Chapter 1 - THE WOMAN WITH SEVENTEEN LITTER BOXES
After my father arranged a seventh marriage meeting, I brought twelve fake cat photos to dinner and convinced a wealthy businessman that I owned seventeen litter boxes and planned to name our future daughter after a Persian cat. For three years, I'd pretended to be an awkward, helpless woman to scare away every man my father chose. It always worked—until Lucas DeLuca, Chicago's most feared mafia boss, noticed me correcting an eight-figure hotel projection under my breath. Twenty minutes later, he followed me onto a private terrace, removed my ridiculous glasses, and whispered, “You're faking all of it.” But the biggest secret that night wasn't mine. It was my father's.
My name is Grace Mercer. I have a master's degree in finance and secretly run a hospitality consulting company that earned $640,000 last year.
But whenever my father introduced me to a potential husband, I became an entirely different woman.
Oversized glasses. Cat-covered cardigans. Nervous smiles.
And an imaginary collection of extremely demanding cats.
That evening, I attended the St. Aurelia Children's Fund gala at Halston House, a magnificent mansion overlooking Lake Michigan.
My father had arranged dinner with Ethan Romano, a thirty-four-year-old businessman from a wealthy Chicago family.
Within twenty-three minutes, Ethan had explained why married women shouldn't worry about complicated investments.
According to him, I needed a quieter career, children as soon as possible, and a husband to manage financial decisions.
I smiled sweetly.
Then I reached into my purse.
“Gerald doesn't trust men in loafers.”
Ethan stared at his expensive shoes.
“Who's Gerald?”
I showed him a photograph of an orange cat.
“He bites when he senses emotional dishonesty.”
Someone across the table nearly choked on champagne.
Ethan frowned.
“How many cats do you have?”
“Twelve.”
His shoulders immediately shifted backward.
Perfect.
I pulled out another photograph.
“This is Kevin.”
“What's wrong with Kevin?”
“He doesn't respect boundaries. And he needs his own humidifier.”
“Why?”
“Seasonal melancholy.”
Three chairs away, Marco DeLuca covered his mouth with a napkin. His sister Sofia was visibly struggling not to laugh.
But the man seated beside them wasn't laughing.
Lucas DeLuca.
Thirty-nine years old, devastatingly handsome, and the ruthless mafia boss who controlled one of Chicago's most powerful criminal organizations.
The DeLuca family owned luxury hotels, freight companies, construction firms, and enormous stretches of valuable real estate.
People called Lucas a businessman when microphones were nearby.
Everyone else knew better.
I'd been introduced to him forty minutes earlier, and he'd spent most of dinner studying me.
Not my face.
My hands. My posture. My ridiculous glasses.
It was unsettling.
So I intensified my performance.
“Any house I live in must have three bedrooms,” I told Ethan.
He blinked.
“Three?”
“One for us. One for the cats. And one exclusively for seasonal cat bedding.”
Ethan slowly placed his napkin on the table.
“I should find my brother.”
“Oh, of course!”
He practically fled.
Seventh suitor eliminated.
I waited until he disappeared into the crowd.
Then I straightened my back, dropped the timid smile, and reached for his untouched chocolate mousse.
Finally.
Peace.
“Poor Kevin,” a deep voice said beside me.
My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth.
Lucas DeLuca was watching me.
And this time, he wasn't hiding his smile.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Because I'd spent three years convincing wealthy men that I was too strange, too helpless, and too embarrassing to marry.
But the most dangerous man at the table had just noticed how quickly that helpless woman disappeared.
And when his eyes moved toward the financial documents beside my father's chair, I realized he might be watching something far more important than my ridiculous cat performance....The entire story is in the comment 👇👇 and Comment "Wow" if you want to read the full story
I swallowed my chocolate mousse.
Lucas took the empty chair beside me.
“Seventeen litter boxes?”
“Minimum.”
“An impressive operation.”
“It's a full-time responsibility.”
“And Gerald bites dishonest men?”
“Frequently.”
Lucas glanced toward the ballroom, where Ethan Romano was explaining something urgently to his mother.
“Then I suspect Gerald would enjoy this party.”
I nearly laughed.
Nearly.
Instead, I adjusted my ridiculous glasses.
“Did you want something, Mr. DeLuca?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“To know why a woman pretending not to understand compound interest just corrected my chief financial officer's hotel valuation.”
My spoon stopped moving.
Across the table, a leather folder lay open beside my father's chair.
Inside was the preliminary valuation of the Blackwater Grand, a historic Chicago hotel Lucas intended to acquire.
I'd noticed the numbers during dinner.
The projected occupancy rate was absurd.
Someone had combined gross room revenue with convention-center lease income, then counted part of the same revenue a second time.
An eight-figure mistake.
I'd muttered the corrected figure without thinking.
Lucas had heard.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I said.
He leaned closer.
“Forty-six million, eight hundred thousand.”
I stared.
“The adjustment you whispered.”
I kept my face blank.
“Perhaps you misheard.”
“Perhaps.”
He studied me.
Then smiled faintly.
“Tell Kevin I hope his melancholy improves.”
He stood and walked away.
I exhaled.
Five minutes later, I escaped onto the terrace.
Cold lake air struck my face.
I removed the cardigan.
Straightened my hair.
And leaned against the stone railing.
“Seven,” I whispered.
Seven terrible meetings.
Seven men who wanted a wife they could instruct rather than a woman they could respect.
All defeated by twelve photographs of cats I didn't own.
“An unconventional strategy,” someone said behind me.
I spun.
Lucas DeLuca stood near the terrace door.
I folded my arms.
“Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
At least he was honest.
“That's unsettling.”
“I imagine so.”
He approached but stopped several feet away.
“You left your glasses on the table.”
He held them out.
I reached for them.
He hesitated, then said, “May I?”
I should have refused.
Instead, curiosity won.
I nodded.
Lucas gently removed the glasses I'd pushed back onto my face.
He studied them.
The lenses were plain glass.
No prescription.
His mouth curved.
“You're faking all of it.”
My pulse accelerated.
“Careful, Mr. DeLuca. Gerald dislikes accusations.”
Lucas laughed.
A genuine laugh.
It startled me.
Then his expression became serious.
“Your father's hotel projections are wrong.”
“I noticed.”
“I know.”
“Then why haven't you corrected them?”
“Because I want to know who made the mistake.”
I looked toward the ballroom.
My father, Richard Mercer, stood beside a tall silver-haired man.
Victor DeLuca.
Lucas's uncle.
They were smiling over the financial documents.
A cold sensation moved through my stomach.
“Why?” I asked.
Lucas followed my gaze.
“Because someone is trying to sell my family a hotel that may already be pledged as collateral for a debt nobody has disclosed.”
I stared.
The Blackwater Grand.
My father's favorite project.
The property he'd spent two years renovating.
The hotel he claimed would secure our family's fortune for another generation.
“What debt?”
Lucas looked at me.
“That's the question.”
I turned toward him.
“My father doesn't borrow money without disclosure.”
Lucas's expression didn't change.
“Are you certain?”
The question offended me.
Then frightened me.
Because I remembered something.
Three months earlier, my father had asked me to sign a family trust acknowledgment.
He said it was routine paperwork.
I refused until my attorney reviewed it.
He'd become furious.
For the first time, I wondered why.
Lucas watched my face.
“You know something.”
I looked away.
“No.”
“Grace.”
Hearing my name in his voice felt unexpectedly intimate.
I hated that.
“Mr. DeLuca, whatever business arrangement you're negotiating with my father is none of my concern.”
“Then why did you calculate the valuation?”
“Because bad arithmetic offends me.”
He smiled faintly.
“I suspected as much.”
The terrace door opened.
My father's voice cut through the night.
“Grace!”
I turned.
Richard Mercer stood in the doorway.
His smile was perfectly polished.
His eyes were not.
“Darling, I've been looking everywhere.”
His gaze moved to Lucas.
Then to my glasses in Lucas's hand.
For one second, I saw something I'd never seen on my father's face before.
Fear.
Lucas noticed it too.
My father stepped forward.
“Mr. DeLuca, I hope my daughter hasn't bored you.”
Lucas looked at me.
Then said calmly, “Quite the opposite.”
Richard laughed too loudly.
“Well, Grace has never been particularly interested in business.”
I opened my mouth.
Lucas spoke first.
“That's unfortunate.”
My father stiffened.
“Why?”
Lucas looked directly at him.
“Because I was about to ask her to review your hotel projections.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
My father's smile disappeared.
And I realized, with growing horror, that the man who'd spent three years trying to marry me off wasn't merely embarrassed by my intelligence.
May you like
He was afraid of what I might discover if I started using it in public.
---
Related Stories
