A flicker of confusion rises before I can stop it. “We’re not—” I stop myself. The thought feels too dangerous to finish.
His brow arches slightly, a gesture of impatience. “This isn’t a love story, Mrs. Moretti. We did what we had to do.”
I lower my eyes, swallowing the ache that builds behind my ribs. The ache isn't for a husband, but for the devastating clarity of my status. “Of course.”
He studies me for a long moment. I can feel it—the weight of his attention, the assessment. He is looking for a protest, a plea, a sign of weakness. Then he nods once, as if confirming the cold practicality he already suspected of me. “You’ll find your things in the walk-in. The staff will bring anything else you need.”
When he turns to leave, I finally find my voice. “Is there anything you expect from me?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder. His expression is unreadable in the dim light. “I expect you to maintain this peace, Elena. To do as you are told. Nothing more.” Then he walks away, his footsteps fading down the hall until I can’t hear them at all, leaving me alone in the heart of his quiet home.
I should be grateful. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t demand anything. He gave me the safest, most comfortable room in the house. But gratitude feels hollow when loneliness settles in its place. I walk out onto the terrace, the cold stone railing beneath my fingers. Below me, the valley is a dark, velvet bowl, punctuated by the faint, disciplined lights of the estate grounds. The forest stretches out, swallowing the noise of the world.
The wind catches my wedding veil, tugging it loose. I pull it free and let it fall. It catches on the railing before slipping down, flustering softly, until it is swallowed by the darkness below. A small sound draws my attention—the gentle flick of a lighter. I glance to my left.
Alessandro is standing on his own terrace, one room over. Separated by a high, ivy-covered stone wall that marks the boundary between our private spaces. The distance is close enough for a conversation, far enough for solitude. He is in the shadow, wearing a dark shirt and slacks, looking immense and immovable against the night sky.
A cigar glows bright orange between his fingers. The scent of rich tobacco drifts over the separating wall, mingling with the pine. He looks out at the darkness like it owes him something.
The quiet stretches between us, thick and heavy, until I shatter it.
“If you hate me,” I whisper before I can stop myself, my voice barely carrying the distance. “Just say it.”
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t move a muscle, but the slow curl of smoke from his cigar shifts slightly in the still air. His voice drifts through the night, rough and low, a sound carved from granite. “I don’t hate you, Elena.” A pause, perfectly timed with a slow drag on the cigar. “I just don’t trust what your last name represents.”
My throat tightens. It's the most honest thing he's said all night. “That makes two of us.”
For a heartbeat, I think I see him glance over—just enough that the glow of the cigar catches the hard line of his jaw.
Then he exhales a plume of smoke and disappears through his own terrace door.
I eventually return inside, the room swallowing me whole. I am a small, delicate thing in a space designed for a powerful man. I walk to the walk-in closet he mentioned. My few trunks have been unpacked, my formal dresses hung neatly beside a large section filled with his suits, his shirts, his dark, expensive ties. The air here is heavier with his specific scent—the cedar, the tobacco, a clean, almost sterile laundry smell.
I change out of the heavy wedding dress and slip into a thin silk nightgown. I approach the vast, dark bed. I pull back the thick coverlet and run my hands over the layers of linen. They are cool now, but they feel impossibly soft, heavy with the weight of rich fabric. I pause at the pillow. It still holds the faint, faint indent of a head. His head. I realize that he slept here last night. His body was pressed against these sheets, his head resting where mine is about to rest. The thought is paralyzing, yet strangely captivating.
I slip beneath the covers. The linen is cool at first, then begins to absorb my warmth. The sheer size of the bed emphasizes my loneliness, but the faint, lingering scent of his cologne on the pillowcase—his sharp and utterly unshakable presence—is a bizarre comfort. It is not affection, but it is real. It is protective.
I close my eyes, the immense, dark room heavy around me. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the quiet obedience drilled into my bones, something flickers.
Not defiance. Not yet. Just the faint, trembling start of fire, igniting not out of hatred, but out of a desperate, quiet curiosity about the man whose peace I now occupy, and whose sheets are currently holding me captive.
Chapter 4
Ishould feel relief.
The marriage is sealed. The alliance is solid. The Russians are satisfied. Everything went exactly the way it was supposed to. And yet… all I can think about is the look on Elena’s face when I told her the bedroom was hers.
Shock. Not fear. Not disappointment. Just pure, quiet disbelief. Like no one had ever given her space before. Like the idea of privacy was a luxury she didn’t quite understand. She stood there in that white dress—too delicate, too damn beautiful—and stared at me like I’d spoken a language she didn’t know.
It unsettled me more than it should have. I’m not a gentle man. I don’t pretend to be. But I’m not a monster either. Forcing a woman into my bed was never going to be part of this arrangement. I agreed to an alliance, not ownership of her body.
Still… she’s attractive. More than I expected. Soft lips, wide eyes, a face made for secrets no one has ever allowed her to keep. But what sticks with me isn’t her beauty. It’s how perfect she was at the wedding. Too perfect. The bowed head. The quiet steps. The practiced smile that didn’t touch her eyes. The way she followed at my side without being told. No one is naturally like that. No one moves through life that careful unless life taught them to be.
Something isn’t right.
I sit on the edge of the guest bed, rolling my shoulders, the weight of the day settling into my bones. After a long moment, I pull out my phone and dial the only man who knows how to find answers. Rafe picks up on the second ring.
“Yeah, Boss?”
