Nothing about today made sense. The switch. The timing. The precision. Was Paola an accomplice? Part of some scheme I hadn't figured out?
Or truly a victim, drugged and forced into this role?
Her response would tell me everything.
She didn't move. Didn't reach for zippers or buttons. Just stared with those wide green eyes—so different from Bianca's calculated coldness.
"No." Quieter than before, but definitive.
Interesting.
Most people didn’t tell Cesare Monti “no.” Especially not when I issued a direct command in my own home with no witnesses.
I took a step closer. "No?"
She lifted her chin—terrified but defiant. The contradiction fascinated me.
"You didn't marry me. You married my sister. I'm just the replacement. So don't pretend this is real."
The words hit harder than she knew.
She was right—I didn't choose her. I hadn’t chosen her sister, either, not really; not in the way that mattered. This entire day had been fraud, a performance with the wrong lead actress.
But she was wrong about one thing: the marriagewasreal. Legal And binding. Witnessed and registered.
And her defiance...
It did something to me.
I'd spent my adult life surrounded by people who feared me, who obeyed without question, who saidyes Don Montiandof course Don Monti. Paola Lombardo was clearly scared—I could see it in her shaking hands, hear it in her breathing, smell it cutting through her perfume.
But she was still saying no. Still fighting.
Most would have broken by now. Stripped, submitted to me, and accepted the inevitable.
She was stronger than she looked.
The realization shifted something in me. I was… intrigued. And there was something darker—desire kindled by resistance.
"You're right," I said. "I didn't marry you. I married Bianca Lombardo."
I paced before her slowly. She turned to keep me in sight—smart. Never let the threat move behind you.
"But Bianca isn't here. You are. You said the vows. You wear my ring. The law says you're mine."
Her breathing quickened—rapid, shallow pulls that made her chest rise and fall beneath silk and lace. She'd backed against the window. Nowhere to go. Ninety floors of nothing behind her, me in front.
Trapped.
"I won't—"
"You won't what?" I interrupted. "Fight me? Run? Refuse?"
I stopped directly in front of her. Close enough to touch but not touching.
The anticipation was almost better than contact. I felt how badly I wanted her throb through my veins, rushing toward a tight knot of desire low in my gut.
"Let me explain your situation, Paola." I kept my voice level, reasonable. "You have no money—everything you owned is in your old life. You have no allies—your father sold you, your sister betrayed you. You have no escape—this penthouse is ninety floors up, guarded, and even if you made it to the street, where would you go?"
