CHAPTER 43
ROXANNE
Marcello and I walked in for breakfast, hand in hand.
He squeezed my ass, and I giggled—his breath brushing my ear, filthy and sweet.
Vihaan looked up from his coffee and gave a subtle nod. The kind that said, Finally. Kyra sat sipping her chocolate milk.
People gave us judgy glances. I let them look. Marcello wasn’t my secret anymore. I’d bled for this. Earned this.
We took a seat opposite my mother and Kyra. My mother, however, didn’t hold back.
“So,” she said, eyes twinkling, “I take it you both slept well?”
I nearly choked on my tea and shot Marcello a look. Heat rushed to my face.
“Were we loud?” I whispered.
She shrugged, sipping her chai. “Just a little.”
Her smirk was criminal. She was enjoying this too much. My face heated with embarrassment. I wanted to crawl under the table.
But Marcello remained smug as sin. Like he’d earned every sound. He leaned in, hand sliding under the table to squeeze my thigh.
“Next time,” he whispered, lips grazing my ear, “I’m gagging that pretty mouth of yours. Only I get to hear you come undone.”
I smacked him in the chest. “Behave.”
His grip on my thigh tightened as they clenched. Heat bloomed low and fast. And the way he looked at me, like he knew exactly what he’d done—made it worse.
He always knew. That was the problem.
Back in our rooms, we dressed separately for the wedding. I’d left my scrunchie in Marcello’s room. When I stepped in, I was taken aback. My breath caught. Marcello stood there in a mint green sherwani, complementing his emerald green eyes.
“You’re matching with me,” I said, stunned.
The embroidery shimmered against his chest. Regal. Ravishing. If flavour had a name, it would be him.
I hadn’t thought he’d actually take Sahil seriously and wear something Indian. Sure, he looked good in anything he wore—hell, even with nothing on, he looked beautiful. But Indian wear? He looked like a snack. No, scratch that. He looked like a whole meal.
A damn maharaja thali meal. And I wanted to devour him. With my hands. My mouth. My everything.
“It only made sense that he should match the family,” my mother said, adjusting Kyra’s frock—mint green with red flowers, just like my saree.
I walked over to Marcello and adjusted his collar.
“Looking good, Mr. Vitale,” I said—voice low, fingers grazing his neck, lingering longer than necessary.
He smirked. “Not better than you, Mrs. Vi…Talati.”
The pause was deliberate. My heart stuttered. My walls rose—fast, instinctive, protective. I blinked.
Was he about to call me by his last name?
Mrs. Vitale?
Mrs. Roxanne Vitale?
No. No. No.
I’d been down that road once. Burned my fingers. Scorched my heart. Not again. Marriage changes everything—we take each other for granted, we stop trying. Sex fades. Resentment blooms.
Everything crumbles.
I liked what I had with Marcello. Loved it too much. I wasn’t going to let a stupid norm of society ruin that for me.
But did he want that? Marriage?
We hadn’t spoken about it. Hell, we hadn’t done much talking at all. Just fucked all night. Hard. Desperate. Like silence was safer than truth.
I didn’t know what the future held. And I wasn’t going to let this slip ruin this moment. I wanted to stay in the now. In the ache. In the want.
He leaned in, fingers tracing the curve of my waist to the edge of my blouse. He knew just the right way to snap me out of my spiral.
“This outfit,” he murmured, “gives me more access to you.”
My skin lit up under his touch like it had been waiting all day.
I smacked his hand even though I loved his touch, but the tingling stayed.
Even after a night wrapped in him, I still missed him.
Missed the weight of him. The way he anchored me.
The way he made the world disappear—until it was just us.
My body was greedy. My heart, worse. I wanted him again.
And again.
And again. Until I forgot what alone felt like.
“Thinking about last night?” he whispered, voice low, breath warm against my ear.
I looked at him through the mirror—cheeks flushed, lip caught between my teeth. He could read my thoughts. The filthy ones. The ones I didn’t say out loud.
“Can’t wait to do it all over again,” he said—voice hoarse, halfway between a promise and a moan. “Every day.”
His voice was honey—slow, thick and sinful. Eyes heavy with want, already undressing me. And the tent in his pants? That was all me.
Me.
A chubby, curvy woman.
Who had the power to break his restraint. Undo him. And he held the power to undo me. We were each other’s salvation. Each other’s sin. Each other’s sanctuary. We weren’t perfect. But we were perfectly wrecked for each other.
My mother called us over for a photo. Marcello pulled me close, his hand resting just above my hip bone. Like he was staking his claim in front of the world.
Kyra came running in, eyes bright. “I want a picture too.”
Marcello scooped her up, placing her between us. I reached for his waist to anchor myself to him. My mother smiled, eyes softening. Like she saw the family forming.
As he lowered Kyra, I slid my hand down and grabbed his ass. He yelped, caught off guard.
I winked. “Payback.”
His eyes went dark with want. Mine sparkled. We were fire and mischief. And I was drunk on both.
The baraat was loud and joyful. Marcello danced with Vihaan and Kyra, mostly holding Kyra as she bounced in his arms. She squealed with delight as I watched them with my heart full.
The wedding was set in a stepwell-style courtyard—sandstone tiers descending into a mandap framed by marigolds and carved arches. It looked like something out of a movie. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood lingered in the air.
Luckily, the weather was kind, and fans were placed throughout to keep the air moving. Marcello and I sat side by side during the pheras.
My mother leaned in, explaining each ritual—the vows of duty, strength, prosperity, and love. Marcello listened intently, his fingers brushing mine, stealing glances. Like he was looking forward to the idea of forever.
His gaze held questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Questions about us. About vows. About permanence.
Did he hope we’d have one too?
But after Vihaan, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to take the leap of faith again.
During the fourth phera, my eyes met Vihaan’s across the fire. He gave a quiet nod with a faint smile. We shared a past. Brought a beautiful daughter into this world. I nodded back with a smile, and then my eyes met Marcello’s.
And everything shifted. My heart pounded in my chest. I felt butterflies in my stomach. Like the universe itself was aligning for this. For us.
He sensed my uneasiness and took my hand in his, circling the top with his thumb—like he was calming a storm only he could see. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I just lay my head on his shoulder and stayed in the moment.
The fire crackled between us. So did something else. Vihaan smiled. It felt like the final thread was cut from Vihaan and a new thread was being woven to Marcello. Not fate. Choice.
Maybe Vihaan and I weren’t soulmates. Maybe we had to cross paths and come into each other’s lives so we could have a learning experience.
But was Marcello my soulmate? Only time would tell.
Maybe soulmates aren’t always written by fate. Maybe they’re written by choice. And I was choosing him.