Chapter 92

The realization hit me then—cold and unwelcome. I was really entering into a contractual marriage with Levi, and I still felt numb about it. It was a detail I’d carefully hidden from my siblings. I had painted them a pretty little lie: a shiny new job at a promising shipping company, an overly generous CEO giving me a “late start.” They believed it because they wanted to and because we really did need the money.
I hated that this was how we would get married when, a few years ago, he was on his knees promising me the best life I could have. My siblings knew bits of what had happened, and they knew Levi, but hopefully, they wouldn’t put it together until the wedding day. But how could that happen when the name Ferrari was very popular? Only a search and it would be out there.
I told myself at first I could keep the truth buried. But now...
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
I prayed they wouldn’t figure it out. I wasn’t sure if I could survive the shame if they did.
I had nothing left to say to him.
He’d destroyed my car; if he wanted to replace it, fine.
“Once I introduce you to my father,” Levi said, shifting gears with terrifying ease, “you won’t need to go out much or do many unnecessary things. People will handle everything for you.”
Panic scratched up my throat. Mr. Antonio.
He’d recognize me.
He’d remember exactly who I was and what had happened.
I needed a plan. No—I needed fifty plans.
“Is it necessary for me to meet your parents?” I asked, my voice thin, my fingers curling into fists against my lap.
“We could skip that part for now if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said carelessly, brushing off my question like it was dust on his expensive sleeves.
“I’m sure I don’t want to meet your parents till the wedding,” I pressed, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. “This is supposed to be a job. Remember?”
He shrugged. “That can be discussed later. First, we meet with my lawyer. We can’t proceed without formalizing the agreement. If all goes well, we’ll be married by next week.”
Next week.
The words slammed into me like a speeding car.
My mind spun. Plans. I needed a plan. What do I do first? What do I—
“What are you thinking about?” Levi asked suddenly, slicing through my panic.
He was watching me.
Not with kindness, but with a cold kind of assessment, like a general studying a battlefield.
“My mind wanders sometimes,” I said defensively.
He smirked—a dangerous, amused curve of his mouth that made my stomach drop. “You should keep your mind from wandering when you’re with me. It’ll save you a lot of trouble. I expect your full attention. Especially so you know when I’ve already answered the questions you’re itching to ask.”
Once, a long time ago, I had hated him for that exact arrogance.
He used to bury me in work when I was just another new intern in the company, and I remember complaining all the time.
Now, somehow, I was supposed to be his wife. Contractually. Publicly.
Emotionally?
I had no damn clue what I felt again.
I swallowed hard, willing my heart to settle. I should have brought my anxiety meds.
Levi parked outside a pristine, mirrored building. The law firm gleamed like a threat in the streetlight lamp shadows.
As we stepped out, the sleek heat of the car evaporated, replaced by a crisp bite in the air. Levi’s hand brushed against mine briefly—an accident—but even that fleeting contact sent a bolt of electricity up my spine.
He didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care.
He kept walking, brisk and unbothered. I had to scramble to keep up.
“Why do you look so nervous?” he asked as we crossed the glossy marble floor toward the elevators.
“Because this is my first time being a contract wife,” I muttered under my breath, cheeks burning.
“You’re not a contract wife yet until the contract is signed.” His tone was flat, disinterested. As if my fear was nothing but background noise.
“Look,” he continued, tone sharpening, “I’m paying you to do whatever it is you’re doing—”
“You mean marry you,” I cut in sharply.
He turned to me, eyes flashing. “Don’t interrupt me.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing the retort back down. Then I exhaled. I am only trying to be nice now, but after the contract is signed, I will make sure he doesn’t speak like that to me again without an appropriate reply.
“Yes,” he said tightly. “I’m paying you. Which means you need to get yourself together. No emotions. No theatrics. Especially not until we’re standing at the altar.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked, voice rising.
“It means,” he said coldly, “brides only cry tears of joy when they say their vows. You’ll fake it if you have to. Understand?”
I stared at him, disbelieving. “You want me to pretend to be overwhelmed with happiness on our wedding day?”
“Exactly.” His gaze was hard enough to crack stone. “And don’t you dare make it look staged. My father would notice. He despises anything fake.”
I almost laughed—bitter and breathless. “Funny, coming from you. Didn’t think you cared what your parents thought?”
“Enough.” His voice cracked like a whip. “And stop changing my words from Father to parents hoping to drag out information about my mother. You won’t get any.”
Caught.
My cheeks flamed with humiliation. But somewhere underneath it all, a tiny spark of triumph flickered. He noticed. He cared enough to be angry. That was something, wasn’t it?
I didn’t answer. I just kept walking, matching his stride as we approached the lawyer’s office.
I was about to sign away my freedom to the man I’d once loved—and hated—and somehow still couldn’t seem to stop wanting.
And God help me,
I didn’t know if I was about to save my life…
or ruin it completely.