The possessiveness in my tone surprised even me.
Her soft intake of breath was audible through the phone. "I'm not yours."
"For today, you are. For today, we're madly in love and our marriage is exactly what everyone thinks it is."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Fine," she finally said. "One hour."
After she hung up, I sat back in my chair. The blackmail note felt heavy in my pocket, a tangible reminder of the threat looming over us.
The enemy wasn't just at the gates. They were already inside the walls.
And worse, they knew exactly where to hit me.
CHAPTER 6
Sienna
The bathroom tile was cold against my knees as I emptied the contents of my stomach for the third time that morning. I gripped the marble counter, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
Just stress. It had to be stress. But my mind began calculating despite my efforts. When was my last period? The chaos of the wedding, the constant tension—I'd lost track of so many normal things.
Six weeks.
The number hit me like ice water. Six weeks since our wedding night. Six weeks since I'd used my body as a weapon against Luca, only to have it backfire spectacularly.
This was the fourth morning in a row I'd been sick. I stared at my hollow-eyed reflection, barely recognizing myself.
I needed answers. Moving to the desk, I opened my laptop, cross-referencing symptoms with growing dread. Nausea. Fatigue. Coffee aversion. Food sensitivity.
The pieces fit together with terrifying clarity. But I needed proof before I did anything that might tip off Luca.
The days had developed a suffocating rhythm.
I woke alone—Luca was always gone before dawn, managing his empire while I remained hidden like a dirty secret. A rotating staff of silent, stone-faced women arrived at nine to clean, restock the kitchen, leave fresh towels. They never spoke to me beyond polite nods, and I suspected they'd been ordered not to engage.
I'd tried, those first few weeks. Asked questions, attempted conversation. But their carefully blank expressions told me everything I needed to know—they were Luca's people first, and I was the job they'd been assigned.
So I'd stopped trying.
Most days, I paced. Read the books from Luca's shelves—philosophy and poetry that revealed more about him than he probably intended thanks to the things he underlined, or the notes jotted in margins. Stared out windows at a city I could see but not touch. The penthouse was beautiful, comfortable, stocked with everything I could possibly need.
Except freedom.
The morning sickness made hiding harder. I'd learned to time my bathroom visits when the staff was in other rooms, running water to cover the sounds. But this morning had been bad—the fourth day in a row I'd been sick, and I was running out of excuses for my pallor, my exhaustion, my sudden aversion to the coffee they left each morning.
Today I couldn't hide in the penthouse. Today, I had to play the role Luca demanded.
The elevator opened into the nightclub's private dining room. Luca was there with his lieutenants, his eyes tracking my movements as I entered.
"Gentlemen," I said coolly, sliding into the vacant seat beside him.
"Mrs. Romano." Marco nodded stiffly.
Six weeks into this marriage, and I still flinched at the title.
"You look beautiful," Luca said, his voice low. "But pale. Are you ill?"
