Shrugging, he points at the board, silently telling me to move.
I stare at the board, trying to remember which pawn the book said to use for a power opening. After a moment’s hesitation, I move one of my pawns forward two squares.
Raffaele doesn’t even pause to think. He immediately moves a pawn of his own, placing it in a position that seems random to my untrained eye. I frown, studying the board. Nothing obvious stands out as a threat, so I move another pawn, opening up a path for one of my more powerful pieces.
Again, Raffaele moves without hesitation. This time, his queen slides across the board to rest just a few spaces away from my king. His eyes meet mine over the board, something almost pitying in his gaze.
“Scacco matto.” His green eyes gleam with quiet, ruthless satisfaction. “Checkmate,” he smirks.
I blink, looking between him and the board in confusion. “What? How?”
“It’s called Fool’s Mate,” he explains, his voice matter-of-fact. “The fastest possible checkmate in chess. Two moves.” He points to the position of his pieces. “Your moves opened a direct path to your king. Game over.”
Embarrassment burns in my cheeks as I realize how easily he’s defeated me. Not just in chess, but in my attempt to avoid making this decision myself.
“That’s not fair,” I protest weakly. “I barely know how to play.”
“Life isn’t fair,” he says with a shrug. “Neither is chess.” He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. “Now, your answer, Alina. No more games.”
The finality in his tone makes my stomach clench. This is it. The moment of truth.
I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. “Before I answer,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “Tell me one thing. Why marriage? Why not just keep me here as your… whatever I am now? Your captive?”
Raffaele’s eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he might refuse to answer. Then he says, “My dad is getting re-married.”
The response is so unexpected that I almost laugh. “What?”
“My dad,” he repeats, jaw tightening. “Is getting married. And he’s very… insistent I get a wife and children, too. The last time we spoke, I may have implied that I was already getting married.”
Understanding dawns, slow and incredulous. “So you need a fake wife.” The pieces click into place. “And I’m convenient.”
“Not convenient,” he corrects. “Available.”
The distinction feels meaningless, but I don’t argue. “So this is temporary? Just for show?”
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, perhaps, or impatience. “No, Alina, you misunderstand me.”
Raffaele is silent for a long beat, the kind of silence that feels deliberate. He reaches for his glass, taking a slow, measured sip of the whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. The amber liquid catches the light, reflecting the predatory glint in his stare.
“My dad’s demands were the catalyst, yes,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher, edged with something dangerous. “But the marriage isn’t just permanent, it’s real. There’ll be no divorce and no pretending. We’ll live together like a real husband and wife,” he explains.
The air in the library suddenly feels too thin, the weight of his word—real—crushing the oxygen from the room. My mind reels, snagging on the implications like silk on a jagged nail.
“Real,” I repeat, the word tasting like ash. I don’t give him the yes or no he’s demanding. Instead, I lean forward. “A real marriage involves more than just sharing a last name and a house, Raffaele. You’re a man who doesn’t do anything without a purpose. If it’s real, then you expect… everything.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Do I?”
“Don’t you?” I ask, hating that he’s turning this back on me.
“And what do you expect?” he croons. “Your two biggest dreams are to work in your family’s bakery and become a mom.Do you want me to fill your pussy with my seed until you conceive?”
Oh… God. This got real fast, and I don’t know what to say. My mouth becomes dry and I feel sweat beading near my hairline.
He isn’t wrong, and we both know it. Those are the dreams I confessed to him. So if our marriage is forever, yeah, I’ll want that. Eventually. Ah, who am I kidding? If I believed he really wanted the same—wanted me—I’d be open to discussing it.
“Do you even want me that way?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly small. It’s more like a squeak than anything else. I’m aware my cheeks are burning with humiliation, yet I don’t let it stop me. I have to know.
“Why are you asking me that?” he growls. “Have I not proven that already?”
