Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Lorenzo
Four days.
Ninety-six hours of watching Zara walk past me as if I were a stranger.
Ninety-six hours of lying in my own bed with my hand wrapped around my cock, stroking myself to the memory of her.
To the sound of her moans.
To the way she’d clenched around me in that bathroom, her body betraying every word she wouldn’t say.
And then I’d lain there, covered in my own release, feeling like a fucking teenager who couldn’t control himself.
Every night, I’d hear her moving around in her room. I’d imagine her in my oversized t-shirt that I’d left in her closet—the one I’d deliberately placed there, hoping she’d wear. I’d picture her hair spread across my pillow, her lips parted, her hand sliding between her thighs.
Did she touch herself?
Did she think of me when she did?
The thought made me harder than it should have. Made me hate myself more than I already did.
But I couldn’t stop.
I’d wake up hard, my sheets tangled, my mind filled with images of her. And then I’d see her at breakfast, sitting across the table, eyes fixed anywhere but mine, and I’d want to grab her. Pull her into my lap. Make her feel what she did to me.
But I didn’t.
I let her have her space.
I let her pretend I didn’t exist.
Because that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? That’s what she’d said—“I’m not your property, Lorenzo”. And I’d proved her wrong. I’d grabbed her in a public bathroom and fucked her like I was staking a claim.
I’d told her I owned her.
And she’d come, anyway.
That was the part that kept me up at night. The part that drove me crazy. She’d pushed against me, but she’d also pulled me deeper.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t know what to do with her.
And now, days later, I was standing in front of the mirror, adjusting my bow tie, preparing to take her to a gala where she’d have to play the role of my loving wife.
I didn’t know whether she’d do it.
I didn’t know if she’d even come out of her room.
But then I heard her door open.
And I turned around.
And the air left my lungs as if I’d been punched.
She was wearing a black dress that followed every line of her body, dark and liquid, catching the light. The back was bare, all the way down, showing the long line of her spine, the subtle dip of her waist, the gentle curve of her hips.
Her hair was up. Dark curls pinned in some intricate style that left her neck bare. A single strand brushed against her cheek, and I wanted to tuck it behind her ear. More than that, I wanted to press my lips to that spot just below her jaw where I knew she was sensitive.
She looked like a queen.
My Queen.
“Ready?” she asked, her voice cool, distant. Like we were strangers going to a business meeting.
I wanted to tell her that she was beautiful. I wanted to tell her I’d never seen anything more stunning in my entire existence. I wanted to drop to my knees and beg her to look at me the way she had in that bathroom.
Instead, I nodded.
“Ready.”
The gala was at the Ritz-Carlton, a ballroom filled with crystal chandeliers and champagne towers and the kind of people who’d known my family for generations.
The kind of people who’d watched me grow up, who’d whispered about my rebellions, who’d expected me to marry some debutante with a trust fund and a pedigree.
Instead, I’d married her.
And walking into that room with Zara on my arm was the single most satisfying moment of my entire life.
She played the part perfectly.
She smiled when I introduced her. She laughed at the right moments. She placed her hand on my chest, looked up at me with those dark brown eyes, and made everyone in that room believe we were madly in love.
I watched her work the room like she’d been born to it. Like she’d spent her whole life preparing for this moment. She charmed the old women, impressed the businessmen, and made the other wives jealous with nothing more than a glance.
I was in awe.
I was also so fucking hard.
This woman had me completely, utterly ruined.
That was until my father, the cock-block that he was, came up behind me while I was getting a drink, his hand landing on my shoulder with that familiar, heavy weight.
“Son.”
“Father,” I replied, coldly.
We stood side by side, not looking at each other, the way we’d done for thirty-seven years.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” he said, his voice flat. “But I hope you know that’s not enough. A pretty face won’t run a household or manage the family’s reputation.”
I felt my jaw tighten as my hand clenched around my glass.
“She’s not just a pretty face.”
“Isn’t she? What does she do, Lorenzo? Decorate your penthouse? Spend your money?”
I turned to face him, and I saw the challenge in his eyes. The same challenge he’d been throwing at me my entire life. Prove me wrong. Show me you’re not a disappointment.
And for the first time, I didn’t flinch.
“She’s the reason I’m here tonight, smiling at strangers, pretending I care about their opinions. She’s the reason I’m not in a bar somewhere, drinking myself into oblivion.”
I paused, meeting his eyes.
“She’s not just a pretty face. She’s the only good thing in my life. And if you ever disrespect her again—ever look at her like she’s beneath you—I will walk away from everything. The family. The money. The name. All of it.”
The silence stretched as I watched my father process what I had just said, the line I had drown around my wife. And then, slowly, my father’s expression shifted.
“I’m proud of you, boy,” he said as he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder.
I blinked. “What?”
“I said I’m proud of you.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then let go. “You finally found something worth fighting for.”
And then he walked away.
I stood there, frozen, my drink forgotten in my hand.
It was the first time he’d ever said those words to me.
And somehow I had Zara to thank for it.
I found her by the terrace doors, staring out at the city lights, already planning her escape.
“What are you doing out here, Tesoro?”
She turned, and for a moment, her mask slipped. I saw exhaustion in her eyes. Sadness. The same brokenness I’d seen the night we met.
“Your father left,” she said. “He said goodbye to me, but he was kind, I think…”
“He said he was proud of me.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Because of you.”
She looked away, a muscle twitching in her jaw. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did everything.”
I stepped closer, close enough to smell her perfume. Something floral and soft, completely at odds with the woman wearing it.
“Dance with me.”
She looked at me, and for a second, I thought she’d refuse. But then she placed her hand in mine, and allowed me to lead her to the dance floor.
The band was playing something slow. A Sinatra song, maybe. I didn’t care. All I cared about was the warmth of her palm against mine, the gentle pressure of her hand on my shoulder.
“I’m glad you came tonight. You look amazing. But it feels like you’re trying to get me in trouble, forcing me to watch as all these men lay eyes on my wife.”
She didn’t respond, just looked at me puzzled, like she was trying to sort through my words. We swayed in silence for a long moment before she finally spoke. “You can’t say things like that. You don’t even know me, Lorenzo.”
“I know you better than you think.”
“No,” she shook her head, her eyes fixed on my bow tie. “You know my body. You know how I sound when I come. But you don’t know me.”
I pulled her closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back.“Then tell me.”
“What?”
“Tell me about yourself.” I looked down at her, willing her to meet my eyes. “What’s your favorite color?”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Blue. Like the ocean.”
“Favorite food?”
“Mac and cheese. The cheap kind from a box.”
“Favorite memory?”
She looked up at me then, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes.
“Why are you crying, Mia Moglie?” I asked, carefully catching the tear as it fell down her cheek.
“You keep calling me that. What does it mean? Some Italian curse word or something?”
“No.” A deep laugh pulled from my throat. “It means my wife.”
I saw her eyes soften for a moment before the walls slammed back into place.
“It’s too late, Lorenzo. You can’t just… ask me questions and pretend you care. We’re married, and you don’t even know the basics.”
“I know, I’ve been an asshole.”
“Yes.”
“I know I’ve treated you like a possession instead of a person.”
“Yes, that too,” she quipped.
“I know I dragged you into that bathroom and fucked you because I couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching you.”
She swallowed. “You did.”
“And I know I’d do it again.” I held her gaze. “Not because I want to control you. But because the thought of losing you—of you walking away—makes me feel like I’m drowning.”
Her lips parted.
“I’m not good at this,” I continued, my voice rough. “I’m not good at feelings or words or any of it. But I’m good at wanting you. And I want to be better for you.”
I stopped swaying.
“Give me two weeks.”
“What?”
“Two weeks. Let me show you who I am. Let me earn the right to know you.” I continued.
“I want to do this differently, Zara. I want to talk to you, actually talk—learn what you love, what scares you, what makes you laugh. I want to show you the real me. No games. No lies. I’ll prove I can be someone you trust, not just someone you tolerate. ”
She stared at me, her expression unreadable.
“And if I still don’t like you after that?”
I felt my chest tighten. The thought of her leaving—the thought of waking up without her in the penthouse—made me want to break something.
“Then you can go,” I said. “With everything. The education. The money. I won’t stop you.”
I let the lie fall from my lips.
Because I knew the truth.
I knew she wasn’t going anywhere.
I wouldn’t allow it.
She was mine.
And I was going to prove it to her—one question, one dance, one night at a time.