I wake tangled in Marco’s sheets, my body aching in places that remind me of last night’s weakness. His arm rests heavy across my waist, possessive even in sleep. I find myself studying the sweep of his dark lashes against his cheeks, the small scar above his eyebrow, the stubble darkening his jaw—memorizing him just as he memorized me last night.
Shame and desire war within me. I hate myself for giving in so completely, for craving his touch even as questions about my family hang between us like ghosts. I close my eyes, but that only brings back vivid images from last night.
The way his hands gripped my hips in his office, the cool surface of his desk beneath my heated skin. My father’s folder forgotten on the floor as Marco claimed me with a desperate hunger that matched my own. I remember how he carried me upstairs afterward, both of us barely dressed, how he laid me on his bed with such tenderness before sliding into bed beside me.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered against my neck—and God help me, I said yes.
We’d made love again in this bed, slower this time, my legs wrapped around his waist, his eyes never leaving mine.
Marco shifts beside me, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me closer to his chest. His warmth envelops me, and I curl into him without thinking—like a flower turning toward the sun.
My body recognizes its home before my mind can summon all the reasons I should pull away.
And that’s when the truth hits me with the force of a physical blow.
I’m in love with him.
The realization slams into me—violent, inescapable.
I freeze against his sleeping form, breath lodged between denial and despair.
I’m in love with the man who holds me like I’m something sacred… but withholds the one truth that’s been rotting in the silence between us.
I’m in love with someone I can’t trust.
And that truth carves me open.
Betrayal and longing twist through me like jagged glass, tearing along every fault line I thought I’d buried.
Each heartbeat is a wound.
Each breath, a battle between the ache I feel… and the truth I can’t unlearn.
When did it happen? When did this arrangement—this fragile, strategic union—become something that makes my chest ache with wanting?
Maybe it started the night he didn’t raise a hand against Chiara, simply because I asked him not to. Maybe it grew in the quiet moments since—the way he remembers how I take my coffee, the soft brush of his fingers when he thinks I’m not looking.
Not in grand declarations, but in the smallest mercies. The ones I never asked for—but started needing all the same.
He’s gruff and dangerous and secretive, yes. But he’s also protective and passionate and infuriatingly complex.
That’s the true betrayal—not just that I gave my body to him so readily last night, but that I’ve given him pieces of my heart when he still holds so many secrets. I’ve fallen in love with a man, perhaps without even knowing who he is.
His breathing changes, becoming shallower, and I know he’s waking up. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, featherlight touches that send shivers down my spine.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I turn to find him watching me, those green eyes intent on my face as if searching for regrets.
“Morning,” I whisper, unable to summon anything more eloquent.
His lips curve into a smile that transforms his entire face, making him look younger, almost carefree. It’s a rare expression that I’ve seen only a handful of times.
“No regrets?” he asks, his finger now tracing the outline of my lips.
I should say yes. I should tell him I regret every moment of weakness, every kiss, every touch. Instead, I find myself shaking my head.
“No regrets,” I lie, because the truth is too complicated to voice. I regret not the pleasure, but the trust I’ve given so easily despite the secrets between us.
Relief flashes across his face. He presses a kiss to my forehead, then rolls out of bed in one fluid motion.
“I need to shower,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, giving me a full view of his muscled back.
God, he’s gorgeous.
“Join me?” he offers, glancing back with a wicked gleam in his eye that makes my body respond traitorously.
“I’ll wait my turn,” I say lazily, cuddling back into the bed. I don’t want to leave just yet, wanting to savor his warmth and smell still beside me on the sheets.
He nods and disappears into the bathroom.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a text notification. Chiara. A tendril of guilt snakes through me. I’ve been so caught up in Marco that I haven’t checked in with my sister since our last meeting.
I reach for the phone, swiping open her message.
Need to see you NOW. I have proof. The people I paid came through. Salvatore Bianchi ordered the hit on our parents. The Bianchi family massacred the DeLucas. Your husband’s father killed our parents, Aria.
The phone slips from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor. The room spins around me as the words echo in my head. Salvatore Bianchi. Marco’s father. The man whose voice I heard outside Marco’s office, talking about finding “them.”
Hunting us.
I scramble for my phone, fingers trembling as I unlock it again to reread the message, praying I misunderstood. But the words remain unchanged, brutal in their clarity.
Bile rises in my throat. Marco’s father killed my parents. And Marco…
Marco knew. He must have known. All this time, while I shared his bed, while I opened myself to him in every way possible, he knew who I was—what his family has done to mine.
Last night makes horrible sense now. His desperate need to distract me from that folder. The way he fucked me senseless rather than give me answers.
I press a hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to scream or vomit or both. The shower stops running, and panic seizes me. What do I do? How do I face him now?
I force myself to breathe, to gather the shattered pieces of my composure. I need to hear him say it. Need to see his face when I confront him with the truth.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam and the scent of Marco’s soap. He emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets clinging to his chest hair, his wet hair slicked back from his forehead. Any other morning, the sight would have sent desire coursing through me. Now, I feel nothing but cold fury.
“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, his eyes narrowing as he takes in my rigid posture, the phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip.
“Your father killed my parents,” I say, the words falling like stones between us.
Marco freezes, one hand still gripping the towel at his waist. His face pales, but there’s no shock there—only resignation and a deep, terrible sadness that confirms my worst fears.
“You knew,” I whisper, and it’s not a question. “All this time, you knew who I was, what your family did to mine. You married me knowing I was a DeLuca.”
He takes a step toward me, hand extended. “Aria. I didn’t know when I made the proposal, I swear. I knew you by your adopted name. I didn’t know until the wedding day and—”
“Don’t!” I jerk away from him, scrambling off the bed, suddenly desperate to put distance between us. “Don’t touch me.”
“Please,” he says, and there’s raw anguish in his voice that pierces through my anger for just a moment. “Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” I spit, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly aware of my nakedness, feeling exposed in every possible way. “Explain how you’ve been lying to me since the day we met? How you took me into your bed knowing your father murdered mine?”
“I didn’t know at first,” he says quietly. “I swear to you, Aria. I thought you were just Chiara’s sister, caught in her debt. It wasn’t until the day of the wedding that I discovered who you really were.”
“And then what?” I demand, tears burning behind my eyes. “You decided to keep me in the dark? To fuck me into submission whenever I got too close to the truth?”
He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “That’s not—last night wasn’t about distraction.”
“Wasn’t it?” I laugh, a harsh, broken sound that scrapes my throat. “You had me bent over the same desk where you keep files on my murdered father. Tell me that wasn’t deliberate, Marco.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he insists, and I see desperation in his eyes now. “Yes, I wanted to keep you from the folder. But not because I was using sex to manipulate you. Because I knew once you learned the truth, you’d look at me exactly like you’re looking at me now. Like I’m a monster.”
“What did you expect?” My voice breaks on the question. “Your father slaughtered my family. And you protected him. You chose him over me.”
“I was trying to protect you!” he shouts, the composure he usually maintains fracturing before my eyes. “My father is hunting the DeLuca heirs now. He doesn’t know it’s you—yet. But if he finds out, if anyone finds out…”
His phone rings, cutting through the tension between us. He ignores it at first, his eyes never leaving mine, but it keeps ringing, persistent and shrill.
“Answer it,” I say coldly. “It might be Daddy calling for a progress report on the hunt.”
Pain flashes across Marco’s face, but he reaches for the phone, glancing at the screen. His expression shifts instantly to one of alarm.
“I have to take this,” he says, already accepting the call. “Nicolo, what’s happening?” He listens, his face growing grimmer by the second. “I’ll be right there. Twenty minutes.”
He ends the call, turning back to me with conflict written across his features. “There’s an emergency at the docks. One of our shipments—it’s complicated. I have to go.”
“By all means,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Don’t let me keep you from your family business.”
“Aria,” he says, and my name sounds like a prayer on his lips. “We need to talk about this. About us. About what happens next. But I have to handle this first. Promise me you’ll let me explain everything when I’m back.”
I look at him—this man I’ve foolishly given my heart to, this son of my family’s murderer—and feel nothing but a hollow ache where my rage burned moments ago.
I nod, the motion small, uncertain. The words stay trapped in my throat, too bitter to speak. I can’t promise him anything—not without breaking both of us.
Relief floods his expression. He crosses to me in two quick strides, and before I can react, his hands are cupping my face, his forehead pressed against mine.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers. “Everything I’ve done since I learned the truth has been to keep you safe. To keep you with me. I—” He stops, swallows hard. “I want you to believe me. When I get back, I’ll tell you everything.”
He presses a desperate kiss to my lips, then releases me and strides into his closet to dress.
I stand there, frozen, until I hear him leave, the bedroom door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds like finality.
The moment I’m alone, the tears I’ve been holding back spill over, trailing hot paths down my cheeks. I sink to the floor, my legs no longer able to support me, and allow myself exactly two minutes of silent sobbing.
Then I wipe my face, stand up, and start packing.
I won’t be here when Marco returns. I can’t be. I can’t listen to any more of his lies. Every moment in this house, surrounded by reminders of the man I love and loathe in equal measure, feels like drowning.
I need space to breathe, to think, to decide what comes next. I need my sister. I need the truth, not the sanitized version Marco will surely try to present.
Most of all, I need to reclaim who I am.
Aria DeLuca, daughter of Emilio and Sofia.
Not Aria Bianchi, wife of their enemy’s son.
As I zip the bag closed, my eyes fall on the photo frame beside our—Marco’s—bed. The only picture I have of my parents, the one the orphanage gave us. I pick it up, studying their smiling faces with new understanding.
They weren’t just any couple who died tragically. They were Emilio and Sofia DeLuca. They were murdered by Salvatore Bianchi. And their daughter married their killer’s son.
I tuck the photo into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door. No note. No explanation. Just the emptiness Marco will find when he returns, searching for a wife who is no longer his.
As I slip out of the mansion, avoiding the security guards and cameras, I feel something breaking inside me. The pain is exquisite, like glass shards tearing through tissue.
I loved him. Despite everything, I loved him.
But love isn’t enough when it’s built on lies and the blood of my family.
