The house is too quiet. I stand at the living room window, staring out over Marco’s immaculate gardens. He told me I was free to explore, called it “ours” before leaving for work. But nothing about this place feels like mine. It feels like a gilded cage.
Marco knows the truth now. He knows I’m not Chiara. And yet, he wants to stay married. I don’t know what I was thinking when I walked down that aisle, but somewhere in my heart, I believed my future would be mine. Now, I realize, it’ll always include him, and I don’t know what to make of it.
The manicured gardens stretch out below, beautiful and impeccable, but I find it hard to see beauty in them. I keep twirling the unfamiliar ring on my finger, keep thinking of the punishment he delivered last night. I should have begged, should have said no, but the fact that I wanted it makes this situation even more terrifying.
We’re husband and wife now. What the hell does that mean for me? What does he expect? Love? Desire, he already won.
As the sun sets over the lawns, my stomach tightens. He’ll be home soon. What will he do? Yesterday, when he discovered I wasn’t Chiara, there had been a moment, just a flicker, when I thought he might kill me. His green eyes had turned to ice, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles straining. But then something shifted, and he didn’t lay a finger on me.
Not in the way I expected.
Marco Bianchi is truly a mystery to me, and that makes him, and this situation, harder to control.
Just then, I hear the front door. I hear heavy footsteps coming my way and straighten my spine, smooth down my dress, hoping to seem confident. It doesn’t work. My heart hammers against my ribs as the footsteps approach, and I turn to see him at the doorway.
“Marco,” I say, hating how my voice trembles. “How was your day?”
He doesn’t respond, and I reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. For some reason, I hate that I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror before he saw me.
He fills the doorway, tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit. His black hair falls over his forehead, slightly mussed as if he’s been running his hands through it. And he is angry. I can see it in the tight line of his mouth, in the controlled stillness of his body.
I try again. “I thought maybe we could talk about—”
He crosses the room in three long strides. I back up until I hit the window, the cool glass pressing against my shoulder blades. He doesn’t touch me, just leans down until his face is inches from mine.
“Why?” The single word drops between us like a stone.
I swallow hard. “I’ve already told you.”
His hand shoots out, fingers gripping my chin firmly but not painfully. “Don’t lie to me. Not anymore.” His voice is soft, which somehow makes it more terrifying. “Why did you pretend to be Chiara? Why did you agree to marry me in her place? Is there something you’re still not telling me?”
His presence scrambles my thoughts. I try to look away, but when he brushes his thumb against my chin, I gasp at the heat pooling inside me—and force myself to meet his gaze.
“The truth isn’t much different from what you know. She was afraid—terrified of you, of this arrangement.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe, or doubt. “And you weren’t?”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “I was. But Chiara… she’s always protected me. All our lives. It was my turn.”
He releases my chin, but doesn’t step back. “So you walked into the lion’s den for her. Brave. Stupid, but brave.”
I rub my chin, though he hadn’t hurt me.
“It was the right thing to do,” I insist.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he says, his eyes flickering between mine. “People don’t realize you exist, Aria. Chiara never let her debtors learn about you. Now, she’s run off, and very troublesome people have mistaken you for your sister. Which means, little liar, that you’ve put yourself in considerable danger.”
I hug myself, suddenly cold. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re an easy target. Marco Bianchi’s wife.” His lips curl around the word wife like he enjoys the sound of it. “Do you have any idea what that means in my world?”
I shake my head, a queasy feeling spreading through my stomach.
“It means there are people who would hurt you to get to me. Enemies of mine. There are people who hate your sister and have wrongfully assumed you’re her. You’re in danger all around.” He now grips my shoulders. “Why would you put yourself in that position? For a sister who was willing to sacrifice you?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, though a small voice in my head wonders if it was exactly like that. “And you don’t know anything about us.”
“Then tell me.”
The command hangs in the air between us. I study his face, trying to read his intentions.
Those deep green eyes reveal nothing.
“Why should I trust you with anything?”
He shrugs one broad shoulder. “Because I’m the only one who can protect you now, and I can’t do my job without knowing everything. You need to tell me why you’d do this for her. What’s she holding over you?”
The worst part is, I know he’s right. I close my eyes briefly, feeling worn thin by secrets and fear.
“Our parents died when we were babies,” I start, the words coming slowly at first. “No other family wanted us. We bounced around the foster system. Some homes were okay. Most weren’t.”
Marco says nothing, just watches me with those unreadable eyes.
“Chiara was always the strong one. When foster parents would…” I swallow hard, the memory tightening in my throat. “When they got violent, she’d put herself between them and me. She took the beatings that were meant for me—every bruise, every scar—so I wouldn’t have to.”
My voice cracks, and I’m surprised to feel wetness on my cheeks. I dash away the tears impatiently.
“We promised each other we’d always stick together. That we’d do whatever it took to protect each other.” I meet his gaze defiantly. “So yes, when she called me terrified about the deal she made, I offered to take her place. I didn’t think twice.”
Marco is still. For a moment, I think I see something like respect in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
“If you’d told me the truth from the beginning,” he says finally, “I could have protected both of you.”
I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, maybe I should’ve started with, ‘Hi, I’m actually Aria, not Chiara—so please don’t kill us.’”
“Yes.” His voice is deadly serious.
“You don’t seriously believe that,” I argue. “Chiara was petrified of you. Of your power. You weren’t exactly a comforting shoulder for her, were you? We thought there would be consequences.”
His mouth quirks in one corner, not quite a smile. “And yet, here you stand. Unharmed, despite your deception.”
The observation hangs between us. He’s right—he hasn’t hurt me, even after discovering I’m not the woman he arranged to marry. I don’t understand why, and that uncertainty is its own kind of fear.
“And now your lies have consequences. D’Angelo knows something is off. He’s been watching too closely.”
“D’Angelo?” My voice squeaks with fear.
Marco steps closer. “Yes. The man who sent those thugs to your house. The man your sister owed money to. He believes I interfered by taking away his little plaything, and he’s furious. He’s not a man you want attention from.”
I press myself against the window, wishing I could melt through it.
“That trick of yours endangered more than your sister—it put both of you at risk. D’Angelo will use any weakness against me, and you’ve just handed him one gift-wrapped.”
“What happens now?” I whisper.
Marco’s hand shoots out so quickly that I don’t have time to flinch. His fingers wrap around my throat, not squeezing, just holding me in place. His thumb traces my jawline in a gesture that could almost be tender.
“You should have come to me, Aria,” he says, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “Do you want to pay the price for that?”
In one swift, violent motion, he spins me around and pins me to the wall beside the window. The sudden movement knocks the breath from my lungs. He steps behind me, crowding me against the wall—but doesn’t touch until I lean back into him.
I should shove him away. But instead, I melt. What’s wrong with me?
“You thought you could play games with me?” His lips brush against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “With a Bianchi?”
I feel a flush of heat between my legs. What’s happening to me? This man literally forced me to marry him, and my body is responding with… desire?
“I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“Are you?” His hand slides from my hip to my stomach, fingers splaying wide. “I don’t think you are. Not yet.”
He turns me to face him again, his movements controlled and deliberate. Up close, I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the perfect fullness of his lower lip. Over a decade my senior, but there’s not a line on his face that doesn’t add to his dangerous allure.
“If you’re sorry, show me,” he says, stepping back.
My mouth goes dry.
“You heard me.” His voice is cold, but his eyes burn.
Something in me should be confused, should wonder how I could possibly show him I’m sorry when all I have are words. But instead, a dark thrill shoots through me. My fingers tremble as they move to the top button of my blouse.
I watch his eyes widen, ever so slightly, his gaze steamy as it travels to wherever my fingers are.
I unbutton my blouse slowly, revealing the simple white bra beneath. Marco watches, and I can feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch. I shrug the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
My skirt follows, pooling around my ankles. Standing before him in just my underwear, I feel exposed in more ways than one. Vulnerable. And yet, strangely powerful too, seeing the way his eyes darken as they sweep over my body.
“The rest,” he says, his voice rougher now.
I reach behind to unclasp my bra, letting it fall away. My nipples harden in the cool air—or maybe from his unwavering stare. With one last moment, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of my panties and slide them down my legs, stepping out of them.
I stand straight, shoulders back, and meet his gaze defiantly.
“Does this show you how sorry I am?” I whisper, tracing a slow line from my collarbone down to the apex of my thighs.
“Tell me to stop, Aria. Tell me not to picture you kneeling right in front of me. Tell me not to want you the way I do.”
“Don’t. I want you to want me.”
He groans, a low sound vibrating through him, a slow smile curling across his lips. “Kneel.”
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. Slowly, I sink to my knees on the hardwood floor, the surface cool against my bare skin.
Marco loosens his tie and then unbuttons his suit jacket, shrugging it off. He carefully drapes it over a nearby chair before turning back to me. His hand goes to his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness.
He doesn’t have to tell me what more he wants. I already know.
Hell, the shiver down my spine tells me—I want to render him powerless. He might think he’s controlling me, but I’m going to be the one to bring him to his knees.
I lick my lips nervously, then part them. He frees himself from his boxer briefs, his erection already hard. My stomach flutters with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation.
He steps closer, one hand resting on the back of my head.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my cheek. The praise shouldn’t affect me, but it does, sending a pulse of heat between my legs. “Take control, Aria. Make me forget how furious I am.”
I lean forward, wrapping my lips around him. He hisses in a breath as I take him deeper, the taste of him filling my mouth. His hand fists in my hair, guiding my movements.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You like this, don’t you? Being on your knees for me?”
I make a slight sound around him. He laughs softly, a dark sound that makes me clench with unexpected need.
“Fuck,” he says, thrusting deeper, making me gag slightly. “I can see how turned on you are. Your nipples are hard. Your cheeks are flushed.” He pulls back slightly, allowing me to breathe. “I bet if I touched you right now, you’d be wet.”
I squeeze my thighs together, embarrassed because he’s right. Despite everything, the threats, the power imbalance, the sheer wrongness of this situation, my body is responding to him with eager surrender.
Marco establishes a rhythm, moving in and out of my mouth, his hand firm on the back of my head. I hollow my cheeks, using my tongue along the underside of his shaft. His breathing grows heavier, his grip on my hair tightening.
I can feel him losing control. His hips jerk forward, a low groan escaping him as he hits the back of my throat. I can feel the tremor in his fingers digging into my scalp. He tries to stand still and remain in control, but his body fails him. The rhythm of his thrusts grows erratic, and his breath comes in ragged gasps.
“Fuck, Aria,” he growls, his eyes locked on mine. There’s a wildness in them now, a desperation that wasn’t there before. He’s not the calm, collected Marco anymore. He’s a man on the edge, and I’m the one pushing him there. I don’t know when the power shifted—but I feel it now, in the way his control unravels under my mouth.
And I like what I can reduce him to. Without thinking, I smile around his cock as I feel his cock begin to pulsate, thinking he might just finish this way.
He pulls away suddenly, his chest heaving. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, looking up at him with wide eyes. He stares down at me, his expression raw and hungry. “Not yet,” he pants, gripping my arms. “I want to feel all of you.”
My legs are shaky as I rise to my feet. He studies me for a long moment, then turns me around, pressing me face-first against the wall. The cool surface is a shock against my heated skin.
His hand slides around my waist, then lower, fingers finding the slick evidence of my arousal. I bite my lip to hold back a moan.
“Just as I thought,” he says into my ear, his fingers circling my entrance teasingly. “Soaking wet. Tell me, Aria, do you always get this excited when you learn you could be in danger?”
“No,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“No?” He pushes one finger inside me, making me gasp. “So it’s just around me then?”
He adds a second finger, curling them in a way that makes my knees buckle. His other arm wraps around my waist, holding me up as he continues his merciless exploration.
“Answer me,” he demands, his thumb finding my clit.
“Yes,” I choke out. “Just you.”
He makes a satisfied sound, increasing the pace of his fingers. “You lied about who you are, but your body can’t lie to me. It knows who it belongs to.”
I should protest this claim, but I can only press back against his hand, craving more friction. All I can do is hold back from screaming that I am his. I won’t say it unless he asks—I can’t, because it feels too close to the truth. His fingers press against me, driving me swiftly toward the edge.
“Not yet,” he says, reading my body. He withdraws his hand, leaving me empty and aching. “I’m not done with you.”
He spins me around again, lifting me effortlessly. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the nearby sofa. He sits, positioning me on his lap, his still-clothed chest against my naked breasts. The fabric of his shirt is rough against my sensitive nipples.
“Come take what you want,” he murmurs, sliding his hands down my ass as I straddle him. “Let me see how badly you need me.”
I sink down on him slowly, adjusting to his size. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that borders on pain but quickly transforms into pleasure. His hands grip my hips, helping me establish a rhythm.
“This is what happens,” he says through gritted teeth, “when you try to deceive me.” He thrusts up hard, making me cry out. “I find out everything.” Another thrust. “I take what’s mine.” And another. “And I make sure you never forget who’s in control.”
His words send jolts of dark pleasure through my body. I ride him faster, chasing the building pressure inside me. One of his hands slides between us, finding my clit again.
“You’re close,” he observes, his voice strained. “I can feel you tightening around me.”
I nod frantically, beyond words now. My thighs tremble with the effort of maintaining our pace.
“Not until I say,” he warns, slowing his thrusts deliberately. His fingers continue their maddening circles on my clit, keeping me on the edge without letting me fall over. “Look at me.”
I force my heavy eyelids open, meeting his intense gaze.
“Who do you belong to now?” he asks.
Part of me wants to resist, to make him push me harder, but I need to come—or I fear I’ll have to force myself free from this body. That’s how carnal he makes me.
“You,” I gasp. “I belong to you.”
His smile is predatory. “Say my name.”
“Marco,” I whisper.
“Louder.”
“Marco!” I cry out as he suddenly increases his pace again, driving into me with renewed force.
“Now you can come,” he permits, his thumb pressing harder against my clit.
The orgasm crashes over me with shocking intensity. I throw my head back, my inner muscles clenching around him as waves of pleasure pulse through my body. Through the haze, I feel him stiffen beneath me, his release following mine as he groans my name against my throat.
We stay like that for several minutes, my body draped over his, both of us breathing heavily. His hands, which had been so demanding, now stroke my back almost tenderly. He strokes my hair. “You okay?”
I nod against his chest. “Better than okay.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me for a beat too long, like there’s something else he wants to ask but can’t.
His jaw tightens, then he looks away.
He should feel triumphant after everything he just made me do. But something about the way he pulls back… makes it feel like a loss.
The contradiction confuses me almost as much as my own response to him.
I don’t know what I expected to feel—shame, maybe. Regret.
But all I feel is the echo of his hands on my skin and how my heart still races like he never let me go.
I should be scared. Maybe I still am. But it’s not fear that makes my knees weak now.
It’s something worse.
It’s the need to go to him if he calls.
