Novels by Lamie Rose

Albert's POVSeven PM.My father calls at 8:12 that morning and tells me to replace her.Not directly, of course.Men like Lorenzo Rossi prefer disappointment over orders.“Bring someone credible,” he says calmly while Manhattan moves beneath my office windows. “Someone who strengthens your position instead of complicating it.”A scholarship student from Queens was never supposed to survive this long in my world.The problem is that somewhere between the contract and the headlines and the six carefully planned events, she stopped feeling temporary.And tonight, for the first time since this arrangement began, I am going to her without an excuse.—The board meeting starts thirty minutes later.Quarterly projections exceed expectations. The numbers are strong. The New York expansion is ahead of schedule. Lorenzo appears via video from Milan, silver hair precisely slicked, expression unreadable as I move through the presentation.Everything runs smoothly until Richard Ashcroft sets dow

Adeline's POV---The 7 train reeks of Sunday morning regret.I wedge myself between a man hauling groceries and a teenager drowning in bass through his headphones. We jerk away from the station, the old rhythm. My hand finds the exact pole I grabbed every weekday for four years of commutes.Some things don't change.The train lurches. Bodies shift. My reflection surfaces in the scratched window.Everything about me looks wrong here.Hair falling in the soft waves Colette insisted would hold better for events. Manicured nails because Matteo mentioned photographers love hand shots.Last night, the contract ended. Six events, one month, done.Albert sent me home in the car, said goodnight at the curb like it was any other evening. Like we hadn't spent the last month becoming whatever it is neither of us has named.I didn't sleep. Kept replaying his voice. The way he answered my question, turned my hand over, let go.So this morning I got on the 7 train. Because I needed something real b

Albert's POV—The champagne glass explodes against the marble fireplace. Crystal shatters across the penthouse floor.Matteo doesn't flinch. Neither do I.Amber whiskey drips slowly down the stone while the image burns from the tablet in my hand straight into my skull.Adeline.Inside the backseat of my car.Emerald silk against black leather. Her face turned toward the window. Unaware someone was photographing her through tinted glass from across the street.Timestamped twelve minutes ago.Beneath it: Curious what the board would think about the CEO's judgment.Wind pushes through the open balcony doors hard enough to stir the papers on my desk. Manhattan glows below us in fractured gold and white. Forty floors down, traffic keeps moving like nothing in the world has shifted.But it has.Because this is no longer gossip. This is surveillance. Someone with resources and patience running this.I set the tablet down carefully before I put it through the window."Route?"Matteo's voice

Adeline's POV—The lecture hall falls silent when I walk in.Whispers cut off halfway. Laptop screens tilt down seconds late. Someone in the second row pretends very hard not to stare at me.My photo is open on six different phones before I even reach my seat.Albert's hand at my waist. My face turned toward his. The headline underneath in violent capital letters.ROSSI'S NEW OBSESSIONHeat crawls slowly up my neck. I keep walking anyway.Back straight. Chin level. Like I don't hear the whisper from the left side of the room."That's her." "She actually came to class.""I heard she met him at some charity thing.""No, coffee shop.""False info, it's a hotel.”Amazing how quickly strangers invent your life once they think it belongs to them.I slide into my seat beside Clara. Her eyes move across my face. "You look exhausted.”"I got three hours of sleep.""Three?""I had an existential crisis at four in the morning.""Reasonable.”My notebook lies open in front of me. Blank.Profess

Albert's POV --- I almost cancel the dinner twice before the first guest arrives. The second time, my thumb is already over Matteo's contact when the elevator doors open behind me. Too late now. The private dining room stretches across the fortieth floor, all glass and candlelight and carefully controlled privacy. Heavy curtains frame the skyline. Security swept the room an hour ago. Staff signed NDAs before noon. Phones stay outside these walls. Nothing leaves this table unless I allow it. Usually that comforts me. Tonight my fingers drum once against the whiskey glass before I stop them. Across the room, the city burns gold beneath the dark. Manhattan always looks clean from above. Distance hides the rot. Matteo steps beside me quietly. "Car's three minutes out.” I check my watch anyway. Then again thirty seconds later. Matteo notices. Says nothing. Smart man. The guest list tonight is small by design. Senator Williams. David Chang. Elena Vasquez. Three people who built e

Adeline's POV---Sunlight cuts through my cheap blinds and straight into my eyes.I bring my hand up against the glare. My feet protest the moment I try to stretch, those borrowed heels still extracting their toll. Mascara probably decorates my pillow. I don't check.The blue slip I changed into at 4 AM has twisted around my legs. I kick the sheets off. In this shoebox nothing travels far. My bed meets my kitchenette. My kitchenette meets my closet. My closet door hangs open because there's nowhere else to put it.And hanging right there: the dress.It sways faintly, daring me to pretend last night didn't happen. Afternoon sun catches the silk and for a moment my whole apartment contracts around it.My screen lights up. Going since midnight.Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three texts. I silence it before reading any of them.I roll over. Press my face into the pillow that smells of drugstore detergent and too little sleep.His hand at my waist. That keeps cycling back. Warm, his thumb