper. Ellie’s name was written on the front in elegant, dark ink.
"What is this?" Ellie asked, her fingers brushing the expensive paper as she took it.
"Your schedule for the week," Marcus replied.
"My... my what?"
"Mr. Russo will collect you at eight o'clock this evening for dinner," Marcus said, his voice entirely professional, as if he were delivering a weather report. "A car will be waiting downstairs at seven-forty-five. Please wear something comfortable but formal. The dress code at the River Room is strict."
"Wait," Ellie said, stepping forward as Marcus turned to leave. "I can't go to dinner with him. The wedding is over. The lie is done. Tell him... tell him I appreciate what he did, but I have a shift at the diner tonight."
Marcus stopped and turned back, his expression softening slightly with what looked like pity.
May you like
"Miss Sullivan," he said quietly. "You don't understand. The people Mr. Russo deals with do not believe in coincidences. If you are seen with him once, you are a target. If you are seen with him twice, you are his wife. For your own safety, I suggest you be ready at seven-forty-five."
He bowed slightly and walked down the creaking stairs, leaving Ellie standing in her doorway with the heavy envelope in her hand and her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
