Moretti’s hand settles at the small of my back again, guiding, possessive, and heat flares fresh under my skin.
I slide across the leather, the seam of my dress riding up just enough to remind me how wet I still am.
He follows, close enough that his knee brushes mine, and the contact jolts straight to my core.
The SUV merges into late-morning traffic, the city of Houston unfolding beyond the tinted windows in flashes of mirrored skyscrapers and sunlit glass.
Downtown gleams under a pale blue sky, the streets alive with movement, but inside the car, the air feels strangely insulated—quiet, close, charged with the lingering tension from the boutique.
Neither of us speaks.
It isn’t the comfortable kind of silence that settles between people who know each other well.This feels deliberate, almost strategic, as though every unsaid word is another move in the strange game we’ve been playing since he stole me from my life.
Dante Moretti sits beside me with the quiet confidence of a man who believes the outcome is already decided.One arm rests along the back of the seat behind me, his broad shoulders relaxed in a way that suggests control rather than ease.
Every so often, his gaze flicks in my direction, dark and measuring, as if cataloguing every reaction I try—and fail—to hide.
Infuriating man.
My pulse still hasn’t settled from the boutique.
From the way his hand moved beneath the silk of that dress.
From the way my body reacted like it had momentarily forgotten which side of this twisted arrangement I’m supposed to be on.
I fold my hands carefully in my lap, forcing composure into every inch of my posture.
If Dante Moretti thinks he’s rattled me, he’s about to be disappointed.
The SUV slows.Then the driver pulls to a stop beneath the sweeping portico of a gleaming marble building whose facade I recognize immediately.
Of course.
A discreet plaque beside the entrance catches the sunlight—polished gold lettering engraved into black stone.
Boucheron Privé.
Exclusive.Invitation only.The kind of jeweler where diamonds are presented like museum pieces and fortunes change hands over a glass of champagne.
The kind of place where a man like Dante Moretti shops.
I let out a slow breath.
This isn’t about anything other than him proving I’m his possession.
The guard steps forward and opens the door.
Moretti exits first, then turns and offers me his hand.
The gesture is absurdly civilized considering the circumstances… That we are kidnapper and captive, and he’s my unwanted, future husband.
I ignore his hand and step out on my own.
His mouth curves faintly, as though my refusal is exactly the response he expected.
Inside, the boutique feels less like a store and more like a private gallery curated for billionaires.
Soft golden light spills from recessed fixtures above long glass display cases that stretch along the walls like illuminated treasure chests.Diamonds glitter across velvet trays—emerald cuts, cushions, radiant stones that fracture the light into a thousand shards each time the air shifts.
