"His Fiancée Announced She Was Pregnant—Then the Maid's 3-Year-Old Exposed the Lie That Destroyed Everything" ⭐

The bluff bought us exactly forty-eight hours.

Two days later, Alessandro and I were in the back of his armored Maybach, returning from a strategic lunch with his board of directors. The board had been skeptical of me at first, but after I casually pointed out a glaring flaw in a zoning proposal (thanks to Daniel's late-night rants about city codes), they fell in line.

Rain lashed against the tinted windows. Alessandro was reviewing a tablet, but his free hand was resting on the leather seat, his pinky casually brushing against mine. The lines of our fake relationship were blurring dangerously. Every look lingered too long. Every touch felt too heavy.

"Cole is panicking," Alessandro noted, reading a report from Rocco. "He’s liquidating offshore assets. He believes your bluff about the server. We have him backed into a corner."

"Cornered animals bite," I murmured.

"Let him try. My men have—"

A deafening CRACK shattered the air.

The heavy Maybach swerved violently as the front left tire blew out. The driver cursed, fighting the wheel. Before we could stabilize, a black SUV slammed into our side.

"Get down!" Alessandro roared.

He lunged across the seat, tackling me to the floorboards and covering my body entirely with his own. The armored glass spider-webbed as automatic gunfire rained against the exterior. The sound was deafening—a terrifying, metallic hammering.

"Keep driving! Push through them!" Alessandro shouted to the driver.

The Maybach’s massive V12 engine roared. Our driver slammed the gas, T-boning the SUV that had pinned us and shoving it out of the intersection. We tore down the rain-slicked street, leaving the shooters behind in a cloud of smoke and sirens.

For a long moment, the only sound in the car was the screech of the tires and our ragged breathing.

Alessandro pushed himself up slightly, his hands framing my face. "Maya. Are you hit? Are you bleeding?"

"I'm okay," I gasped, my hands frantically checking his chest. "I'm okay. Are you—"

I stopped. My hands were covered in warm, sticky crimson.

I looked up. A bullet had managed to pierce the seam of the armored door, grazing the back of Alessandro’s shoulder. His crisp white shirt was rapidly turning red.

"Alessandro, you're shot!" Panic seized my throat.

He glanced back at his shoulder as if it were a mild inconvenience. "It's a graze. Driver, get us back to the estate. Call the private medic."

He collapsed back onto the leather seat, his face paling slightly. I scrambled up beside him, pressing my silk scarf hard against the wound to staunch the bleeding.

"Keep pressure on it," he gritted out, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.