“With this,” he added quietly.
A faint flush touched his face under the hallway light, and he looked away, jaw tightening as he reined himself back in.
“I trust you understand.”
He shifted, already half-turned to leave.
“Ciro.”
The voice came from down the hall, sharp enough to halt him mid-step.
Both of us looked.
Vincenzo was already walking toward us.
And at his side—Violet.
Still pale. Still fragile-looking.
But composed.
Her hand rested lightly on his arm, as though she belonged there.
As though she always had.
Vincenzo’s expression was unreadable at first.
Then his eyes found mine.
And something dark moved across his face.
Something possessive.
“Explain why you’re standing there, half-dressed, in front of my man.”
The question cracked through the hallway.
“I’m in boyshorts and a bra,” I said evenly. “That’s not naked.”
His jaw tightened.
Then his gaze snapped to Ciro.
Ciro straightened immediately.
“Boss,” he said evenly, “I warned her as soon as I saw her.”
A quiet beat.
“I know you wouldn’t want any man looking at your wife this way.”
I scoffed at his words, and Vincenzo’s gaze snapped back to me.
“You call me ‘wife’ like it’s some title I should honor,” I said, voice tight. “Especially when Vincenzo clearly doesn’t treat me like one. So why does it matter if another man sees me in boyshorts and a bra? It shouldn’t. It doesn’t.”
The air seemed to still.
Vincenzo’s eyes narrowed to slits.
