Lyla Monroe (Nova Kingsley)
“Daddy,” I whispered, clutching my champagne glass and staring across the long, sterile table, “I cannot believe you let me marry Luca Steele. Luca freaking Steele. You know he was my boss.”
The reception was duller than a business convention in a basement. Gray walls, old-money decor, stiff suits, and even stiffer small talk. The only guests in the room were my father’s old colleagues, a handful of board members, a few business magnates, and their perfectly polished wives with their diamond smiles. Not one of my friends. No bridesmaids. No fairy lights. No music. No laughter.
This wasn’t a fairytale. This was a merger. A signed deal. A press statement waiting to happen.
Luca had just stepped out to take a call—probably already escaping the suffocation of this whole thing—and I was left sitting next to my father at the head of the long table. I leaned closer.
“You knew,” I said again. “You knew he was my boss. You let me marry him.”
My father chuckled and leaned in, his voice warm with mischief. “I know, right? Fate’s funny like that. Imagine—you worked for him, and now you married him. Full circle.”
I gave him a stank look. “Why would I want to marry my boss? Or in this case, my ex-boss? Do you know how twisted that sounds?”
He shrugged and smiled. “He looks good, though. You’ve got to admit that, Nova, my baby girl.”
I groaned. “Daddy.”
“I’m serious,” he said, placing a hand over mine. “His father and I… we had our differences, sure, but one thing I knew—Daniel Steele raised his boy right. And I believe Luca will treat you with respect. That’s all I care about. When I’m gone… I want to know that my daughter is treated with love and care. Not because you’re weak. Because you deserve it.”
I swallowed hard.
There it was again. The gentle reminder that he was dying. That these were the last decisions he would make for me. The last moves he could pull before he let go.
Still, I let out a soft snort. “Respect? Love? Dad, I worked for Luca for two years. I know what this man is capable of. He’s colder than the ice caps in Antarctica. Like, glacier-level emotional unavailability.”
“So why didn’t you tell me it was him?” I asked quietly. “Why hide it until the wedding?”
He leaned back with a small, smug grin. “Because I knew if I told you, you’d run away again. Change your name. Disappear off the face of the Earth. I don’t have time for that, my angel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ugh. I hate when you know me too well.”
Before he could respond, I heard footsteps return, and there he was—Mr. Steele himself. Luca sat down beside me, just as our appetizers were being served by a line of waiters in white gloves.
It felt strange, sitting this close to him without being his assistant. Without a laptop between us or a clipboard in my hand. Now, I wasn’t just the girl who fetched his coffee—I was his wife. Equal. Partner. Legally bound.
It felt… complicated.
I could feel something tense between us. Not love. Not hate. Just… charged air. Probably nerves. Definitely nerves.
The waiter placed a plate in front of each of us. Eggs benedict with a twist—served with truffle hollandaise, microgreens, and a scatter of olives.
I blinked. “Oh no,” I muttered. “Olives.”
I glanced at Luca and then at the server. “Make him a new plate with no olives.”
The server nodded and took Luca plate away.
“How did you know I don’t like olives?” he asked, eyebrows rising.
My heart skipped. Damn it. Slipped up.
I shrugged. “You just… look like a guy who doesn’t eat olives.”
He squinted. “And what exactly does a guy who does eat olives look like?”
I grinned. “Not like a pain in the ass, that’s for sure.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Right—probably wears linen shirts unbuttoned to his navel, says ‘vibes’ unironically, and thinks a deep conversation is asking what time I was born.”
I nearly spit my drink across the table.
Across the table, my father looked up from his plate, his eyes twinkling. “You two have not even been married for one day, and you already sound like a couple that’s been bickering for twenty years.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.
Luca just rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved slightly.
My father stood up, lifting his champagne glass. Everyone turned toward him, glasses raised. He cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and all the people who made this union possible,” he said with that signature Kingsley charm, “Today, we witnessed the marriage of two powerful legacies—my daughter, Nova Kingsley, and Luca Steele.”
My stomach turned slightly as the room clapped softly.
He looked at me, his eyes softening. “May this union be strong. Not just for business, but for respect, growth, and… maybe, if fate allows, even love.”
I swallowed hard.
“To Nova and Luca,” he said. “To power, to partnerships…”
He raised his glass higher, eyes twinkling.
“…and to many more business deals.”
30
