"Probably not, at first," I say. “She'll fight. She'll see this as another way to control her."
"What happens when she finds out it's not just about protection? When she realizes this elaborate lie is also about you? About your need to keep her close, regardless of the danger. What then? What will she do when she understands the truth behind your actions?"
I let out a long sigh. He’s right. "I don't know what she'll do. She might try to leave."
It really doesn’t matter what she does because I know what I'll do.
Whatever it fucking takes to keep her breathing.
Even if it means sacrificing every shred of my own self -control. Even if it means losing myself completely.
I turn back to the window, already thinking through the logistics. We’ll need a photographer. A press leak. A ring.
Something so breathtaking they can’t look away. Because this time, the spotlight will be our cover.
CHAPTER 23
NIKKI
I’ve spent all day trying not to overanalyze what happened between us. The wine’s not helping. I'm halfway through my second glass when he knocks. Not a real knock. Not a polite, "may I come in?" kind of knock that normal people use. It's more like a warning. One long, firm rap, decisive and unyielding. Authority in hardwood form. It's the sound of a man who expects to be obeyed, not invited.
He opens the door before I even have a chance to answer.
"We need to talk," he says, not wasting time with pleasantries.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look at me like he did last night. And just like that, the high I’ve been floating on crashes. I know immediately, he’s going to pretend last night never happened.
So, I put my mask back on too. I meet distance with sarcasm, because that’s what I do best.
"Wow," I deadpan, swirling the wine in my glass, watching the liquid catch the light. "I was just thinking this night needed more ominous declarations. We’ve already done the ‘you’re probably going to die’ thing." I force a bright, dismissive smile, but my heart's already pounding.
I can’t shake off the memories from last night. The raw intensity in his eyes when he was inside me, the way he held me like I was breakable and dangerous at once.
It all felt so real. So earth-shattering.
But now? Now, he's standing there like it never happened. Like I'm still nothing except another problem to solve. The hurt cuts deeper than I expected. I take another sip of wine to hide my emotion.
"I'm serious," he says.
"So am I," I reply, lifting my glass slightly. "This is Chianti which serious business to me. This isn't a cheap date wine. This is a 'something very bad just happened or is about to happen' kind of wine, wouldn't you agree?"
He doesn't smile or blink. My fake bravado sags a little around the edges. It's hard to keep up the performance when I’m feeling deflated.
Did last night mean nothing to him? The thought twists in my stomach like a knife.
“Okay, fine. Go ahead and talk,” I say, and my voice sounds flippant, but my heart's doing cartwheels. “Make it quick. I’ve got a date with this bottle of Chianti, and frankly, it listens better than you do.”
He crosses the room, slow and deliberate, but keeps a foot of distance between us. Like even now, even when everything's on fire, even when the world outside this suite's threatening to implode because of me, he's still not sure how close is too close. He's a walking contradiction, and it's infuriating. And, okay, maybe a little heartbreaking. Especially heartbreaking.
Damn him!
How can he stand there so calmly after what we shared? I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but I don’t.
"I have a way to protect you," he says, a new urgency in his eyes.
"You said that before," I remind him, crossing my legs, trying to appear nonchalant. "You said the fake relationship would protect me. And now I’ve got the entire Scorpione Nero after me because we screwed up somewhere down the line. Forgive me if my faith in your protection strategies is currently at an all-time low."
"This plan will work," he insists.
