Fair. "The honest truth is: no, you probably won't fully get used to this. Not the way it is now. But it will get easier."
"When? When you've broken me completely?"
I stopped in front of her. "I don't want to break you, Paola."
"Then what do you want?"
What did I want? That was a good question.
A week ago, I wanted a convenient wife. Someone decorative and undemanding. Simple.
Now? Looking at Paola—fierce and vulnerable and far too real—I wanted something I couldn't quite name.
"I want you to choose this," I said finally. "Choose me. Not because you're forced. Because you want to."
She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "That's impossible and you know it."
"Is it?" I reached up, cupping her face. She could pull away, but didn't. "Your body responds to me, Paola. I can see it. Feel it. You're attracted to me despite everything."
"That's not—"
I kissed her. Cut off her lie with my mouth.
For a second, she froze. Then she was kissing me back—hesitant, unpracticed, but genuine.
Nothing like the performance kiss at the altar. This was real.
I kept it controlled—lips only, no tongue, no demand. Just tasting her, testing her response.
She made a small sound—not quite pleasure, not quite protest.
I pulled back, rested my forehead against hers. Both of us were breathing hard.
"Tell me you don't feel that," I murmured.
She couldn't. The truth was written all over her flushed face.
"Feeling something doesn't make this right," she whispered.
"No. But it makes it easier."
I stepped back, giving her space. "Come to bed, Paola. Sleep. That's all. Just sleep."
She looked at the bed—massive, intimidating, my territory.
Then at me—dangerous, compelling, her husband.
She made a decision. Moving toward me, Paola slid under the covers. I followed, keeping to my side.
As promised.
We lay in darkness, not touching, but aware of each other in every way.
"Cesare?" Her voice was small in the dark.
"Yes?"
"That kiss... was that part of the arrangement? The performance?"
