The contract was dated eight weeks ago.
I stared at it, spread across the conference table like a corpse at an autopsy, and felt my world tilt sideways. The paper was thick, expensive, covered in elaborate script and official seals. Brian's signature sat at the bottom in bold black ink—the same handwriting I'd seen on the note he'd left me this morning, the one that said "Rest. I'll handle everything." Above his signature was another name, written in his hand, in a space labeled "Proposed Luna."
Gianna Romano.
The woman herself stood across the room, watching me with dark eyes that held no warmth. She was beautiful—objectively, undeniably beautiful—with olive skin, black hair cascading past her shoulders, and a red dress that clung to her body like it had been sewn directly onto her ski
