Chapter 9
9
ARIA
I’m mortified.
Absolutely and completely mortified.
I touched Nicolas. I touched him like his body was a masterpiece I had just uncovered for the first time, something both beautiful and overwhelming. And I did it while looking like I just walked out of a horror movie.
My hair was tangled, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, and my lipstick… I wanted to disappear when I saw my reflection. The fact that Nicolas didn’t even flinch at my disheveled appearance makes no sense.
He’s been gone for hours, and after burying my face in my pillow for what felt like an eternity, I finally decide it’s time to shower and wash away the humiliation.
The bathroom fills with steam as I step into the shower. The water pours down on my bare skin like a thousand tiny needles. It’s scalding, almost unbearable, but I don’t turn it down. I let the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe even from the past week.
The space smells like him, but I also catch a faint, unfamiliar scent—something citrusy, maybe lemon. Everything about the bathroom screams luxury: the black marble counters, the gold-trimmed faucets, and the sleek, modern fixtures. The shower is massive, with multiple jets spraying water in every direction.
After standing under the steaming water for a few minutes, I turn it off and grab a towel. I consider using his body lotion, but I’ve had enough of Nicolas on me for today. My wet hair drips down my back as I dry off.
I open the cabinet under the sink, looking for a brush, and freeze.
It’s stocked.
The cabinet isn’t just full of random products—it’s meticulously stocked with everything I use: the face cream I apply every night, the shampoo that costs more than some people’s monthly rent, the toner, rose water—and even the body wash I recently started using, which is absurdly expensive.
I pick up a bottle of my favorite perfume and turn it over in my hands. Not that I expected anything less, but it’s authentic. I examine the other products—they are new and untouched.
My first thought is that Marco must have sent them. He knows exactly what I use and would ensure I’m comfortable—even here.
There’s no way Nicolas did this. No way.
An asshole like him doesn’t have a single selfless or considerate bone in his body. All he knows is how to kiss women without their consent and say cruel things to tear them down.
I place the bottle back and try to push the thought away. The idea of him making an effort feels absurd. He doesn’t strike me as the thoughtful type, and the notion of him putting any thought into something like this is laughable.
When I leave the bathroom, I take a moment to take in the surroundings. Yesterday was a whirlwind—too focused on sparring words and locking lips with Nicolas. But now that I look around, I’m struck by how opulent the room is.
It’s massive, more like a luxury suite in a five-star hotel than a simple bedroom. The walls are a deep slate gray, accented with white crown molding that adds sophistication. The bed is enormous, a plush oasis wrapped in black silk sheets and piled high with cushions. I wonder why I didn’t think to use them to create a barricade instead of huddling in the corner all night.
I walk past the bed.
A sitting area near the window catches my eye—a plush gray sofa paired with a low glass coffee table. If I were a writer or an artist, it would be the perfect space to spark creativity.
Or… it could also be a perfect spot to make love. With someone I care about—someone who doesn’t hurt and insults me at every turn. I instinctively touch the place on my arm where he grabbed me yesterday after I tried to run. It’s bruised and tender.
But I refuse to let sadness take over. I continue walking around the room.
A sleek, modern desk catches my eye in one corner, with a few papers scattered across its surface. A luxurious liquor cabinet stands near the wall, filled with expensive bottles of whiskey, vodka, and wine—all top-shelf selections.
My gaze drifts to a small drawer built into the desk. It’s locked.
Though I know I’m alone, I glance around the room and then move toward the desk.
I crouch down, running my fingers along the edges. What could be inside? Something important? Something that could help my brother? A chance to escape this marriage and win his respect?
Or perhaps something I could use against Nicolas—an opportunity to gain control over him?
The possibilities swirl in my mind, making me frantic. I start fiddling with the lock, determined to get inside.
I’m still struggling when a sharp knock on the door startles me. My heart leaps, and I quickly straighten, pressing a hand against my chest to steady myself.
“Mrs. Paolo?” a voice calls from the other side of the door.
Mrs. Paolo. That’s me.
I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the plush bathrobe, and approach the door.
I open it slightly, just enough to peek through. A young woman stands on the other side. She’s petite, with blonde hair neatly pulled into a tidy bun and a friendly smile. She looks like she could be a flight attendant.
“My name is Mary, and I’m your assistant for the day.”
“H… hi, Mary,” I respond hesitantly
“Your clothes have arrived,” she says, holding out a clipboard as if this is a normal delivery.
“Clothes?” I echo, furrowing my brows in confusion.
“Yes, ma’am. They’re being brought in now.”
I open the door wider and glance down the hallway. Two massive men, their muscles bulging beneath dark suits, carry designer boxes and bags toward the room. They don’t speak. They just stand there, their eyes fixed on me.
“Can they come in, Mrs. Paolo?” Mary asks gently
“Uhm, yes. Yes, they can,” I say hurriedly, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I step back to make room for them to enter.
The men march in, placing the boxes on the bed and the floor. They return quickly with more until their sheer number nearly overwhelms the room.
“Should we take these to your closet?” Mary asks politely. “Or would you like to inspect them first?”
“Closet, please.”
Mary directs them to a walk-in closet I hadn’t even noticed before. One side is filled with suits and other clearly masculine items—Nicolas’s, no doubt. The other side remains empty.
They begin unpacking the boxes, carefully hanging dresses and blouses. Shoes—mostly heels—are lined up neatly on the shelves. Each item looks more expensive than the last.
As they work, I cross my arms and ask, “Did Marco send these?”
One of the men pauses, his expression briefly shifting to confusion. “No, ma’am. Your husband did.”
The word feels strange, foreign, as if it belongs to someone else. My chest tightens at the thought.
Does that mean he was also responsible for the things in the bathroom cabinet? How did he know what I used?
I glance around the room at the sheer abundance of clothes and accessories. It’s overwhelming. Nicolas isn’t just wealthy—he exists on an entirely different level. A millionaire many times over. A man who is accustomed to getting whatever he desires whenever he wants it.
And now, apparently, I’m one of those things.
The men finish arranging the closet and leave without another word. Mary stays behind, holding a small box.
“This is for you,” she says, handing it to me.
Everything they’ve brought in here is for me. Why is this one suddenly special?
I take it, my fingers brushing against the smooth black ribbon around the lid. I hesitate for a moment before pulling it open.
Inside is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.
It’s a deep emerald green, the fabric shimmering faintly under the light. The neckline is elegant, dipping suspiciously low, but I don’t mind. The sleeves are made of delicate lace. It’s the kind of dress that demands attention, that makes you feel like royalty just by wearing it.
Mary watches me carefully, as if trying to gauge my reaction.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” I mumble, mostly to myself. Knowing it'll turn heads, I can already picture myself in the dress.
Nicolas wasn’t kidding about the accessory role he wanted me to play.
That thought dampens my mood, but I look back at the dress, and I don’t care. The dress is undeniably sexy, sending a tingle through my senses that’s impossible to ignore.
“Do you need a beautician to prepare you for tonight?” Mary asks.
“No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I just need a makeup kit.”
She points to one of the bags near the bed. “Everything you need is in there.”
I nod, murmuring a quiet thanks as she exits the room.
I stare at the dress for a long moment, running my fingers over the soft fabric. I don’t want to become attached to it, so I close the box and set it down.
It’s just a dress. Just a dinner. Get it together, Aria.
All day, I find myself glancing at the clock, half expecting Nicolas to storm in, bark orders, or make a sharp comment that sets my teeth on edge. But he doesn’t.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m restless from spending the day doing nothing.
I take my time getting ready. The makeup kit Nicolas sent has everything I need. My hands tremble slightly as I apply the eyeliner, but I look absolutely irresistible when I finish. The dress clings to my body in all the right places, and the neckline plunges even lower than I anticipated.
I use breast tape to hold everything in place and even wink at my reflection.
When I step downstairs, the driver is already waiting by the car. He nods and opens the back door for me.
I freeze when I spot Nicolas sitting inside.
He’s dressed in a sleek black suit with a deep emerald tie—the exact shade of my dress. His hair is perfectly combed, and his sharp jawline is clean-shaven. His presence dominates the space, making the car feel suffocatingly small.
For a moment, I consider turning around. But instead, I climb in, smoothing the fabric of my dress as I settle into the seat.
He doesn’t say anything at first, and all the confidence I felt earlier deflates. How could he remain silent when I look like this?
My pride is stung, but I still hope he’ll say something as the car pulls away from the mansion. He doesn’t.
I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting, fixed on the side of my face.
After a moment, I snap my head toward him. “What? Not beautiful enough for you?”
His lips twitch, a fleeting smile playing on his face. “No, that’s not it,” he says softly. “I thought blue was your color. But now, I’m starting to think everything might be your color.”
The words catch me off guard. My cheeks flush, and I turn away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the blush creeping up my neck. It’s not even a grand compliment, so why the fuck is my heart stuttering?
I glance out the window, forcing myself to focus on anything but the man sitting next to me.
When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s clear this isn’t just a casual dinner. The place exudes luxury, from the crystal chandeliers to the red carpet leading to the entrance. A valet opens the door, and Nicolas steps out first, offering a hand to help me.
The touch is brief, but it stirs too many memories.
The room is filled with people dressed to impress, and their stares seem to bore into my skin. This isn’t the same as the looks I used to get when I was just a Rossi.
Nicolas keeps his hand in mine, even when we sit. And honestly, I’m grateful.
To anyone watching, we must look… happy. Like a real couple. He leans in close, his voice low as he asks if I’m comfortable. I nod, pretending his proximity doesn’t tighten my stomach.
Nicolas orders wine, and the waiter brings appetizers.
“What’s your favorite flower?” he asks, and I don’t answer because I don’t think he’s talking to me.
I just stare at the beautifully presented bruschetta on my plate. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was.
“Aria.”
“Mhmm,” I respond without turning.
“I asked what your favorite flower was.”
I slowly turn my head to him. “That question was for me?”
He frowns. “Who else would I be talking to?”
Then I glance around us. The tables are spaced just right for privacy, so he must be asking me.
“You,” I point at him. “Are asking me,” I point at myself. “What my favorite flower is.”
His lips twitch, and I can’t tell if it’s an annoyance or if he’s holding back a smile. “Why do you care?”
He smirks, sipping his wine. “I’m trying to get to know you, Bambina . Like a good husband.”