In the private elevator that leads to my penthouse, Sharon's fingers curl into the fabric of my suit jacket. Just slightly. Just enough to tell me she's still nervous.
"I promise," I tell her softly, "you have nothing to fear from me."
She looks up at me, those brown eyes searching mine. "What if I don't want your promises? What if I just want to go home?"
"Then I'll take you there myself."
"Really?"
"Yes."
But when the elevator doors open to reveal my penthouse—all glass and steel and lights of the city spread out below like a carpet of stars—she doesn't ask to leave. She steps forward, drawn by the view, and I follow behind, watching her discover my kingdom.
And it is hers now. Everything I have. Everything I am.
I only pray she'll choose to keep it.
four
. . .
Sharon
I should be panicking.Should be calling someone—my mother, the police, a lawyer,anyone. I should be clawing my way back to reason and reality. But I'm standing in a penthouse that looks like something out of a magazine, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Las Vegas like a glittering promise laid out at my feet, and all I can feel is the ghost of his hand at the small of my back. All I can think about is the way Fabio looked at me in that chapel, like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
"Do you like it?" His voice comes from behind me, deep and quiet.
I turn to find him watching me, his dark eyes intense. He's removed his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal powerful forearms corded with muscle. There's something about a man's forearms that's always gotten to me. Something about the strength on display, yet controlled.
"It's beautiful," I admit, because it is. Modern and sleek, but not cold. There are touches of warmth—books on shelves, a throw blanket draped over the couch, art on the walls that looks like it was chosen with care rather than by a decorator.
"Are you hungry?"
The question is so normal, so domestic, it almost makes me laugh. I accidentally married this man an hour ago, and he's asking if I want dinner.
"A little," I say, surprised to find it's true. The adrenaline crash is coming.
He nods once, pulls out his phone, and orders food without consulting me. I should be annoyed, but the way he does it—efficient, decisive—is strangely comforting. When he tells them "No shellfish," I raise my eyebrows.
"How did you know I'm allergic?"
A small smile touches his lips. "You mentioned it to the wedding planner when I was standing nearby. Something about being careful with the caterers."
The fact that he was paying that much attention makes my stomach flip. "Oh."
"I'll show you where you can freshen up. The food will be here in twenty minutes."
He leads me down a hallway lined with more art—modern pieces with bold colors—and opens a door to a guest bedroom that's larger than my entire apartment. The bed is king-sized, covered in what looks like absurdly expensive sheets. There's an en-suite bathroom with a shower big enough for four people.
"There are clothes in the dresser," he says. "They might be a bit big, but they'll do for tonight. We can get you whatever you need tomorrow."
"Thank you," I say, because what else can I say?
"Take your time. Come out when you're ready." He pauses, then adds, "Or don't. If you need space, that's okay too. I can have dinner sent in."
The consideration in the offer throws me off balance again. He's not what I expected. Not what anyone would expect fromlooking at him—this powerful man with dangerous eyes who's treating me like I might break if he moves too quickly.
"I'll come out," I tell him, and the smile he gives me in return makes my knees weak.
