Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
RICCI
Iwatch the way the sharp little cough makes her eyes water and sends a flush racing up her throat like she’s been caught with her hand somewhere forbidden. The sound is small, almost delicate, but it hits me low in the gut anyway.
My fingers slide into the inside pocket of my jacket and close around the white cotton handkerchief that has been pressed against my body since this morning.
It is crisp and carries the warmth of my body heat.
I hesitate, my thumb tracing the raised letters of the monogram RR—stitched in tight black silk thread by the same tailor.
Why does handing this square piece of cotton feel heavier than the contract we signed last night?
Heavier than the plain gold band now sitting on my finger. That ring was ceremony. This is something else—something that’s been pressed against my skin all day, absorbed my scent, my heat. It feels like I’m giving her a piece of me no one else has ever touched.
I put the hesitation aside and hold it out to her, no flourish, no words.
“Thank you,” she murmurs and presses it briefly to her lips like she’s tasting the ghost of where it’s been. I have to look away. The sight of her using something that’s mine nearly undoes the iron control I’ve spent years perfecting.
After a moment, she folds it neatly in her lap, fingers lingering on the monogram like she’s memorizing it. I wait. The silence between us is heavy with everything we haven’t said yet.
“You sure you don’t want to eat?” I ask, keeping my tone even, casual.
She nods at first—quick, automatic—then pauses. Her gaze drops to the half-empty glass in front of her, then lifts to meet mine again. “Actually… I could use some food.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. Small victory. “Good. Do you want to go out or eat in?”
Her eyes drift to the floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan glitters like it’s putting on a private show just for us, then back to me.
I can almost see the math happening behind those green eyes: my penthouse versus the outside world, my territory versus neutral ground, the safety of distance versus the risk of being alone with me again so soon after the vows.
The same woman I’ve watched from across rooms for years, always calculating the next move, always guarding the soft parts.
Neutral ground gives her breathing room.
“Out,” she says finally, voice quiet but certain. “I think… out would be better.”
I push off the counter. “Let’s go.”
I stand and offer her my hand. She hesitates only a heartbeat—barely noticeable—before placing her palm in mine.
Her skin is cool, small fingers curling lightly around my flesh.
I feel the faint tremor in her grip and feel a rush of possessive pride.
She is my wife now. Then I open my grasp, the contact ends, and we walk together toward the foyer.
I grab my keys from the shallow black porcelain bowl on the entry table, and I stop at the sleek touchscreen panel mounted beside the doors of the elevator.
I swipe my card once. “This elevator works on a code,” I tell her, voice low.
“Six digits that change every thirty days. I’ll give you the current one now, and the app will push updates to your phone once we link it.
” I punch in the sequence slowly, letting her see every tap.
“The downstairs door works the same, but with a secondary four-digit PIN for after-hours. Your key and the full access app will be ready when we get back tonight. You can then come and go as you want.”
She watches every movement of my fingers carefully.
Her expression is blank and unreadable, but the intensity of her attention makes heat crawl up the back of my neck.
Not once does she look away. Not once does she interrupt.
Just those green eyes locked on mine whenever I glance up, steady and searching.
It’s almost impossible not to let it faze me.
My pulse kicks harder every time our gazes connect.
I want to close the distance, back her against the wall, ask what the hell she’s looking for when she watches me like that.
Instead, I pocket the fob and hit the call button. The doors slide open with a soft chime.
We step inside wordlessly.
The mirrored walls throw us back at each other.
Me with glittering, excited eyes, and her looking cool in ivory satin that skims every curve I’ve spent years imagining under my hands.
The ride down is silent except for the faint mechanical hum and the whisper of her breathing.
Her gentle perfume drifts toward me, and I take a greedy breath of it.
The doors open and cool air rushes in, carrying the faint smell of concrete, motor oil, and the promise of rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I lead her to my car, open the passenger door, and watch—dress sliding over leather, legs cSantoring neatly—before I close it with a quiet click.
I slide behind the wheel and start the engine. The low growl fills the space between us. I pull out onto the street, and merging into the late-night traffic, I glance at her.
“Where do you want to eat?” I ask.
She shrugs, gaze fixed on the passing buildings. “Anywhere is fine.”
That annoys me. Not the words themselves—fuck the restaurant, I’d eat from a cart on the corner if it made her smile—but the tone. Detached. Automatic. The same answer she gives everyone. Like her preferences don’t exist. Like she’s still waiting for someone to tell her what she’s allowed to want.
I ease the SUV to the curb and stop. Traffic flows around us, horns distant.
She tenses instantly—spine straightening, fingers tightening in her lap. Alarm flashes across her face before she locks it down again.
I keep my voice quiet as I speak to her. I don’t want to scare her, but I do want to make sure that I am heard.
“You said you wanted to go out.”
She blinks, then gives a small nod. “Yes, I did.”
I turn to face her fully, one hand still resting on the wheel. “So, you should have an idea of what you want to eat? Or where you want to eat.”
Her gorgeous eyes are wide and startled, like no one has ever asked her that question in her entire life.
“What do you like to eat?” I ask softly. “What are you craving tonight?”