Signed in Sin

Chapter Two: Diamond Handcuffs

The car Alexander sent for me wasn't a car—it was a statement.

A midnight blue Bentley idled outside my apartment building at precisely 9:58 AM Saturday morning, looking as out of place in Queens as a peacock in a parking lot. My neighbors were already gathering on stoops, craning necks, whispering speculation.

Mrs. Chen from 4B actually had her phone out, recording.

Perfect. This was exactly how I wanted to start my fake engagement—as neighborhood gossip.

The driver, an older man in an actual chauffeur's uniform, opened the door. "Miss Torres?"

"That's me." I slid into the backseat, trying not to gawk at the cream leather interior that probably cost more than my entire year's rent.

Alexander sat in the far corner, looking unfairly good in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans. Casual Saturday Alexander was somehow more devastating than CEO Alexander. No armor of expensive suits. Just him.

"You're early," he said, glancing up from his phone.

"You sent the car for nine-thirty. It's ten."

"I sent it for nine-thirty so you'd be ready by ten." He pocketed his phone, those gray eyes assessing. "You look nice."

I'd agonized over the outfit for an hour. The black dress was simple, elegant, the most expensive thing I owned—purchased for my college graduation four years ago. I'd paired it with my only good heels and the pearl earrings my grandmother had left me.

Suitable for Tiffany's, I hoped.

"Thank you," I said carefully. "You look... not like a tyrant for once."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head."

The car pulled smoothly into traffic, heading toward Manhattan. Silence settled between us, but it wasn't comfortable. It was the silence of two people who'd agreed to something insane and were now facing the reality of it.

"We should talk," Alexander said finally. "About how this is going to work."

"You mean besides the contract I signed?"

"The contract covers legalities. I'm talking about the practical details." He shifted to face me fully. "We'll need to coordinate our story. How we met, when we started dating, why we're getting married so quickly."

Right. Because billionaire CEOs didn't just marry their secretaries after three weeks without raising questions.

"Let me guess," I said. "You've already crafted the perfect narrative."

"I've drafted something. But I want your input." He pulled out his phone, swiped a few times, then handed it to me. "Read this."

I took the phone and read:

*Alexander Cordovan and Isabela Torres met six months ago when she interviewed for a position at Cordovan Industries. Their connection was immediate but professional. They began dating quietly three months ago, keeping their relationship private due to workplace policies. After realizing they'd found something rare, they decided not to wait.*

"Six months ago I was working at a law firm in Brooklyn," I pointed out.

"Which went bankrupt. Easy enough to say you interviewed with us during that time and I remembered you, reached out when a position opened up."

I read it again. It was good—plausible, romantic enough to be believable, vague enough to avoid scrutiny.

"What about your family?" I asked. "Won't they think it's suspicious?"

Something flickered across his face. "My father is dealing with his health. My mother will be thrilled I'm finally settling down—she won't ask too many questions."

"And my mother is going to have a million questions."

"So we'll have dinner with her. I can be charming when necessary."

"Can you?" I raised an eyebrow. "Because you've been charming for approximately twelve minutes in the time I've known you."

"I'm charming to people who matter."

"Wow. And here I thought we were building a beautiful fake marriage."

He almost smiled. "You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

Alexander sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'm not good at personal relationships. Small talk. Pretending to care about things I don't care about."

"Then how exactly are we going to convince anyone we're in love?"

"We don't have to convince them we're in love. Just that we're compatible." He held my gaze. "The best lies are mostly the truth, Isabela. We do work well together. The chemistry between us is obvious."

"Chemistry?"

"You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

Heat crept up my neck. I had noticed. The way my pulse jumped when he said my name. The way the air seemed to thicken when we were alone. The way his hand had lingered on mine when we shook on our deal.

But noticing and acknowledging were two different things.

"That's not relevant to our arrangement," I said firmly.

"It's extremely relevant. If we have chemistry, people will believe us." He leaned closer. "So yes, there's chemistry. We can use that."

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue. We were close to Tiffany's now. Close to making this arrangement uncomfortably real.

"One more thing," Alexander said as the car pulled to the curb. "The ring. Pick what you actually like. Not what's practical. This ring will be on your finger for a year. It should be something you enjoy looking at."

"Alexander, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Consider it a work expense." He opened the car door. "Come on. Let's get you some diamond handcuffs."

Tiffany's was exactly as intimidating as I'd imagined.

The iconic blue boxes. The hushed atmosphere. The salespeople who could spot your net worth from fifty paces.

But Alexander walked in like he owned the place, and suddenly we had a private consultant, champagne, and a velvet-lined room away from prying eyes.

"Mr. Cordovan." The consultant, an elegant woman named Patricia, shook his hand warmly. "Wonderful to see you again."

Again?

"Patricia, this is my fiancée, Isabela Torres."

The word “fiancée” sent a jolt through me. This was real. We were doing this.

"Congratulations!" Patricia beamed. "Let me show you our engagement collection."

She brought out tray after tray of rings that cost more than houses. Emerald cuts, princess cuts, cushion cuts—each one more stunning and terrifying than the last.

"What speaks to you?" Patricia asked.

I looked at the rings. They were all beautiful. All absurd.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"You keep looking at the oval cuts," Alexander said, watching my face rather than the rings.

He was right. I'd glanced at the oval solitaire three times.

"It's too much," I said quietly.

"It's an engagement ring. It's supposed to be too much." He picked up the ring—a flawless oval diamond on a delicate platinum band. "Try it."

Patricia slipped it onto my finger.

It fit perfectly.

The diamond caught the light, throwing rainbows across my hand. Elegant, timeless, not ostentatious despite the size.

"Perfect," Alexander said, his voice low.

I looked up and found him watching me with an expression I couldn't read.

"I can't accept this," I whispered.

"How much?" he asked Patricia without breaking eye contact.

"Two hundred and forty-five thousand."

I nearly choked.

"We'll take it," Alexander said.

"Alexander—"

"It's perfect. You love it. We're taking it." He looked at Patricia. "We'll also need wedding bands."

The moment she left, I grabbed his arm. "Two hundred and forty-five thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's a ring, Isabela."

"It's a quarter million dollars!"

"And you'll wear it every day for a year. It needs to be convincing." His hand covered mine. "Besides, you should see your face right now. You look happy."

"I look terrified."

"You look beautiful."

The compliment hung between us, too sincere for a fake engagement.

Patricia returned with wedding bands. We selected simple platinum rings. The whole process took less than an hour.

An hour to select the symbols of a marriage that wasn't real.

"The engagement ring can go home with you today," Patricia said. "The bands will need two weeks."

Two weeks. Just before the wedding.

Back in the Bentley, I couldn't stop staring at my hand. The ring felt heavy, foreign, like a beautiful lie wrapped around my finger.

"Regrets already?" Alexander asked.

"Questions. Patricia said she'd seen you before."

"I bought my mother a necklace here." He paused. "But I appreciate the jealousy."

"I'm not jealous. I'm gathering information about the man I'm supposedly madly in love with."

"Fair point. What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Where did you grow up? Favorite food? Weird habits?"

"That's a long conversation."

"We have time. Unless you have somewhere to be?"

He checked his watch. "Actually, we both do."

"Where?"

"Brunch. With my mother. She's waiting for us at Le Bernardin."

My stomach dropped. "Now? You told her this morning and we're meeting her now?"

"She's persistent." He saw my panic. "Relax. She's going to love you."

"How can you possibly know that?"

Alexander reached over and adjusted the ring on my finger, the gesture casually intimate. "Because you're the first woman I've ever brought home who doesn't want something from me."

But I did want something. Five million dollars. M

y mother's life.

The Bentley merged into traffic, carrying us toward another performance, another lie.

I twisted the ring on my finger and wondered when exactly I'd stopped being able to tell the difference.