He pushes open the dining room door. A long table sits in the center, set with white china and silver cutlery. An obscene amount of elegance for two people who could barely stand to breathe the same air last night.
He gestures to a chair. “Sit.”
I don’t want to, but I do.
He sits across from me, lounging back like this is a casual brunch and not the breakfast from hell.
A server enters, places a plate of food in front of each of us, and vanishes like a ghost.
Lorenzo picks up his fork and spins it in his hand with a bored flick. “Let’s talk rules.”
My stomach tightens. “Rules?”
He gives me a slow, almost amused look. “You didn’t think marriage came without terms, did you?”
I glare at him, refusing to let him see how much my hand shakes when I lift my water glass.
“What do you expect me to do?” I ask, voice tight. “You blew up my life. My job. My future. What now? Am I supposed to sit around like some . . . decorative hostage?”
He leans in slightly, shadows slicing across his cheekbones. “You hated working for your father.”
My throat closes. “That doesn’t mean I wanted you to take that from me.”
His mouth curves in a slow, vicious smile. “I didn’t take anything you weren’t already desperate to escape.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” He taps the table once with two fingers. “But don’t worry. You won’t be working anymore.”
My spine snaps straight. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He cuts into his food with surgical precision. “You don’t need a job.”
“I need a life,” I fire back.
“You have one,” he says with a shrug that’s pure sin. “This one.”
“So my only job is to be a prisoner?”
“You’re my wife.”
“That’s not better.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
The air goes razor-sharp between us.
His eyes drop to my untouched plate, then back to me. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I’ll eat when I’m not nauseous with dread.”
He chuckles, low and dark. “Your stomach will adjust.”
I want to throw the plate at his head.
