13. Aria
ARIA
T he 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.