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I yanked the blanket around my bare chest and scrambled backward toward the headboard.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I stared at him, teeth grinding. "You get me into this bed, then tell me you have a daughter?"

Marcelo's jawline went rigid. He didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped forward, knee nearly touching the mattress.

"A business marriage when I was seventeen. An agreement between two families over territory and profit." His voice dropped low, trying to contain the chaos in the air. "My ex-wife left the States completely after she gave birth. There was never any feeling between us. It was just paper."

I stared at his face—handsome as a goddamn sculpture.

Ten minutes ago I'd been drowning in bliss, convinced I'd touched some fairy-tale miracle.

Now that self-deluded sweetness turned into a slap across my face.

He'd been married. He had a flesh-and-blood daughter. That girl waited in New York for him to bring her macarons, threatening playfully to trash his wine cellar. He had a complete, sprawling life. And I—naked in his bed, a self-indulgent bite mark on his shoulder—thought that meant I had him.

But in his eyes, I was just another free dessert he'd ordered during his Paris business trip. A joke, completely in the dark.

"Just paper?" I laughed coldly, gripping the gray silk sheet wrapped around my chest. "You have a daughter, Marcelo. You have a real family. And what am I? The intern you decided to screw during your business trip? Cheap entertainment to unwind after a boring textile expo?"

"I never treated you like entertainment!" Marcelo's voice shot up, suppressed fury igniting in his gray-green eyes. "Don't use that word to insult what happened between us last night!"

"Insult?"

I threw off the blanket and tumbled out of bed. Bare feet hit the cold wood floor. I grabbed at the oversized sheet, wrapping it tight around me, spine slamming into the icy wall.

"You insulted me!" I shouted, eyes frantically scanning the carpet's wreckage.

Black sweater. Jeans. Belt.

I lunged forward and grabbed them, fingers shaking so badly I couldn't get my arm through the sleeve.

"Ruby, calm down." Marcelo stepped forward and clamped down on my wrist.

His palm burned, grip like iron.

"Let go!" I pounded his chest with my free hand, nails raking across his forearm.

Mary's tear-streaked face in that rundown New Jersey kitchen slammed into my brain. They just want something different. Once the game's over, you're the one left bleeding.

I'd thought I was different from my mother. I thought I was smarter. Turned out I fell harder.

Shame shredded my insides.

"There's nothing to talk about! Marcelo Moretti, I said let go!" I thrashed, tears hitting his hand.

Marcelo's jaw locked tight. He stared into my red eyes, chest heaving.

Ten seconds of dead silence.

He released my wrist, finger by finger.

"Go get dressed." His voice dropped back to freezing, all emotion stripped away. The cold, ruthless don's mask slid back onto his face. "Today's return flight stays as scheduled. Once we're back in New York, I'll approve some time off. You need time to think."

I didn't look at him again. I grabbed my clothes and bolted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

Cold water from the tap hammered the porcelain sink.

I braced both hands on the marble counter, staring at the red-eyed, disheveled woman in the mirror.