Or rather, she had met his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and tranquil thoughtfulness, and it was only when ten full minutes had passed that Leonidas had realized with amusement she had no plans of speaking first.
And strangely enough, all of those things combined had been what enchanted him, and even more surprising was how she continued to enchant him throughout the evening...and without even trying.
When he’d explained the arrangement he had in mind, she’d listened with those quiet dark eyes. No interruption. No negotiation. And when he’d finished, she’d nodded once and said:I can be a perfect wife for you. In exchange, I want to live my own life.
Those had been her very first words, and even now, he remembered how he had found the tone of her voice just as enchanting. Soft but serious, every word spoken as if it carried the weight of a lifelong vow, and it was why she often chose silence over pointless speech.
He had then asked her to clarify and specify what she meant. Taught her to apply actual numbers to turn vague thoughts into measurable conditions. And instead of trying to play coy or making use of the usual feminine wiles that were naturally at her disposal, she had listened intently, even asked for a few minutes to compose her thoughts, and then she had nearly made him smile when she said afterward—
‘Thank you for being so nice. I’m ready to renegotiate.’
He hadn’t known it then, but his role as husband would naturally evolve into being her mentor as well, with Lexy obeying his every command because she had deemed him worthy of her trust and respect. That same night, they had discussed and negotiated every detail of what their marriage would entail. Sleeping arrangements. PR commitments. The possibility of offspring...or divorce. But the one thing that did not come up...was the one thing he had been waiting for her to ask about. But when coffee and dessert had already been served, and she had yet to say a single word about it—
‘What about money?’Leonidas had asked finally.
And to this, Lexy had simply blinked at him as if confused by the fact that he even had to ask such a question.‘Are you not supposed to take care of that on my behalf?’A small furrow between her brows. ‘Is that not why we’re marrying?’
An answer that was not quite an answer, but it was one that enchanted him the most, and so, even though he had no ring in his pocket, he had asked her to marry him, and she had—as expected—said ‘yes’ without asking about a ring.
It had been eight years since then.
Eight years.
And in every day of their marriage, his wife had been nothing short of perfect. She had made a promise about the kind of wife she would be, and she had kept it. He had made a promise about the kind of husband he would be, and he, too, had kept his word.
It was a marriage made perfect because both of them understood what honor meant.
And valued it.
Which was also why he didn’t think it was fair to subject her to what lay ahead.
“If you’re here—”
Aivan’s voice had Leonidas turning in time to see his friend stride back into the conference room, still dressed in his racing suit, and his hair slightly matted with sweat after joining his trainees for a single race.
The Sicilian billionaire moved with the easy confidence of a man who’d conquered every track that mattered. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of presence that made photographers and sponsors salivate in equal measure. At thirty-eight, Aivan Cannizzaro still topped those ridiculous lists where women voted for the world’s most attractive athletes. Much to his wife Sienah’s apparent amusement and his own visible irritation.
But there was something different about him now. Softer around the edges. The cold machine Leonidas had first met a decade ago had thawed into something almost human.
Marriage, Leonidas supposed. Or rather, the right marriage. The kind where you actually let yourself feel something.
“I’m assuming you’ve made a decision?” Aivan settled into the chair across from him, gesturing for Leonidas to sit as well.
The conference room was pure Aivan. Sleek, functional, dominated by screens displaying real-time telemetry data from the track below. Trophies lined one wall, arranged with the carelessness of a man who had nothing left to prove.
Leonidas reached for the contract that had brought him here. The document was substantial, dense with technical specifications and legal provisions, but the core proposal was simple enough.
A new patented technology. Modified car design. Adaptive systems that would compensate for his damaged ligament by redistributing control inputs, allowing him to rely on his still-lightning reflexes rather than the knee that had betrayed him.
A second chance at the championship that should have been his.
“Why me?” Leonidas asked finally.
“First, there are the official reasons. The ones we’ll present to the press.” Aivan ticked them off on his fingers. “Our friendship. The business deals we’ve worked on together. The privilege of being instrumental in your return to racing. Your incomparable skills as a driver. Skills that were never in question, only your body’s ability to execute them.”
“And the unofficial reason?”
“You need to sign a considerable number of waivers.” Aivan’s expression sobered. “This technology comes with risks. Risks that only a billionaire like you can afford to take, in case things go south. We need someone with deep enough pockets to absorb potential liability, and enough personal stake to push the boundaries of what’s possible.”
