MINE TO KEEP, YOURS TO BREAK

Chapter 4

Nevaeh

It’s been a full week.

Seven long, silent, gold-drenched, marble-walled days of living in Luca Russo’s penthouse. And the truth?

I’ve barely seen the man. Not that I’m complaining.

I didn’t exactly expect pillow talk and brunch when I signed a contract to have his child in exchange for millions. But I did expect some level of communication. A basic check-in. Maybe a polite "How’s your uterus?"

Instead, I’ve been ignored like overpriced wallpaper. Silent, decorative, and irrelevant.

Fine by me.

The less I see him, the less likely I am to regret this whole damn deal.

The first three days were weird. Not bad, just… unreal. Everything was too pristine, too polished. My room was like a page from a lifestyle magazine. Silk sheets. Endless closet. Private bathroom. Smart lights. And a view of the city that made me feel like I was watching the world from the outside.

But then the novelty wore off. And the silence started pressing in.

So I did what I always do when I want to escape my own head…

I read.

My library was the only thing in this penthouse that felt like it had a soul. The shelf was packed with books, and not just rich-people books, there were romance novels, thrillers, Black literature, even fantasy sagas I’d lost myself in as a teen. It brought out the kid in me

I didn’t ask questions.

I just took a stack and disappeared into the stories.

For hours. For days.

The staff around me operated like quiet shadows. The chef left my meals outside my door on a tray like I was Rapunzel in a tower. A maid came twice a week, barely speaking. No one asked about me. No one expected anything from me.

Except Luca.

But even he hadn’t spoken to me once since I signed the contract.

And honestly? The more time passed, the more that silence started to feel calculated.

Like I was part of a system. Paid for, installed, and left to run in the background.

On the morning of day seven, I was in the library again, curled into a velvet reading chair, halfway through a novel about a woman who poisons her cheating husband’s wine, when a knock sounded on my bedroom door.

A rare thing. Startling, even.

I opened it expecting a housekeeper or maybe the chef with a breakfast tray.

Instead, it was him.

Luca Russo.

The devil himself.

Tall. Immaculate. Dressed in dark grey slacks and a fitted shirt that didn’t look the slightest bit wrinkled despite how early it was. He looked like money. Cold, hard, untouchable money.

“You have five minutes to get dressed. We need to talk.”

Then he walked away.

Didn’t even look at me.

Rude.

I look down at myself and see I am only in shorts and a tank top.

I threw on some black joggers and a hoodie and followed him through the penthouse, barefoot because screw formality.

He led me to a sitting room near his office. Minimalist. Neutral colors. It smelled like citrus and wood polish.

He sat with so much dominance like he owned the world.

“Sit.”

I sighed. “You know, one day you’ll say ‘please’ and I might faint from shock.”

He smirked. Just barely.

He holds my gaze and just stays like that for a full minute.

“We’ll be making our first public appearance tomorrow,” he said flatly.

I blinked. “Excuse me?” that was so sudden

“You’re my fiancée. We’re attending a charity gala together. You’ll be expected to act the part.”

I crossed my arms. “And what exactly does that entail? Besides standing next to you like some rented trophy?”

“In this world, people watch everything. Body language, eye contact, even the distance between two shoulders is interpreted. If you flinch when I touch you, it’s a headline. If you look bored or uncomfortable, they’ll say I forced you. They’ll dig into your past, your family, your failures.”

“Wow,” I said, blinking. “No pressure or anything.”

“You’ll smile. You’ll laugh. You’ll touch me if I touch you. You’ll answer no questions. You’ll look like a woman in love, not like a woman I bought.”

“Lying is easy. I’ve had practice,” I replied coolly. “Anything else?”

His gaze flicked to me, unreadable. “Wear the red dress in your closet. You’ll have a stylist here by two.”

“Why the red dress?” I ask even though I have no idea what clothes he was talking about.

“The slit is sharp enough to distract questions.”

“So I’m a decoy?”

“You’re a presence,” he said. “Own it.”

I leaned forward. “And if I don’t?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Then this contract ends before it even starts.”

I nodded once. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” I rolled my eyes

His eyes lingered on me like he was trying to figure out how much of my attitude was performative and how much was real. The answer was all of it.

“I’m not here to embarrass you, Mr. Russo,” I said, voice firm. “But let’s get something straight. I’m not going to swoon on your arm, or act like I’m dying for your approval. I’m here for a contract. You pay me. I behave. That’s it.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Noted.”

He stands and turns away again, completely unfazed.

And maybe that was what bothered me most.

That afternoon, the stylist arrived. Her name was Mirabel and she looked like she belonged in Milan. She barely said hello before flinging open garment bags of silk, satin, and sequin so shiny I thought I’d go blind.

“This one,” she said, holding up the red dress. “You’ll wear this tomorrow.”

It was beautiful. Deep crimson. High slit. Off-shoulder neckline. The kind of dress you wear to be noticed and remembered.

I let her fit me in silence. Her assistant brought matching heels, and by the time they were done, I looked like someone with an entirely different life.

Someone who belonged at Luca Russo’s side.

But that wasn’t me.

Not really.

I spent the rest of the day wondering why this all felt more like a setup than a partnership.

I hadn’t asked for anything. Hadn’t overstepped. And yet he was keeping me at arm’s length like I was some volatile investment.

Which, in a way, I guess I was.

Still, it annoyed me.

Not because I wanted him.

Not because I craved his attention.

But because if I was going to be trapped in his world for a year, the least he could do was acknowledge that I wasn’t a robot.

That evening, dinner was brought to my room like always.

And I ignored it like always.

Instead, I stood by the window and watched the city. Somewhere out there, real people were living normal lives. Falling in love without contracts. Having children they were allowed to keep.

And here I was, being paid to grow a stranger’s heir and smile while doing it.

I wasn’t angry.

I wasn’t sad.

I was just… numb.