"I want you to take over fully by then, Alessio. I know how much you want these hotels. Locations in Belgravia and New Town? People would kill to have a piece of that real estate, and with you at the helm, you could take them to another level."
This time, I did roll my eyes. Flattery did not work for me, even if the sentence was true. I could already envision ways to maximise their profit.
But marriage…
"Think of it as my parting gift to you."
"Is it really a gift if I'm paying for it?" I dryly queried.
Cesare's brow lifted. "You are getting too old to still be sowing wild oats. Marry the girl. We both know that your freedom will not be impacted," he pointed out.
So I reluctantly agreed, still miffed that I had to do the bidding of other men. Yes, I'd always known that I would marry to secure the future of the Ferrante name. But I thought I would at least get to know her a little first; perhaps date for a bit while I decided whether we were compatible.
When I finally met the young Millie, I was taken aback by the flicker of attraction that danced between us. She was young, yes, but her eyes held a quiet wisdom. Her cool, defiant gaze matched mine, and her body language was stiff and firmly closed off. And yes, she was also drop-dead gorgeous.
But I was too resentful and angry to acknowledge it fully.
“Do you consent to this marriage?” I simply asked, cutting to the chase.
“Would you break the contract if I said no?”
I lifted my chin. She did not want to marry me? I dared her to find a more suitable candidate. “No. It is done.”
“Well, then.” One slim shoulder lifted in a careless shrug.
I was outraged. I’d expected Miss Millie Davenport to be a bashful, meek little woman. I'd expected her to be stammering in English-rose shyness, falling over her feet to please me. After all, I was a catch. I was consistently listed among the top eligible bachelors in the country. I dated supermodels and actresses who clamoured for my attention.
Yet, Millie Davenport stood there staring at me like I was something she'd scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
We married quietly at Grafton House, the country estate of the Earl of Churlington, Millie's childhood home.
Unfortunately for me, Millie had looked stunningly beautiful. I could barely tear my eyes away from her, even if she could barely meet mine.
However, that was the last pleasant thought I had that day about my new wife. The night of our wedding, we had our first big blow-up. I'd told her what my father suggested: that she was to live in my country estate—a quaint village in Devon. She was livid and hit the roof, but I still insisted it was the best move for both of us. My estate was huge; it had horses, chickens, and whatever animals my nieces wanted. She would have access to my black card and would want for nothing.
But she knew the truth: I was simply not yet ready for marriage.
I had my mistresses; one woman I saw when the urge arose. They usually lasted around six months before I grew tired of them and moved on. They were convenient. If I felt like sex, I could call my latest fling, and she'd come running. They were discreet, experienced, and accomplished. Once our arrangement ended, I sent them off with a generous trinket.
While Millie was in Devon, I went through two mistresses in quick succession. They couldn't hold my interest—because at the back of my mind stood my innocent, convenient little wife. Although, at that moment, she didn't feel very convenient.
So I stayed away and kept her comfortable in Keating. She was safe and sound, hidden away until I was ready.
Or so I thought.
Chapter 4
Millie
Iremembered the moment I fell in love with Alessio Ferrante.
No, it was not love at first sight. In fact, I disliked him from the moment we met. Oh, he was handsome and charming, yes, but he was also arrogant, spoiled, and a massive playboy. My dreams of having a loving and faithful husband—even one who had been hand-picked for me—were busted.
Then there was the fact that my father was asking me to marry when I'd just completed my A Levels; he practically begged me to put my plans on hold with the added guilt trip about keeping his bloody empire in the family.
So, really, Alessio could have been the complete opposite of what he was, and I still would've been in a foul mood.
On our wedding night, I'd asked him point-blank whether he would keep a mistress. His promise to be discreet did nothing but fan the flames of anger, but at that point, I didn't care who kept his bed warm—as long as it wasn't me.
