Chapter 102
I stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Did he forget this was a contract marriage?
“Mr. Ferrari,” I said, smoothing the rich fabric of my gown, “you and I are entering a contractual agreement. It lasts a week. That’s all. This isn’t some fairytale, and I’m not about to revolve around anyone. So, you can drop the ego.”
The marble-and-glass walls of the elevator mirrored our silhouettes—his sharp and composed, mine tense and rooted to the floor. He didn’t respond. He just stared straight ahead, the curve of his jaw sharp in the polished reflection. But I could feel his gaze, invisible and heavy, pressing against my skin.
Finally, he spoke. “And what makes you so sure this will be one of New York’s shortest marriages?”
A dry laugh slipped out of me. “Because I live here. I read the headlines. I see the news—scandal after scandal. People marrying for politics, for money, for show. They crash and burn before the honeymoon ends.”
I’d always loathed those stories. Arranged marriages between people who couldn’t even stand the sight of each other, all to make their rich, image-obsessed families happy. It made my skin crawl. And now here I was—signing my name on the dotted line of a script I’d sworn I’d never act out.
But I was doing it on my terms. For my family. For our future.
One week. One deal. One outrageous man.
And after that, I’d Walk away with no regrets—and a mortgage-free brownstone where my siblings could finally sleep under the same roof. That was worth every smug look. Every passive-aggressive jab. Every cruel whisper from a man who’d once known the curve of my body better than I knew it myself.
“You really do know a lot, don’t you, Miss Isabella?” he murmured, something like amusement threading through his voice. “I never figured you were this smart.”
I turned to look at him, surprised by the soft edge in his tone—and then he chuckled. For a breath, I almost smiled even if he was laughing at my expense.
Until he said, “Why did you change your hair color?”
The air stilled.
“You look… familiar,” he added, voice lower now. “You smell familiar.”
He stepped closer, and suddenly, the elevator felt smaller. Warmer. My heart picked up speed. His presence curled around me like a scent I hadn’t worn in years but somehow never forgot.
Then—ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
I stepped out without waiting, heels tapping sharply against the polished floor as I turned right and followed the curve of a quiet hallway. It was eerily empty. Like we were the only ones on this entire floor.
Then I heard him.
“Stop. Isabella—don’t move another inch.”
My whole body froze.
His voice was a low, firm command. Not a suggestion. Not a plea. A command that scraped through my chest and settled low in my belly. Rational, new independent me wanted to roll her eyes and keep walking—but the other part of me, the part he’d once awakened in dark rooms and locked bedrooms, obeyed before I could think twice.
I turned around slowly.
He stood at the far end of the hallway, the sunlight from a nearby window throwing a golden edge over his cheekbones. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes—burned.
He began to walk toward me, slow and deliberate, like a storm on legs. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Every nerve in my body fired with anticipation.
When he stopped in front of me, his hand reached up to my face and gently cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed across my skin, and I felt the world tilt slightly. I hated how fast desire leapt to the surface, heating me from the inside out.
“You’re a good girl,” he said softly. Not mockingly. Just… acknowledging.
And damn him for knowing exactly what that did to me.
Then the spell broke.
“Where the hell were you going?” he asked, his thumb still stroking my cheek. “You don’t even know this place.”
The tension shattered, just enough for me to catch my breath.
Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and started walking down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Better follow me.”
I did.
Because despite everything—the contract, the rules, the walls I’d built around my heart—I still followed him.
And I hated how easy it was.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
