I would remember the way she said yes.
The way she let me hold her, the way she slept peacefully next to me, the way she curled into me like she belonged there.
Because she did.
And she wasn’t leaving.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Zara
The last two days had been confusing as hell.
Lorenzo was different.
Gone was the man who punched strangers in restaurants and fucked me against bathroom stalls. In his place was someone I barely recognized—someone who had dinner ready when I got home from work, who asked about my day, who refilled my wine without being asked.
He was gentle in a way that disoriented me.
My mind hadn’t accepted that though. I just kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the possessive monster to emerge, for him to grab my wrist and remind me who I belonged to. But he didn’t; he just… was. Present, attentive, soft.
And then this morning, he’d fucked me in the shower.
Hard.
Against the tile, water streaming down our bodies, cries of pleasure vibrating against the walls. He’d taken me apart like he was starving for it, like he needed to consume me just to survive. I’d come twice before he finally let himself go, burying his face in my neck and groaning my name like a prayer.
Afterward, he dried me off, wrapped me in a robe, and made me breakfast.
No mention of sex.
No possessive comments.
Just eggs and toast and that infuriating smile, and I had no idea what to do with this version of him, so I decided to just embrace it for as long as it lasts.
Earlier I had texted him that I’d handle dinner—a peace offering, maybe, or an excuse to get him to open up. He’d been so closed off about himself. I knew his family was rich, that he ran the bar, that his parents wanted grandchildren and a proper heir. But beyond that? Nothing.
I wanted more.
I needed to understand the man I’d married if I had any chance of surviving the year.
I let myself into the penthouse, arms aching with grocery bags, and found him in the study, laptop open, phone to his ear. He looked up as I walked in, and for a split second, I caught something in his eyes—surprise, warmth, maybe even longing before he tucked it away.
“Let me call you back,” he said into the phone, then hung up without waiting for a response.
“You’re home early,” he said, standing in the room to take the bags from my arms.
“I wanted to cook for you.”
His eyebrows rose. “You cook?”
“I have layers, Lorenzo.”
He laughed, low and genuine, and my stomach flipped. That laugh—the real one—was dangerous. It made me want to hear it again. Made me want to be the reason for it. And that alone was probably another failure of boundaries on my end.
Tonight I’d decided on Spanish food—something that simmered slowly, filling the penthouse with heat and spice, just like my home growing up.
I unpacked ingredients across the marble counter: fresh tomatoes, garlic, saffron rice, and chorizo.
