For a moment, we’re still, our breaths ragged, her heartbeat pounding against my chest. Then I pull back, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. Her eyes are soft now, vulnerable, and I know she’s waiting for me to pull away, to rebuild the walls we’ve both been hiding behind.
I don’t. I slide out of her gently, ignoring the ache in my own body, and grab a warm cloth from the bathroom.
When I return, she’s still sprawled across the bed. I clean her up slowly, carefully, my hands steady even as my heart races.
She doesn’t say a word, just lets me take care of her, and when I’m done, I pull the covers over her, tucking them around her shoulders.
“Sleep, Kasi,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her forehead. “You’ve earned it.”
She reaches for my hand, her fingers curling around mine, and her voice is barely a whisper. “Stay.”
22
KASI
I can barely breathein this dress. Maria fastens the diamond necklace around my throat while I stare at my reflection, trying to recognize the woman looking back at me.
“You look like a queen, Mrs. Moretti,” Maria says, stepping back to admire her work.
A queen. Three months ago, I was scrubbing floors in a bakery. Now I’m wearing diamond jewelry that sparkles like captured starlight, preparing to schmooze with New York’s elite at the Metropolitan Museum fundraiser.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
“Mr. Moretti is waiting downstairs,” Maria adds, gathering up the discarded dresses we rejected.
My stomach flutters at the mention of his name. Three days since Miami. Three days since he claimed every inch of my body and then retreated behind his walls again. We’ve barely spoken beyond the necessary pleasantries.
I find him in the foyer, adjusting his cuff links with the same precision he uses for everything else. The black tuxedo makes his silver hair look like platinum, and when he looks up to see me descending the stairs, his green eyes darken.
“Ready?” he asks, offering his arm.
“As I’ll ever be.”
The ride to Manhattan is quiet except for the hum of the engine and the city lights streaming past our windows. Alaric reviews his phone while I try not to think about how his hands felt on my skin three nights ago.
“The Benedettis will be there tonight,” he says without looking up. “Tony Benedetti’s been pushing for a partnership in our Chicago operations.”
“Really? What kind?”
“The kind where he does half the work for sixty percent of the profit.” His mouth curves into a cold smile. “We’ll be declining.”
“How diplomatically?”
“Diplomatically enough that he doesn’t declare war. Firmly enough that he gets the message.”
This is my role now. The beautiful wife who smiles and charms while her husband conducts business over champagne and canapés. Part trophy, part translator, part shield against the uglier aspects of his world.
I should hate it. Instead, I find myself looking forward to watching him work.
The Metropolitan Museum has been transformed into a glittering paradise. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbows acrossmarble floors while guests in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos mingle among priceless artifacts. The theme is “Art and Philanthropy,” which translates to “rich people showing off their tax-deductible generosity.”
“Alaric!” A woman with silver hair and kind eyes approaches us. “How wonderful to see you.”
“Elena,” he replies, kissing her cheek. “You look radiant. Elena Benedetti, this is my wife, Kasimira.”
“The famous new bride.” Elena takes my hands, studying my face with sharp intelligence. “My dear, you’re even more beautiful than the photographs suggested.”
I like her immediately.
