“Just trying to avoid the part where you throw a punch.” I step around the chair to face her.
“You should be so lucky.”
She stands abruptly, and for a second, we’re chest to chest. Her nostrils flare. Her dress is a ruined thing clinging to her curves, stained with someone else’s ceremony. I reach between us.
She slaps my hand away. “What thehelldo you think you’re doing?”
I grip her left wrist, lifting her hand between us. The engagement ring still glints on her finger—Falco’s ring. A symbol of everything I tore apart tonight.
“I’m fixing something.”
I twist the ring off with a single pull, then walk to the floor-to-ceiling doors to the balcony. I open the doors and, without hesitation, hurl the ring into the night.
Zara watches, stunned. “You’re insane.”
I shut the door. “And you’re free.”
She moves to the bar, arms crossed. I pull out a chilled bottle of champagne, pop the cork, and pour two glasses.
She doesn’t take the one I offer, so I set it back down.
“You seriously think we’re celebrating?”
I raise a brow. “If I remember correctly, champagne helped get you into my bed once.”
“Good luck with that now.” She snorts. “So we’re pretending this is normal?”
“Why not?” I sip. “We’re married. A toast seems like a good start.”
She turns her back on me, muttering under her breath. “This isn’t a goddamn honeymoon, Enzo.”
“No,” I agree, setting my glass down. “But we could have a little celebration.”
She pivots fast. “You think I want any part of this?”
“The last time you were in my home, you were ready to climb me like a tree. Well, now that I know who you really are, the offer to fuck is back on the table.”
She falters. Just slightly. Her arms drop to her sides, then lift to press her palms against her temples.
“You are impossible,” she says, voice ragged.
I move behind her again, hands moving to the zipper of her dress.
“Don’t,” she says.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “You don’t belong in this.”
She sighs and doesn’t fight me. I peel the fabric from her back. She sucks in a breath as it slips down her arms, pooling in a mess at her feet.
Standing there in black lace and nothing else, she should look vulnerable. But she doesn’t. She looks like a queen who’s been pushed to the edge of war.
Her chest rises and falls in short bursts. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she says.
I shake my head. “Never said it did. I don’t expect anything from you. Simply stripping away any evidence of that motherfucker.”
The air thickens between us, a charged, electric pull neither of us can sever. She turns halfway, and I see it—the moment her fight shifts, sharpens, transforms. Her fingers curl at her sides.
“Why did you do this?” Her question cuts through the air, raw and trembling.
