I nearly choked on a fry. “I—what?”
“There’s something about you.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
His words crashed into me, heavy and relentless.
I set down the burger, my appetite suddenly gone. “You can’t just—” I shook my head. “This isn’t a movie. You can’t just sweep in and save me.”
“Who said I wanted to save you?”
The question hung in the air, dark and dangerous.
I felt heat creep up my neck. “What do you want, then?”
His eyes met mine — unblinking. Unrelenting.
“I want you,” he whispered, almost as if he didn’t mean for me to hear the words.
I reached for my milkshake mostly because I needed something to ground me. The cold sweetness coated my tongue while I tried to process whatever the hell this conversation had become. Across from me, his gaze followed the movement of my mouth around the straw, slowly enough to make heat crawl up my neck.
Then, casually—as though he wasn’t about to completely derail my sanity—he said, “Marry me.”
For a second, I honestly thought I’d misheard him. Then I laughed, because there was no other reasonable response.
“I’m sorry…What?”
“Marry me.”
“Okay,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re definitely insane.”
“I’m serious.”
The amusement died in my throat almost immediately. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t joking. He looked completely calm, completely composed, like he hadn’t just proposed marriage to a stranger over burgers and fries.
“You’re serious,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.
“Deadly.” He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. The movement was deliberate, like a predator scenting the air before striking. “Let me lay it out plainly. My father wants me married. He thinks a wife will settle me, tame the beast he’s spent thirty-seven years failing to control.” A bitter smile ghosted his lips. “I need a wife. You need shelter, money, a chance to rebuild your life.”
I leaned back against the chair, stung by the accuracy of his words and still recovering from the shock of it all. “Why would you even ask me that?”
Something shifted in his expression then. The teasing disappeared, leaving behind something colder. He looked away briefly, jaw tightening before his eyes returned to mine.
“Don’t look so frightened,principessa.” The endearment rolled off his tongue like velvet and venom. “I’m offering you a solution. One year. You move into my penthouse. You wear my ring. You play the devoted wife at family dinners, charity galas, and the occasional business function.”
“And in return?”
A faint smirk touched his mouth, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“Everything you need. My penthouse, a monthly allowance, you’d have every need tended to. After one year, if you wish…” His voice lingered on the wordif, stretching it like taffy, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. “…you can leave. Walk away with enough money to start over wherever you want. No strings. No expectations.”
I blinked at him, trying to catch up.
It sounded too tempting, too unreal. Men like Lorenzo Falcone promised danger, not clean deals.
“No expectations?” I repeated, skepticism bleeding through.
He tilted his head, studying me. “You’ll share my bed.”
My heart slammed against my ribs at the sheer audacity of this man.
