Chapter 27
MAX
Irolled my neck, wincing at the sharp ache that kept it from moving any farther left.
Sleep had been hard to find—even more so as I’d sat on the hardwood floor outside Rosalie’s door all night.
Every creak in the house had sent anticipation through me, and every shadow had played tricks on my sleep-deprived mind.
Sleep didn’t matter. I’d wanted to be there in case she wanted me.
But she hadn’t come. The door had remained closed, acting as a physical barrier from the very thing that had driven me to becoming a madman.
And now I was waiting for her at the table.
A sliver of hope rose in my chest when I heard footsteps approaching the dining room. Bianca appeared, carrying a bowl of fruit that looked bright against the white tablecloth.
Bianca used to look after me growing up. She’d watched me half the time my mother went overseas with my sisters, leaving me with my father. He never cared, of course. He was too busy with his own affairs—both literal and figurative. That was where Bianca stepped in.
Bianca was in her fifties now, her ash-brown hair streaked with silver. Her smile, which had been a constant throughout my childhood, faltered when she glanced at me.
She felt sorry for me.
Rosalie is going to make an absolute fool out of me.
“It’s ten,” she said gently, placing the bowl on the table with a soft thud. Her gaze held a quiet understating that made my throat feel tight.
My attention fell to my watch, the numbers on its face blurring slightly. Ten. An hour had passed since we agreed to meet for breakfast, yet Rosalie was nowhere to be seen.
“It’s all right,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I’ll wait for her.”
And I did.
For another twenty excruciating minutes, the silence stretched like a tightening cord around my chest. Then, out of the corner of my eye, that damn dog of hers flew down the stairs, expelling loud pants from his mouth.
Rosalie wasn’t far behind him. Red hair cascaded down her back. My traitorous eyes darted lower.
The shorts.
They were short. Impossibly short, barely skimming the tops of her thighs. They were tight too, clinging to her curves in a way that made my gaze travel down her legs and then back up, lingering for a second too long on the smooth skin exposed beneath the hem.
This . . . this was torture. Self-inflicted, mind you. I didn’t have to look at her, but I couldn’t get myself to stop.
Her full, baby-pink lips—which had a tendency to run—parted, hesitant to speak. I caught a glimpse of her gold earrings peeking out from beneath her hair, unmistakably Chanel.
“Max, please do not look at me like that,” she said as she approached the table.
“Like what?” I managed, my voice rougher than intended.
“Like you’re upset with me,” she finally said.
Upset? Not exactly. Impatient, maybe even eager.
“You’re late.” I looked down at my watch. “When a man invites you to breakfast, the nice thing to do is to show up on time . . .”—I looked her up and down—“dressed.”
She slid into the seat beside me, her choice deliberate. She wouldn’t sit across from me, creating a comfortable distance, but instead right next to me, brushing against my arm as she settled in.
I paid attention to her choice, wondering if it meant anything.
“Noted,” she said, the word dripping with sarcasm.
She left the food untouched. Her gaze darted between the bowl of fruit and the golden stack of eggs and toast. I knew she was hungry, yet refusing to take a bite from the plate I’d set down seemed to be her silent rebellion. I didn’t care for it.
“How’d you sleep?” I ventured.
“Bad. Your house is freezing,” she said, her voice slipping.
“Sorry about that,” I admitted. “Clothes might help your situation—if you wear them, that is.”
“Right,” she muttered, snatching her gaze away from me.
Eventually, she reached for a piece of avocado toast, her defiance forgotten. She glanced down, spotting the neatly folded papers and the accompanying pen. Curiosity flickered in her gaze.
“What’s this?” she asked, her voice cautious.
“Our rules,” I began. I slid the papers closer, gauging her reaction.
Rosalie looked up at me in disbelief, then at the papers. She picked the stack up, her movements jerky, and scanned them quickly. With each word she read her eyes widened. Finally, she slammed the stack down on the table. I watched her start to lose her mind.
“You can’t be serious,” she said.
“Oh, I am,” I replied. I reached for my glass of water, taking a sip as her gaze darted back to the damning rules. “I plan on earning you, and that means taking your rules very seriously. Consider these mine. A way to keep me on my best behavior.”
A scoff escaped her lips. “Number five,” she challenged, her voice drowning in disbelief. “I can’t wear revealing clothes around you? You’re supposed to be my husband, not some prudish Victorian gentleman. I should be able to wear what I want.”
“Not with your rules, mia cara,” I countered, a hint of amusement dancing in my eyes. “Read out rule three.”
Her gaze darted back to the document, her brow furrowing in concentration. “No kissing,” she mumbled.
“And one more down?” I prodded gently, following the path of her eyes as they scanned the list.
“No sex.”
“Right,” I said with a smile. “If you break rule number five again, I will break both three and four.”
She shot me a glare I couldn’t read. “Have you no control?”
“I’m nothing but a man who’s waited years for a chance. Have some mercy on me.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and with a sigh, she tossed the papers onto the table. “You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” she muttered with a hint of amusement that sounded heavenly.
“So I’ve heard.”
“What does this mean?” she asked, her voice regaining its usual fire.
“What?”
“Me as your wife. What do I have to do?”
“As my wife, I expect a certain level of respect from you. I’ll be needing your trust. You will need to be honest with me, even when it’s difficult. You will attend events with me, hold my hand, and play the role of the perfect spouse. You will be loyal to me, and only me.”
I wanted a partnership, not another political tie.
My memory flashed to what she’d said about me finding a woman other than her to have my children.
The thought was laughable considering I hadn’t been able to spark an interest in any woman who wasn’t 5’5”, with fiery red hair and an attitude to match.
There would never be another woman.
And there was no chance in hell I was going to have an open marriage.
The thought of seeing Rosalie with another man made me furious.
The population of men in New York City would slowly start to dwindle, and my name would be on every news channel that aired if she ever looked at another man.
I was tired of teaching her lessons. She would learn to want me.
Learn to crave me. Of this, I was certain.
“Is that all?” she asked, her voice laced with a hint of skepticism.
“Among other things,” I replied.
She didn’t look away. Instead she tilted her head slightly, holding her chin high as she continued to scrutinize the list of rules. Her eyes scanned the page slowly, lingering on each point before finally settling on a particular one.
“And what happens if I break any of your rules?” she asked. “Like, for example, rule number two. ‘No wine.’”
“That’s right,” I confirmed.
“Why?” she pressed, leaning forward slightly. “What’s wrong with a little wine?”
“It makes you mouthy,” I replied.
She scoffed, turning the page, and her eyes widened slightly. “And what’s this?”
“Our wedding contract. I had my lawyer draw it up. Everything is there—a fair and balanced agreement. All it needs is your signature.”
A hesitant smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I appreciate the effort,” she said, her gaze flitting back to the document. “I’ll definitely look everything over soon.”
“Would tonight be feasible?” I pressed gently. “There’s quite a bit to go through, and I’d love to get the ball rolling as soon as possible.”
“Tonight? You’re kidding. There’s no way I can get through all of this by tonight. Legal jargon puts me to sleep. Give me a reasonable timeframe, and I promise a thorough review.”
“You have until Wednesday evening.”
“Fine. But consider this a warning. If there’s anything even slightly out of line hidden in the fine print, I won’t hesitate to dissect this document line by line and rewrite your terms entirely.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” I replied. “And once you finish reading it, we should talk about wedding plans.”
“I’ll have to sit down with my momma about the arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” I wondered. She hadn’t done this yet? “Surely, you already have something in place from your . . . previous engagement.”
She looked up at me as if I’d caught her in some sort of lie. “No.”
“No?” I repeated. “Nearly a year engaged to the man and no wedding plans?”
“I never got around to it,” she admitted.
“Never got around to it?” I pressed. “You stalled for an entire year? That won’t be happening this time. Consider this your deadline. You have a week.”
“A week?” she sputtered. “That’s barely enough time for a bachelorette party!”
I cut her off with a sharp laugh. “Nah, we’re not doing all that. I can’t go to that.”
Her jaw clenched. “That’s the whole point,” she sighed. “A night to let loose before I’m shackled to your side.”
“You must be out of your pretty little mind.”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “It’s tradition—a chance to say goodbye to my single life with the women who know me best.”
“A tradition I will happily break,” I said, my voice firm.
“Don’t be a ridiculous man. Have you met my sister? She lives and breathes weddings. She’d never be okay with me having a bachelorette party that’s just thrown together.”
Jesus Christ. Why did she have to make things so difficult? It wasn’t as if my life depended on it or anything.
“Okay. Five. You have five weeks,” I stated.
“Five?”
“That seems like a reasonable timeframe.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling this was more than just a simple task for her. It was a battleground. A place where she could assert her independence, her defiance. As if she hadn’t made my life hell already.
“Fine,” she said with a shrug.
“Your signature, I want—”
“I’ll get that to you by Wednesday, just like you wanted,” she interrupted.
“Thank you,” I said finally, trying to inject some sincerity into my voice. But the truth was, I was exhausted. Every conversation felt like a battle, and every decision a war. I needed some damn sleep.
“Do you know when my things will be here?” she asked.
“Dimitri should be moving them in today,” I reminded her, taking a sip of my coffee. Before Rosalie, I’d never favored the taste. It was crazy, the habits you caught from the people around you.
A satisfied smile spread across her lips. “Perfect,” she purred. “Twelve hours without my Valentinos is simply barbaric.”
“It’s been less than twelve hours,” I pointed out. She was dramatic—that was her to a T. From the top of her head to the tips of her toes, she thrived on theatrics and grand gestures.
Much as I wanted to stay here all day, I had a job to do—one that didn’t involve goggling at my soon-to-be wife.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I said as I stood from my seat, leaning closer to her and placing a kiss against her forehead. She let me. “I’ve got to head to the city, but please, spend today making yourself at home. Don’t forget to start reading the contract.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a new phone I’d set up for her. While I trusted Rosalie, I didn’t trust her family.
“You’ll be using this phone from now on. I went ahead and put my number in there in case you need it.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Now I can plan my escape.”
“Funny. Keep joking like that, and I’ll give you a Sidekick.”
“I could still text people on a Sidekick.”
“We both know you don’t have the patience for that.” She knew I was right. I didn’t bother arguing further. “The contract, Rosalie. I want it signed. You have till Wednesday.”
And with that, I stood from my chair and left.
Why did everything have to be so complicated?
The answer was simple. It was her.
She was the axis my world turned on; the only one who’d taken over my thoughts, dreams, and fears. I was drawn to her, compelled by a feeling I couldn’t fully understand. It was clear she didn’t feel the same way.
Rosalie drove me to the point of desperation. I needed her in a way that was almost unbearable, yet she seemed to want nothing to do with me. I wanted to marry her, to build a life with her, to protect her, but she seemed to view the prospect with something bordering on disdain.
Every step forward I tried to take was met with resistance, each attempt a failure.
I wasn’t just desperate anymore.
I was obsessed.