His Contract Wife? The CEO's Mistake

The Sons

Camilla's POV

If someone had told me a year ago that I would one day sit in the same room as the De-Rosie family-surrounded by glass and men who moved empires with the flick of a pen-I would have called them mad or cruel.

Because girls like me?
We didn't belong here.
Not in skirts and low heels.

Not with our pens nervously clicking against embossed notebooks in rooms where last names carried the weight of kingdoms.

We came from shadows.
We came from service.

My father, Mr Silvano De-Canio, had been a driver for the De-Rosie family since before I was born. Every morning for nearly thirty years, he rose before dawn, polished his shoes to a shine, and climbed into the driver's seat of Antonio De-Rosie's long black car.

Rain or shine, with the sun kissing the horizon or buried behind storm clouds, he waited at the curb like a soldier at his post. He wore a navy uniform that had faded with time, a cap that had lost its shape, and a heart that never stopped honoring loyalty.

My mother, Gloria, served as a maid in the De-Rosie mansion. She came from a long line of women who knew how to keep secrets, press pleats, and understand a household's rhythm better than its own owners.

Her hands, soft in memory but calloused in truth, raised me with grace in a world that rarely left room for softness.

She still worked there in fact, still polished the silver, still ironed the white shirts, still served the espresso just the way Antonio liked it-two spoons of sugar and never too hot.

We had grown up just beyond the gates. Not in the main house, of course, but in a small cottage near the servant quarters, tucked at the back of the estate like an afterthought.

While the twin heirs were schooled by private tutors and later shipped off to Switzerland and London, I learned to read the kitchen table while my mother ironed shirts and hummed lullabies.

Still, I never envied them.
They had wealth, but I had love.
And love, I believed, was enough.

Until the day my father's cough refused to go away. Until I began hearing him wheeze through the night, shoulders shaking in silence because he didn't want to worry me.

Until I found his uniform folded on the bed and his resignation typed with trembling fingers.
And still, he refused to complain.

"It's just old bones, Camilla," he'd said. "I've had a good run."

But I hadn't.
I was only twenty-four, newly graduated with honors in Business Administration from a second-tier university no one at De-Rosie Tech cared about. I was invisible. Qualified but unseen.

And yet, the thought of my father-of all his years, all his loyalty-being discarded like a broken part in a shining machine, made something inside me crack.

So I did the unthinkable.

I walked into the De-Rosie mansion-not the office, not Human Resources, but the mansion itself-and waited in the hall until Antonio De-Rosie called me in.

He was seated near the front door, though it wasn't cold. That was just his way. The cane at his side gleamed with silver, and he looked up only after several minutes of silence.

"I know you," he said without a smile. "Mr Silvano's girl. The one who reads too much."

I swallowed. "My father's retiring."

"I know, I told him to." He leaned back, considering me. "He can't drive with lungs like that. It's a liability."

"He served you faithfully for twenty-nine years."

He nodded once, then tapped his cane. "And for that, I reward loyalty."

That was all he said.

The next day, I was given a job-not in the cleaning quarters or kitchen, but as his personal secretary at De-Rosie Tech. A low-paying position, but prestigious in title. It was enough and it was everything.

Not because I was the most qualified, not because I stood out
but because I was Mr Silvano's daughter.

And in this world, loyalty was a currency far more valuable than skill.

I adapted quickly, I learned which coffee Antonio liked in the mornings and how to keep my tone respectful yet firm in meetings. I kept my wardrobe modest-neutral blouses, pressed skirts, hair pinned neatly in a bun.

I never wore perfume, I never raised my voice, I stayed late and I arrived early. I learned to navigate the quiet, invisible politics of the elite-how to disappear in plain sight.

It wasn't long before I became a fixture in the building.

Still, whispers followed me like perfume in the halls.

Because no matter how well I performed, I would never be one of them and because of the two men who watched me more than they should have.

Daniel and Damian De-Rosie.

They were born minutes apart but seemed to belong to different planets.

Daniel, the elder, wore his charm like a tailored suit-effortless and expensive. Women noticed when he walked into a room. Men, too.

He had a smile that made you want to trust him, he called assistants by name, left generous tips, and had a way of making people feel seen.

Damian was colder, more restrained. His suits were darker, his steps quieter. He didn't speak unless he had something important to say-and when he did, people listened. He calculated everything and even silence.

They rarely acknowledged me beyond what was necessary.
And that was fine.
I didn't need them to.

But everything changed the day Antonio De-Rosie called an unexpected board meeting.

The top-floor conference room, normally reserved for quarterly projections and product launches, was filled with board members in expensive suits, the legal team and both sons seated on either side of Antonio like opposing kings.

I stood near the door, notebook in hand, ready to take minutes. I blended in like always.

Antonio adjusted his cufflinks-an old habit that usually meant something serious was coming. His voice, though weathered, cut through the chatter with steel.

"I'm stepping down as CEO," he said simply.

A ripple of surprise passed through the room.

Daniel leaned forward, Damian remained still. Neither spoke.

Antonio continued with a measured tone. "I've built this empire from dust and blood. But legacy isn't just about numbers, t's about knowing who can carry a name with pride."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"I will not name a successor based on profits, nor on performance." His gaze flicked from one son to the other. "But on who can build something beyond this company. A life and a foundation."

Daniel shifted in his chair. Damian's jaw tightened.

"I will leave my empire," Antonio said, "to whichever of my sons marries first."

The room fell into stunned silence.

You could hear the hum of the central air conditioning, the scratch of a pen that accidentally slipped from someone's fingers.

Even I stopped writing, my pen hovering uselessly in midair.

Marriage?

Not leadership?

Not innovation?

Not global expansion?

Marriage?

I asked myself this one million questions.

Antonio didn't flinch. "A man who can commit to building a family is a man who can lead a company. Marriage requires discipline, Sacrifice and vision. The same things an empire requires."

Daniel exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Damian, as usual, gave nothing away.

The meeting concluded with murmurs and cautious glances. The board didn't argue and no one dared to.

As people filed out, I remained at the back, heart pounding in my chest. I couldn't explain the unease I felt-not yet. Just that something had shifted.

That day, I went home in silence.

I found my father seated near the garden, wrapped in a shawl, coughing softly into his sleeve. My mother brought him tea in a chipped porcelain cup.

Their hands touched briefly as he took it, a moment of warmth that passed between them like a whisper.

And I wondered if Antonio understood what marriage truly was.

What legacy truly meant.

Because power could be transferred, companies could be signed away.
But love-the real kind, the quiet kind that endured illness and poverty and years of quiet sacrifice-that was something you built with time.

Not contracts.

And certainly not a race.

I had no idea then that I would become the unwitting centerpiece of that very race.

But something told me...
I was no longer invisible.

Not to them...

Not anymore.

The Smiles

Camilla's POV

I don't know when it started.

Maybe it was the way Daniel lingered at the coffee station a few seconds longer than necessary. Maybe it was how Damian began asking about a report twice, even when he already knew the answer or how both of them started smiling at me. Not politely, not passively-genuinely.

But something had changed.

And it began the moment Antonio De-Rosie announced his empire would go to whichever of his sons married first.

It was as if someone had flipped a hidden switch, and suddenly, I-Camilla De-Canio, the secretary with a modest salary and a small shared apartment near the river-had become interesting.

To them.

To both of them.

The De-Rosie twins.

Daniel and Damian.

They began to visit my desk more frequently. And not with the usual curt instructions or questions about schedules.

No-these visits were different, softer and stranger. Filled with laughter that seemed out of place in the cold corridors of De-Rosie Tech.

"Camilla," Daniel called one morning, leaning against the edge of my desk with his signature grin. "What would a woman like you do with a billion euros?"

I blinked, startled. "I'm not sure, sir-"

He raised a finger. "Daniel."

I corrected myself with effort. "Daniel. I... suppose I'd buy my father a new pair of lungs and my mother a kitchen that doesn't leak when it rains."

He chuckled. "Practical and kind. I like that."

A moment later, Damian's voice slid into the air behind him. "And what would you invest in, Camilla? If given the choice."

I turned, startled again. He didn't usually approach me while Daniel was already there. But this time, he stood beside his brother like a shadow, one hand in his pocket, his eyes unusually thoughtful.

"I... I don't know," I admitted. "I've never really thought about investing."

"You should," Damian said simply, offering the ghost of a smile. "You're sharper than you think."

Daniel looked between us, his grin fading slightly, replaced by something real.

That was the first time I noticed the tension. It was quiet and almost imperceptible-but it was there. A flicker beneath their practiced smiles. A silent battle brewing beneath their words.

And somehow... I was in the middle of it all.

They both started sending me on errands-ones I didn't understand. Daniel once asked me to pick up a lunch order from a place that didn't exist, only to laugh when I returned flustered, offering me gelato instead.

"I just wanted to see you smile," he said.

Damian, on the other hand, handed me a thick file and asked me to review it-only for me to realize hours later that the data had already been approved. When I confronted him, he simply said, "I wanted your opinion. Not the board's."

They didn't just treat me like a secretary anymore.

They treated me like a... companion, a close confidante and a puzzle they were each trying to solve.

They asked about my family, my childhood and my dreams.

Daniel wanted stories. He laughed when I told him about my mother burning rice while singing love songs from the radio. He teased me for falling off a bicycle at ten and scarring my left knee.

Damian asked quieter questions. What was my father's medical plan? Did I have siblings? Had I ever considered starting a business of my own?

Daniel made me feel like I was the most dazzling woman at the center of a joke that never hurt.

Damian made me feel like I mattered-even in silence.

And yet... I didn't trust either of them.

Not completely.

Because people like them didn't see girls like me unless they wanted something.

And now, there was something to want.

"Do you think it's real?" I asked my mother one evening as we sat in the kitchen, steam from the boiling pasta fogging the windows.

She was peeling garlic, her hands moving with memory. "Do I think what is real?"

"Their attention, the way they treat me now."

She paused, then resumed peeling. "Men like that don't change overnight and attention from the powerful is never without a cost."

I nodded slowly. "But what if one of them meant it? What if..."

My voice faded.

Because I didn't know what I was asking, and I wasn't sure I wanted to hear her answer.

She set the garlic aside and turned to me, her eyes sharp with wisdom forged in silence and years of watching from behind doors.

"Camilla, you were not born to be a pawn. Do not let them play you."

I didn't reply.

But I didn't forget those words.

The following week, Damian invited me to a private strategy session.

Only the two of us.

It was odd and unprecedented. He was always surrounded by executives and analysts. But this time, he closed the door, offered me tea and asked for my thoughts on a potential market expansion into Paris.

I gave him my notes, cautious.

He nodded along, genuinely engaged.

"I think you have potential," he said after a moment. "Have you ever considered doing more than this?"

"This?"

He gestured vaguely. "Secretarial work. Taking notes for men who talk too much."

I stared at him. "It pays the bills." I'm okay with that.

He leaned forward, something shifting in his eyes. "What if I told you it doesn't have to end here?"

I didn't respond. I couldn't, because part of me wanted to believe him and the other part wanted to run.

The next day, Daniel asked me out for lunch.

"I know a place," he said. "No cameras, just pasta and conversation."

"I'm not sure it's appropriate," I murmured.

He smirked. "Since when did we start living by rules?"

That made me pause.

Because deep down, I was tired of rules. Of limits, of pretending I didn't want more.

So I agreed.

We sat in a quiet trattoria behind a bookstore. He ordered my food for me, remembered I liked sparkling water, and asked me about my favorite movies.

He told me about boarding school, the pressure of living under Antonio's world, and how he envied people who lived simply.

"I know it sounds stupid," he said, sipping his wine, "but I sometimes wish I was just a bartender in a beach town somewhere."

I smiled, amused. "You'd last a week."

"Maybe, but I'd try."

He reached across the table, touched my fingers lightly. "You make this world less cold, Camilla."

I didn't pull my hand away, but I didn't offer the warmth he was looking for either.

Because the warmth I once had-the belief that kindness always meant truth-had already been burned.

The whispers in the office grew louder.

People noticed.

The receptionist started greeting me with a new tone. Someone called me "Miss De-Rosie" once by accident-or maybe not.

And one day, as I stepped into the elevator, I heard two assistants murmuring behind me.

"She's the one," one said. "She'll marry one of them. You'll see."

"Which one?"

"I don't know. Maybe both."

I said nothing.

But my heart pounded.

Because I still didn't know the answer myself.

That Friday, I stayed late. Most of the building had emptied, the city outside soft with dusk and distant horns.

I was reviewing documents when I felt a presence behind me.

I turned.

Damian.

He stood quietly, no smile, no suit jacket. Just the distant scent of his cologne and the look of someone thinking too much.

"I thought you'd gone," I said.

"So did I."

He approached slowly. "You should be careful, Camilla."

I blinked. "About what?"

"About being seen."

His voice was low, almost tender.

"I'm not doing anything wrong," I said.

"You're not. But people twist what they don't understand. You're becoming a target,. Not just of rumors, but of strategy."

I held his gaze. "Are you warning me... or yourself?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and placed a small box on my desk.

I looked at it. "What is it?"

"A key."

I opened it slowly.

It was a silver key on a velvet cushion.

"To what?"

He met my eyes. "To something I want you to build, a space of your own or a company under your name. If you want it."

I stared at him, stunned.

He stepped back. "Think about it."

Then he left.

Just like that.

And I sat there in the silence, surrounded by the ghosts of power, of old money, of legacy-and of two brothers who suddenly saw me.

Not as a servant.
Not as a secretary.
But as something else entirely.

A possibility.

A threat.

A crown.

And in that moment, I realized the real game hadn't even started yet.

The Night to Forget

Camilla's POV

They say every woman has a night she wishes she could rewrite.
This one was mine.

And yet, in the hours before it happened, it didn't feel like danger,
it felt like magic.

It started with laughter.

The company was celebrating the successful launch of a tech product in Milan-an elite invite-only cocktail affair hosted at a rooftop garden.

I wasn't supposed to be there, but Damian had insisted, forwarding me the digital invitation himself.

"You're part of the team now," he had said. "Don't argue."

So I came.

I wore a simple navy dress, nothing extravagant and nothing flashy. But it fit well and for the first time in weeks, I allowed myself to wear my hair down.

I even added a soft gloss to my lips-more from curiosity than confidence.

The rooftop glowed with golden string lights and gentle violin music. Crystal glasses clinked in the air. Men in tuxedos murmured over mergers and models. Women laughed like a drifting in the wind.

And somehow... I belonged.

At least for a while.

Daniel found me near the balcony, cradling a flute of champagne I hadn't tasted.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie hung like an afterthought. He looked effortlessly undone, like the kind of man who always knew he was being watched.

"Camilla," he said warmly, as though it was my name that made the air hum.

"Daniel," I replied, offering the smallest of smiles. "Enjoying yourself?"

He tilted his head. "I'm now."

I looked away, trying not to roll my eyes. "You're predictable."

"Not always, come, I want to show you something."

I hesitated. "What?"

He extended his hand. "Don't worry. I promise not to throw you off the edge."

That made me laugh. I took his hand-foolishly, maybe-and let him lead me through the crowd, past the dance floor and the tables, into a quieter corridor behind a curtain of ivy.

He pulled open a narrow glass door, and we stepped into a small and private terrace. There were no lights here-just the glow of the city beneath us and the gentle night breeze curling around our faces.

"You can see everything from up here," he said, walking toward the railing. "The city, the streets and the lives we never touch."

I stood beside him, hugging my arms. "Is that how you see the world? Like a map below your feet?"

He turned to look at me. "Sometimes, but not tonight."

There was something different in his voice-softer, perhaps. He leaned on the railing, his shoulder brushing mine.

"You're not like the others," he said.

I shook my head, amused. "Please don't start with that."

"I mean it," he said, serious now. "You don't want anything from me."

"I want a job. A paycheck."

He laughed. "Sure. But not like them. You're not playing games, you're just... you."

I didn't know what to say. Compliments from men like Daniel usually felt like honeyed traps. But tonight, something in his tone disarmed me.

"You know," he added, swirling the champagne in his glass, "my grandmother used to say that still water runs deep, she said the quiet ones are always the ones to watch."

"Smart woman," I said.

"She died when I was ten."

The air shifted.

I turned toward him. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It was a long time ago, but I think that's why I don't... connect easily. I've spent years pretending to be the man everyone wants. Sometimes I don't even know if he's real anymore."

His vulnerability caught me off guard. I had always imagined Daniel as shallow-handsome and hollow. But tonight, in the dark, beneath a sky with stars, he felt more like a boy lost in the echo of wealth and expectation.

"Do you ever get tired?" I asked.

"All the time."

We stood there for a moment, our silence more intimate than words.

Then he looked at me differently.

Not as a secretary, not as a game piece but as a woman.

"I shouldn't do this," he murmured.

My heart fluttered. "Then don't."

But he did.

His lips touched mine-tentative at first, almost unsure. I could have pulled away. I should have, but I didn't.

Maybe I wanted to feel something.
Maybe I wanted to forget everything I couldn't control-my father's failing health, my mother's sacrifices, the way Damian's stare unsettled me in quiet meetings.
Maybe I just wanted someone to see me.

So I kissed him back.

And when he whispered, "Come with me," I followed him.

Like a fool.

The hotel suite was already booked.

I should have known.

It was three blocks from the rooftop, discreet and dimly lit, the kind of place men like Daniel kept on standby.

He opened the door for me, and I walked into a world of soft carpets, velvet curtains and chilled wine waiting on a silver tray.

"This is too much," I said, breathless.

He closed the door. "It's not enough."

And then he kissed me again.

It was different this time, urgent, warm and real.

We didn't talk much, our words were replaced by hands and sighs, by buttons loosened and heels kicked aside.

The world outside faded, my thoughts unraveled. I stopped calculating and I let myself feel.

Because in that moment, I wasn't a secretary.

I wasn't the daughter of a maid.

I was a woman someone wanted.

Even if only for a night.

I woke up in a hotel robe I didn't recognize.

The bed beside me was empty.

Daniel was gone.

The room was still, almost sterile in its perfection. The wine glasses were untouched. A scent of cologne lingered in the air.

I sat up slowly, the sheets cool against my skin. My head throbbed-not from wine, but from the sting of reality returning.

I looked around. No note, no call and no explanation.

Just silence.

I got dressed quietly, folding the robe neatly on the bed. I left without telling anyone. I didn't want a driver and I didn't want a scene.

I just wanted to disappear.

I called in sick the next morning.

Fever, I said.

Which wasn't a lie.

There was a fever in my chest, burning behind my eyes and a fever of shame, of disbelief or of the awful, sinking feeling that I had been nothing more than a convenience.

Daniel didn't call.

Didn't text.

And when I returned to work on Monday, he smiled at me like nothing had happened. Like we hadn't undressed each other with trembling hands.

Like I hadn't left pieces of myself scattered across the sheets of that hotel suite.

I nodded politely.

Smiled, even.

But inside, I was burning.

It wasn't just the kiss, or the night. It was what it meant.

That after all these months, after earning my seat in rooms I never dreamed of entering, I had let myself believe I could matter in their world.

That I wasn't just furniture.

That I wasn't just a girl from the servant's quarters.

But Daniel's silence-his cold, easy dismissal-reminded me that some things never change.

I was still invisible.

Still... disposable.