I laugh against his mouth, dark and free. "Such romance. You really know how to sweet-talk a girl."
"I know how to sweet-talk my girl," he corrects. "Always and only mine."
30 - Alessandro
The Hewsons’ limestone façade looms before us, all sharp angles and excessive ornamentation—cherubs and lions competing for attention like desperate children.
Gold-plated door handles catch the light against blindingly white stonework, the landscaping so pristinely manicured it appears artificial, like a dollhouse garden scaled to human proportions.
Our footsteps fall unnaturally quiet on the imported gravel path, each crunch muffled as though the very ground seeks to absorb any sound that might disturb the carefully constructed illusion of perfection.
Mrs.Hewson's face appears in the doorway, her expression shifting from annoyance to alarm as she recognizes us. "You can't just—" she starts, trying to close the door, but I shoulder past her, my hand catching the mahogany hard enough to leave fingertip bruises in the wood.
"Mr.Rosetti, this is outrageous," Mr.Hewson protests, emerging from his study.
I'm already guiding Emma through their marble foyer toward the formal reception room, my fingers possessive on her lower back. The space reeks of lemon polish. Persian rugs, leather-bound books, an enormous stone fireplace that Emma probably spent hours cleaning.
The Hewsons follow us, their voices pitched high with indignation, but they direct every word at me, treating Emma like she's still the invisible servant who cleaned their home.Mrs.Hewson positions herself to literally block Emma from view, addressing only me as if my wife doesn't exist, as if she can erase the woman who wore her daughter's name for weeks.
Emma's hand tightens in mine. Not fear, but controlled fury at being dismissed in the very house where she once scrubbed their floors. I feel her spine straighten beside me. She tilts her head slightly, the same subtle shift I make before violence, that unconscious tell that makes prey realize they're already fucked.
"You married the wrong woman," Mrs.Hewson spits, abandoning all pretense of civility. "Frances is home from Switzerland, now available to honor our agreement, and you've bound yourself to this… this substitute." Her voice rises with each word, genuine fury cracking through her society mask. "Do you have any idea what you've done to our family's reputation? Telling the world that you married a servant when Frances Hewson was promised?"
She stalks to the mahogany desk, yanking open a drawer to produce a familiar document. "Clause Fourteen of your marriage contract, Mr.Rosetti." Her finger stabs at the text like she's driving in a nail. "In exigent circumstances, the identity of the bride may be substituted by agreement of both families. The groom remains legally bound to marry the originally contracted bride upon her availability." The contract's language wraps around my throat like wire. Every word calculated to trap us, witnessed and notarized by men I'll be visiting soon with my Glock. "You're still obligated to marry Frances. The real one. This marriage to your servant is nothing but a temporary arrangement according to the contract you signed."
Mr.Hewson reaches for the contract, and my hand shoots out, catching his wrist hard enough that bones grind. He gasps, trying to pull away, but I hold him for three seconds. Long enough to leave bruises, to make my point, before releasing him.
"Clause Fourteen assumes the original marriage was fraudulent," I say, voice deadly calm. "But Emma and I consummated our union before witnesses. Marco made sure of that. Try enforcing substitution clauses on a completed marriage. See how far you get in court. Assuming you make it to court safely."
"You'll divorce this creature immediately," Mrs.Hewson continues, still refusing to look at Emma, "and marry Frances as originally agreed. Otherwise, we expose everything. How the great Alessandro Rosetti was fooled by a servant girl in stolen silk."
Emma steps forward, and something shifts in her posture. "That's a fascinating threat," she says softly, adopting my tone of controlled violence, "from people who've been falsifying their taxes since 2018." The words land sharp and sudden. Mrs.Hewson's face drains of color as Emma continues, each revelation precise as a blade. "I had access to your study when I cleaned. I've seen the documents you thought were private. That conversation about moving money through the children's charity was particularly memorable."
"You wouldn't dare," Mr.Hewson stammers, cradling his bruised wrist, but Emma's already pulling documents from her bag. Photocopies she must have made during our preparation this morning, secrets she's been mentally storing.
"You thought those photos someone sent of me scrubbing floors gave you power?" Emma's voice carries a darkness that makes my cock twitch with recognition. She's learned my language of violence. "Every hour on my knees, I was remembering your secrets. The affairs, the bribes, your nephew's overdose that you paid Dr.Morrison to list as exhaustion. Years of dirt, all gathered by the invisible girl you trusted to clean up your messes."
She slides another document across the desk. "But this is my favorite. The tech patent you've been leveraging? It's built on research stolen from Yamamoto Industries. I remember the emails I saw, the original blueprints you left out that day."
The butler standing in the doorway actually smirks, clearly savoring his employers' destruction. He catches my eye and nods slightly. The staff's loyalty has already shifted.
"Here's my offer," Emma says, producing a simple contract. "You sign over the full tech patent to Rosetti Industries. You withdraw all claims regarding our marriage. You leave Chicago within forty-eight hours. Or every document I remember, every secret I witnessed, goes public tonight." She's seized not just their patent but their entire future, and watching her wield these secrets like weapons makes my cock strain against my zipper, rock hard with arousal at her transformation.
The butler steps forward, speaking for the first time in my presence: "The staff has been waiting for this day, Mrs.Rosetti." He emphasizes her title with satisfaction. "Perhaps the masters would prefer to sign in the study? Give you privacy to… celebrate?"
"Get out," I tell the Hewsons, my voice carrying enough menace to make them both stumble backward. "Leave your own reception room. Now." Mrs.Hewson opens her mouth to protest, but I take a step toward her, letting her see the violence in my eyes, and she scrambles for the door, pulling her husband with her. "You too," I tell the butler, who bows deeply to Emma, not to me, and pulls the doors closed with a decisive click. I hear the lock turn from outside. He's giving us the room, ensuring we won't be disturbed.
The moment the doors shut and we're alone, I lose all restraint. My blood is up. The calculated violence of Emma's little coup, the way she made those powerful people cower andsubmit, it has me so hard I can barely see straight, let alone think.
She turns to face me, lips parted, eyes wild and glittering with the aftershocks of what she's just done. The sight of her like this—Emma, my wife, the docile servant who once tiptoed around this house, now standing in it as its conqueror—makes me want to ruin her, own her, worship her for the rest of my life.
I crush her to me, my mouth on hers, hungry and possessive. She tastes like adrenaline, like victory, her teeth scraping mine. I growl low in my throat, unable to find words for the need that’s clawing at me. Her hands are already at my collar, tearing open buttons, uncaring if the shirt survives. Her nails scratch my chest and I grab her wrists, pinning them behind her back as I spin her around, marching her toward the massive, ancient couch that dominates the center of the Hewsons’ reception room. It’s old, regal, the kind of thing imported from Europe at insane expense—upholstered in deep green leather, studded with brass tacks. I remember Emma once told me she spent hours polishing this very couch until the oils soaked through her gloves and made her fingers sting for days.
I bend her over the high back, her hands splayed wide and bracing against the leather. She doesn’t resist, just arches her spine and looks back at me, eyes daring me to take what’s mine. The skirt of her dress rides up, baring her perfect, pale thighs.
“This is for every time they looked through you,” I snarl, voice rough with lust.
I shove her dress up around her waist, bunching the expensive fabric mercilessly. She’s still wearing the little lace panties I picked out for her, the ones she’d blushed to model for me in the store. I rip them off in one savage motion, the fabric barely resisting.
