Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
VIOLA
Istand in front of the fogged-up mirror, hair dryer still purring in my hand, the warm air moving through the last damp strands until they fall soft and loose around my shoulders.
The sound cuts off when I switch it off, but the quiet that follows feels louder than the hum.
My mind is spinning, replaying every second of the last hour.
Gentle.
The word keeps circling, soft and strange.
I thought with this arrangement he was going to treat me like another piece of chattel that he’d snatched from Salvatore.
That I would belong to him, the new boss.
I figured Ricci would use me the same way Salvatore did—cold, distant, maybe even cruel once the doors closed and no one was watching.
That’s how I figured these things worked.
That’s how these marriages worked. Instead, he dried my hair like I was something fragile…
something precious. His fingers were almost reverent, and the whole time I just sat there on the counter, stunned, watching him, waiting for the moment it would change. He would change.
My body is still buzzing from what he did to me in the shower.
The way he touched me, held me, made me come apart, as if he had all the time in the world to learn every inch of me.
But even while I melted under his hands, part of me stayed braced.
Ready. Because that’s what you do when you’ve spent four years learning that softness is just a trick before the hurt starts.
I can’t understand him at all.
I set the dryer down on the counter. My chest feels strange, a mix of warmth and confusion that makes my breath come shallow.
He’s not at all what I expected. And that scares me more than anything.
Because if he keeps being like this—gentle, patient, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters—I know I’m going to fall.
Against every ounce of better judgment I have left, I’m going to warm to him.
If I am honest, my heart, traitor that it is, is already leaning in. I can’t let that happen. Not yet.
Not when I still don’t know what this really is.
I’m confused. Weak, even. I shake my head once, hard, like that might clear it, but of course it doesn’t.
With a sigh, I step out of the bathroom.
My legs still feel a little unsteady as I cross into the bedroom.
I have absolutely no idea what to do now.
Let this strange situation play out and see where it leads?
Or immediately wrestle back full control, keep my walls high?
My mind flips back and forth between the two options until I feel quite dizzy.
I head for the closet, still wrapped in the white robe, and pull the door open.
My breath catches a little. There are clothes inside.
Not many— a few simple things hanging neatly, but things I would have chosen myself.
My eyes land on the tags still attached to the clothes, and I frown.
Marrying me yesterday was one solution to my predicament, but how did he so perfectly guess my taste and preferred brands?
I find underwear and bras in the top drawer too—soft lace in neutral tones.
My fingers brush over them as I look for the size.
They’re a perfect fit. Exactly my size. The realization hits me slowly, like a secret he’d tucked away without saying a word.
He’s experienced enough to guess my size just by looking at me.
Heat creeps up my neck. I slip into them quickly, then something warmer curls in my chest. He knew I’d choose this room too.
How? The unsettling thought lingers as I pull a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt off the hangers.
The jeans hug my hips just right, and the t-shirt feels soft and a perfect fit.
I head downstairs barefoot, the polished wood cool under my feet.
The penthouse is so quiet it startles me.
No footsteps echoing from the kitchen, no low murmur of housekeepers moving through the halls, no clatter of breakfast being prepared.
In the old house it was never like this.
The place was always bustling: staff rushing around, Salvatore barking orders into his phone, his men moving about like silent ghosts dressed in black.
I never understood why he made me come down every morning and sit with me while he ate breakfast, when he ignored me the whole time anyway, phone glued to his ear, or snapping at his men.
Here… it’s lovely silence. Not even the faint hum of the city far below the windows is noticeable when all the windows are closed.
It feels peaceful. Lonely in a way that doesn’t hurt.
I look around, taking it in properly.
The place really is beautiful—dark, sleek tones of charcoal leather and deep wood, the kind of modern luxury that feels quietly expensive.
Except for the huge vase of white roses and lilies in the foyer.
It makes me smile before I can stop myself, a small but genuine curve of my lips.
I catch the feeling instantly—fondness, warm and creeping—and I shut it down fast.
No.
I say it out loud, soft under my breath, like that’ll make it stick. “No, Viola. Don’t be a fool. You’ll literally destroy yourself.”
Turning away from the bright sight, I move toward the kitchen; the marble is cold under my feet.
The fridge is stocked. A fresh fruit platter, organic eggs, fancy butter, jam, sausages, cured meats, caviar…
Everything someone would need to lay on an absolute feast. My stomach gives a little rumble as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I pull it out and check the screen. The message is from him.
Sorry, I forgot to make some arrangements for your breakfast. I usually have mine at the club. I’ll get someone over to help you out.
Panic flickers quick and sharp. I like my solitude right now. I need it. The thought of someone else in the house, moving around and watching me, makes my chest tighten. I text back fast, fingers flying.
No need. There are ingredients here. I’m all good.
I hit send and wait, heart picking up speed.
He doesn’t reply right away. Nervous he won’t answer in time, that the quiet will stretch too long and I’ll start overthinking everything again, I tap his name and call him instead.
The second the line connects, and I hear his voice—low, rough, that same calm tone from last night—my heart gives a hard, stupid thud.
Heat rushes up my neck as memories flash: his hands on my skin, the way he’d groaned my name, the slow, deep way he’d moved inside me.
I pull in a quick breath before I can stop it.
“Hello,” I say, trying to sound calm. Then I blurt out in a rush about the ingredients in the fridge, how the old house was always filled with movement and people and noise, and how much I like the quiet.
He listens. I can hear the faint smile in his voice when he answers. “I understand,” he says, quiet and warm. “You can order anything you want and get it sent to the apartment.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
There’s a brief silence after that—neither of us hangs up, neither of us speaks.
I don’t want to end the call. I won’t admit it, not even to myself, but I don’t.
I used to think his voice sounded cold and distant.
Now it feels like warmth wrapping around me, steady and safe. It terrifies me how much I like it.
“You’ll need to move out of Salvatore’s house.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. “Yes. I don’t have much stuff. I’ll call a taxi later today and go get them.”
“No!” he barks, then pauses, and adds more gently. “There is a car on standby for you. You can leave anytime you want. Press the button on the elevator panel—the one with the hat symbol—head down to the garage like I showed you. The driver will be waiting.”
I’m amazed. Impressed, really. The thoughtfulness of it, the way he’s making sure I have freedom without having to ask… it settles softly in my chest.
“Okay,” I agree. “Thank you.”
“See you later.”
“Okay.” The line stays open another second. I hear the faint rustle of him moving, the low murmur of the city in the background. I don’t want to let go. But I do. I end the call and stand in the quiet kitchen, phone still in my hand, heart still racing from the sound of his voice.
I don’t know what to do with these strange emotions rushing through me. I turn towards the open fridge and tell myself I’ll figure it out later. One step at a time. Just like I always have.