When I first agreed to this marriage arrangement, I expected a timid socialite or maybe a calculating gold-digger. What I got instead was pure fucking fire wrapped in expensive silk.
I run a hand over my face, remembering the way she leaned against my desk just now, challenging me with those green eyes. Most people can't even look me in the eye, let alone push back against me the way she does.
"Mansplain," I mutter, shaking my head. The audacity of this woman.
But that's what makes her so goddamn interesting. She's not afraid of me. Even knowing what I am, what I do, she stands her ground.
I reach for the glass of water on my desk, taking a long swallow. This wasn't part of the plan. Wanting her wasn't part of the plan. She was supposed to be a chess piece, a move in a larger game with Easton.
Now I find myself thinking about her when I should be focused on business. Wondering what she's doing, what she's thinking.
Fuck.
Lucrezia was right. There's something different about Zoe. Something that gets under my skin like no woman has since Bianca.
That thought brings me up short. Since Bianca...
I push away from my desk, suddenly needing to move. The comparison unsettles me. What I had with Bianca was real—love built over years, not this strange tension with a woman thrust into my life through a business arrangement. I get out of the office heading to Lucrezia's room. She can help me better than anyone.
I fist my hand and knock on Lucrezia's door, not waiting for a response before pushing it open. My sister is sprawled across her bed, sketchbook in hand, charcoal smudges on her fingers.
"Don't you ever wait for permission to enter?" she asks without looking up from her drawing.
"No," I reply flatly, leaning against her doorframe. "I need you to take Zoe shopping for the gala."
This gets her attention. Lucrezia's head snaps up, eyes bright with interest. "Shopping?"
"Yes, with your credit card. My credit card. Whatever." I wave a dismissive hand. "Make sure she chooses something appropriate for the occasion."
Lucrezia sits up, setting her sketchbook aside. "Define 'appropriate' in your caveman vocabulary. Do you mean something that covers her from neck to ankle like a nun?"
"I mean something that doesn't make every man in the room forget she's my wife," I snap, remembering the red dress from last night, how it clung to every curve.How other men had looked at her. "Something elegant. Sophisticated."
My sister laughs, the sound light and mocking. "Have you met Zoe? She's not going to listen to me if I try to dictate what she wears."
"Then find a way to convince her." I push off from the doorframe, stepping into the room. "This gala is important, Lucrezia. There will be people watching us, looking for any sign of weakness."
"God forbid anyone think the great Damiano Feretti doesn't control every aspect of his wife's existence," she mutters, rolling her eyes.
I feel my jaw tighten. "This isn't about control. It's about safety."
"Is it?" Lucrezia challenges, giving me a knowing look.
"Yes," I insist, though the heat crawling up my neck suggests otherwise.
My sister sighs dramatically. "Fine. I'll try. But I'm not making any promises. Zoe has her own mind." A mischievous smile crosses her face. "That's why you like her."
"I don't—" I start to protest, but Lucrezia cuts me off.
"Please. I see how you look at her when you think no one's watching."
I go silent, refusing to dignify that with a response.
"I'll take her shopping," Lucrezia concedes, "but I won't be your fashion police. If she wants something that makes your blood pressure spike, that's between you and your cardiologist."
I leave Lucrezia's room without a word, her laughter still ringing in my ears. Damn her for seeing through meso easily. It's always been that way—even as a child, she could read me better than anyone.
Halfway down the hall, I spot Enzo leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as I approach, one eyebrow raised.
