When she comes, it's with my name on her lips and tears in her eyes—not pain, but emotion so raw it makes my chest ache. I follow her over the edge, emptying myself inside her with a groan that tears from the depths of my soul.
Afterward, I hold her against me, her head on my chest, her breath warm against my skin. I stroke her hair, her back, unable to stop touching her. Peace settles over me, deeper than any victory my empire ever gave me. This woman—this soft, brave, beautiful woman—is the thing I've been building it all to protect. I just didn't know it until now.
"Are you okay?" I ask, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"Mmm." She snuggles closer. "Better than okay."
"No regrets?"
She lifts her head, looks at me with those clear brown eyes. "None. You?"
I tighten my arms around her. "Only that I didn't find you sooner."
She smiles, and it's like watching the sun come out. "I think you found me exactly when you were supposed to."
Maybe she's right. Maybe all roads were always leading here—to this woman in my arms, to this feeling of rightness that I've never known before.
"Stay with me," I whisper against her hair. It's not a command, but a plea.
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, right over my heart. "I'm already here."
six
. . .
Sharon
Days blurtogether like watercolors on wet paper. I wake in his arms, spend my mornings in his kitchen, my afternoons exploring the penthouse or the shops he insists on taking me to. Nights belong to his hands, his mouth, his body claiming mine over and over until I forget my own name but never forget his—Fabio—because I'm screaming it as he drives me higher than I've ever been. A week ago I was Sharon Silverman, florist, ordinary girl with an ordinary life. Now I'm Sharon DeLuca, and nothing feels ordinary anymore.
I should be freaking out. Should be calling lawyers, my mother, my friends. I've left exactly two voicemails—one to my boss explaining a "family emergency" and another to my neighbor asking her to water my plants. Both times, Fabio watched me make the calls, his dark eyes unreadable. He didn't try to stop me. Didn't tell me what to say. Just watched, like he was curious what ties I'd maintain to my old life.
Not many, as it turns out.
It's not that I can't leave. He's made it clear I'm free to go whenever I want. Left a credit card on the nightstand "for emergencies," which we both know could include a plane ticketto anywhere. But I don't want to go. That's the crazy part. I don't want to leave this bubble we've created.
Silk dresses appear in my size—rack after rack wheeled into the penthouse while I'm showering or napping. Lingerie that makes me blush just looking at it. Shoes that cost more than my rent. When I protest, he just kisses my forehead and says, "Let me, angel."
So I let him. Let him dress me in fabrics so fine they feel like water against my skin. Let him clasp diamonds around my throat that catch the light when I swallow. Let him transform me from ordinary to something else—something precious, something owned.
Tonight we're at some exclusive restaurant where the maître d' practically bows when Fabio walks in. Everyone here looks important, beautiful, wealthy. I should feel out of place. But Fabio's hand never leaves the small of my back, his thumb occasionally stroking against my spine through the thin material of my dress, and that touch is all I need to feel centered.
"Mr. DeLuca," a silver-haired man approaches our table, hand extended. "A pleasure to see you again."
"Senator." Fabio rises slightly, shakes the man's hand. "How's the campaign?"
They exchange pleasantries while I sit quietly, sipping my wine. I'm getting used to this—the way conversations pause when Fabio enters a room, the way men scurry to shake his hand, the mixture of fear and respect in their eyes. I'm getting used to the whispers too, the curious glances thrown my way. Who is she? Where did DeLuca find her? Is she a model, an actress?
None of them guess "florist."
The senator leaves, and Fabio's attention returns fully to me, as if there was never any interruption. His eyes drop to my throat, where his thumb traces my racing pulse.
"Do you like the food?" he asks, but his eyes say he's thinking about tasting something else entirely.
I nod, unable to speak when he looks at me like that—like he could devour me whole and still be hungry for more. Under the table, his hand finds my knee, slides up my thigh in a slow caress that makes my breath catch.
"When we get home," he says quietly, just for my ears, "I want you wearing nothing but these diamonds."
Heat rushes through me, pooling between my legs. A week ago I would have been shocked by such a statement. Now I'm just wet, aching, counting the minutes until we leave.
