Alina
The library welcomes me with warmth and the familiar scent of leather and wood smoke.
Just like most other nights, Raffaele reclines on the couch with a glass of amber liquid dangling from his fingers like a man who owns this corner of the world.
Tonight, he’s dressed in a black suit. The pants hug his thighs in a way that makes my mouth go dry. His white button-up shirt hangs completely open, revealing the sculpted torso that haunted my dreams. His tie is undone around his neck, which just adds to the rumpled appeal.
The contrast of formal and undone makes him look dangerous in a completely new way—like violence interrupted rather than finished.
His green eyes find mine immediately, tracking my entrance with the focus of a predator. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, to hide myself from that penetrating gaze. Instead, I let my arms hang at my sides, forcing myself to stand straight despite the vulnerability creeping up my spine.
“There you are,” he says, his voice low and smooth like the whiskey in his glass.
“Here I am,” I reply, proud of how steady I sound.
He gestures to the space across from him—the same arrangement as the other times, with the chessboard positioned on the table between us.
“Have a seat,” he rumbles, the words carrying the quiet expectation of obedience.
Now that I’m here, I no longer feel nearly as courageous. I still don’t understand why a man like this wants me.
The question burns in my mind as I take my seat across from him. He could have anyone. Models, actresses, women whose bodies don’t stretch the seams of their clothes. Women who know how to move in the world without apologizing for the space they take up. Why pick me?
What isn’t he telling me?
“Have you made your decision?” he asks, setting down his glass and leaning forward. The movement causes his shirt to fall open further, revealing more of the inked skin beneath. My eyes follow the movement before I can stop myself.
I clear my throat. “I have a counter-proposal,” I say, surprised by my own boldness.
One dark eyebrow arches upward. “I’m listening.”
I gesture to the chessboard between us. “Another game. If you win, I’ll marry you. If I win, I’ll remain your captive, but I get to return to the bakery, regardless.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes hardens. “That’s not how this works, Alina,” he says, the words landing like a verdict.
“Why not?” I challenge. “You’ve never seemed like you minded playing for answers before.”
“Because marriage isn’t a game,” he says, his tone colder now. “This is your life.Ourlives. I wantyouto make this decision, not put it on me.”
The intensity in his gaze makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold it. “I’m trying to negotiate.”
“No,” he says flatly. “You’re trying to avoid responsibility. If I win, you can tell yourself you had no choice. If you win, you get what you want without giving anything up.” He leans back, his expression unreadable. “I’m not interested in either scenario.”
His assessment stings because there’s truth in it. Part of me wants to completely avoid responsibility like it’s the plague. To let fate or luck or Raffaele’s superior chess skills make this impossible choice for me.
“Fine,” I say, trying to mask my frustration. “But I still want to play.”
“For what stakes?”
I hesitate, then say the first thing that comes to mind. “If I win, you tell me why you really want to marry me. The whole truth.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. “And if I win?”
“Then I’ll give you my answer.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “If you insist.”
“I do,” I confirm.
