Chapter 104

LEVI
I cannot, for the life of me, believe how infuriating this woman is—and how goddamn beautiful at the same time. It’s maddening. I clenched my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to pace the room or worse—resisting the darker thoughts that flickered across my mind like sparks on dry grass. I wanted to punish her. Not in a way she could walk away from easily. I wanted to make her scream, to beg, to unravel in my hands.
From the first moment I saw her at the club, something in me stirred—something I thought I’d buried years ago. Lust, sure. But also longing. And rage. And…
That night, her round, heart-shaped ass had imprinted itself on my memory like a brand. I’d sat there, jaw clenched, wondering what the hell she was doing waiting tables. She didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong in that dim-lit pit, surrounded by drunk, leering men who looked at her like she was something to be claimed. Something to be devoured.
It offended me—how they stared at her. And I barely even knew her then.
Now, I can’t stop this gnawing feeling that I’ve known her before. There’s something about her—something familiar in the way she moved, the way she carried herself with this untouchable air, even when her clothes screamed struggle. When she stepped out of that car, her hair no longer blonde but a rich, earthy brown, it hit me. Like déjà vu in the worst way. She looked like a ghost from a dream I didn’t remember having but somehow couldn’t forget.
And the way she smelled? Jesus. It was driving me insane. Like summer rain and sin.
She didn’t even need the polish I’d planned to slap on her before presenting her to my father. She had elegance—real elegance—buried under the weight of bad luck and broken dreams. All I had to do was give her a name. A place. But I couldn’t do that if she kept holding back. There was a wall between us—a damn bridge we hadn’t crossed. She looked at me that day like she knew me. Like maybe she’d once cared. Now, it was like she hated me. I needed to figure her out.
Too bad this farce would be over in a year.
Still, I had her now. That was enough to keep me grounded—for the moment.
Our marriage wasn’t meant to involve intimacy—not according to the contract—but I wanted it. I wanted her. She’d signed, hadn’t she? Without reading. Without asking. She claimed she knew what she was signing, but clearly, we weren’t on the same page.
I exhaled slowly, mentally counting down the days I’d have to endure this woman. A whole damn year. God, what the hell was I thinking? A week would’ve been more than enough. A one-week marriage sounded like bliss compared to this slow-burn torment.
Isabella’s hand went back to her hair again, fluffing it like that would save her from whatever storm she knew I was brewing. I watched her closely, irritation flickering to full-on fury. She was making this harder. And not just in the metaphorical sense.
I needed answers. Information. My father wasn’t stupid—he’d ask the kind of questions that sound like harmless curiosity but were really traps designed to expose lies. Favorite songs. Childhood memories. Hobbies. Pet peeves. I needed something to work with.
But it wasn’t just about convincing my father anymore. I wanted to know her. The real her. At first, I didn’t give a damn who she was. Her past, her family, her pain—none of it mattered. But now? Now I needed to see beneath her skin. If she wanted to play hard, then fine. We could play hard.
She leaned back in her chair like she was enjoying herself, like every flicker of frustration on my face gave her some sick thrill. It was my turn now.
I clenched my jaw. Then, deliberately calm, I asked, “What do you do for fun besides waiting tables?”
The grimace she threw at me nearly made me laugh. Almost.
“Don’t be ridiculous; it doesn’t suit you,” she snapped. “I don’t wait tables for fun. There is nothing remotely fun about waiting tables. I do it for the money.”
The force in her voice hit me hard. Not the first time she’d raised her voice at me—and definitely wouldn’t be the last. Hell, the first words she’d ever spoken to me were rude.
No one yells at me. Not even my father—not anymore. And now she’s tempting me. Testing me. Poking the bear with her delicate little fingers like she doesn’t know what she’s waking up.
I kept my expression carefully neutral. Cold. Controlled.
“What then do you do for fun,” I asked, “since waiting tables isn’t part of your hobbies?”
She looked at me like she was trying to figure me out—trying to see if I was amused, annoyed, or just disgusted to share space with her. I gave her nothing. My face a blank slate. Let her wonder. Let her guess.
“Well,” she said with that same careless attitude that pissed me off even more, “I sing. And… I make up PR statements in my head.”
That made me pause. I wanted to ask what kind of PR statements—but she cut in too fast, not giving me the chance.
“What about you?” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “It’s only fair that I know what *you* do for fun… besides hiring people to marry you on contract—seeing as you clearly can’t get a woman to marry you of her own free will.”
The blow landed straight in my pride. Sharp and smug.
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.
God, she knew exactly how to hurt me.
I inhaled sharply. Breathe. Just breathe.