And I do. I say it because it’s true.
To be wanted like that, to be needed, to be the thing he craves and can’t get enough of—it overwhelms me. It scares me. But I have never felt more alive.
I’d spent so long feeling like I was too much. Too emotional, too broken, too needy. My father left. My boyfriends used me. Even Nathan, whom I thought loved me, threw me out like I was trash.
But Lorenzo… he looks at me like I’m precious. Like I’m the only thing that matters.
And I’m starting to trust him.
I’m starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be real.
I closed the journal just as I heard the front door open downstairs. Voices—Lorenzo’s, low and commanding, speaking rapid Italian on the phone. A pause. Then footsteps, heavy and purposeful, climbed the stairs.
My heart did that stupid flip; it always does.
The door swings open, and there he is. Lorenzo Falcone. My husband. Still in his suit from the meeting, tie loosened, top button undone. His hair was slightly tousled, and there was a hint of tiredness around his eyes—but the moment his gaze lands on me, it all melted away.
“Where is my wife?”
The words roll off his tongue in that accent I’ll never get tired of. The way he curls around the vowels, the way “wife” sounds like a claim, like a promise. Mia moglie—he says it in Italian sometimes, and when he does, I feel it in my bones.
He’d been trying to teach me. Simple phrases. Ti amo. Sei bellissima. Mia per sempre.
So far, all I’ve managed to learn is cazzo.
He found that hilarious. I’m pretty sure he taught me that one on purpose, just to watch me try to say it with a straight face. The first time I used it—completely by accident, after stubbingmy toe on the bedframe—he laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall.
But when he says, “Where is my wife” in that low, possessive voice, I don’t care about any of that. I only care about the way it makes me feel.
Wanted. Chosen. His.
“Right here,” I said, setting the journal aside and standing. “Waiting for you.”
He crossed the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. He inhaled deeply, as if he was breathing me in, and I could feel the tension leave his shoulders.
“Missed you,” he murmured against my neck.
“You were gone for three hours.”
“Too long.”
I laughed, but I understood. I was starting to feel it too—that pull, that ache when he’s not near. It should scare me how fast this is happening. How deep I’m falling.
But I’m too happy to be scared.
“Verona tomorrow?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at him.
“Verona tomorrow.” He kissed me, soft and slow. “Juliet’s balcony. The Arena. A gondola ride on the Adige. Whatever you want.”
“I want—” I stopped, because what I want is still hard to say out loud. “I want to keep feeling like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I matter. Like I’m not just… filling space.”
His eyes went dark, serious. He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“You’re not filling space, Zara. You’re the center of it. My world starts and ends with you. Capisci?”
