There it was again, that glimpse beneath the polished surface. The man people whispered about. My skin prickled with a sudden chill, heartbeat thudding wildly in my chest. Even the scent of him—clean soap and something darker, sharper—seemed to fill the air until it was all I could breathe.
The man he swore he wasn’t anymore.
Lorenzo turned away slightly, dragging a hand down his jaw while whoever was on the other end kept talking over the noise in the background. Music. Shouting. Glass breaking.
Chaos.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, like he was fighting for patience.
Then he spoke through clenched teeth.
“Don’t call me again tonight.”
Another protest from the other end.
“I’m having dinner with my wife.” Each word landed like a warning. “If there’s another problem, call Costa.”
He hung up before the person could answer.
His fingers scrolled through his contacts before he lifted the phone to his ear, his expression darkening almost instantly. He spoke in rapid Italian, the sharp edge in his tone making tension crawl down my spine even though I couldn’t understand the words. Still, the language rolled from his lips like velvet wrapped around a blade.
I studied him carefully as he stood there with the phone still clenched in his hand, chest rising slowly and controlled, as if he was forcing himself back into calm.
He stepped toward me again, the hard edge easing from his mouth as he reached up and brushed his knuckles lightly againstmy cheek, his dark eyes fixed on mine like he was trying to memorize every reaction I gave him.
And somewhere beneath the heat, the fear, the impossible pull between us, I realized something terrifying.
I wanted every version of him.
Even the dangerous one.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Zara
The penthouse was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside the windows and the low sound of Lorenzo speaking rapid Italian somewhere down the hall. His voice drifted faintly from his office, sharper tonight, more rushed than usual, and even without understanding the words, I could feel the tension woven through them.
And somehow, that only made him more distracting.
Heat pooled low in my stomach every time his voice dropped into that dark, smooth cadence, the Italian rolling from his tongue like velvet over a blade. There was something unfair about it—about the way a man could sound dangerous and beautiful at the same time.
I tried to focus on the book open in my lap instead.
Reading had always helped when my anxiety got too loud. Ever since I was little, stories had been the easiest way to disappear for a while—to slip into someone else’s life long enough to quiet my own thoughts. But tonight, the words blurred together no matter how many times I reread the same paragraph.
I was too overstimulated.
Too aware of the massive penthouse around me. Too aware of Lorenzo behind closed doors. Too aware of how quickly mylife had spiraled into something that still felt a fantasy and a terrible decision all in one.
Another sharp sentence in Italian carried faintly down the hallway, followed by silence heavy enough to make my chest tighten.
With a soft sigh, I closed the book shut over my finger and slumped deeper into the couch just as my phone buzzed in my hand again.
Marcus
So… Mrs. Billionaire.
How’s married life?
