4. Dominic
Dominic
I managed to leave Lena speechless. For two whole minutes. A personal best, considering this woman always has something to say.
Leo pulls into the hotel’s underground garage—the kind reserved for high-end cars and quiet exits—and jumps out like the seat burned him.
I stay put, watching Lena try to process what I just dropped on her.
We’re still shoulder to shoulder in the back seat.
Her warmth seeps through the fabric, impossible to ignore.
I could shift and give her space. But I don’t.
Whether it’s stubbornness or something else, I stay exactly where I am.
Then I see the exact second she snaps out of it. The corner of her mouth twitches. Her eyes spark, and her fingers slide up her arms, like she’s trying to pull herself back together. I wait for the explosion. Five... four... three... and there it is.
“In the last couple of minutes, I’ve considered every possible reason you might say something like that,” she says, voice low and measured. Her eyes, though, are pure daggers.
“I’ve ruled out temporary insanity, sleep deprivation, exhaustion from overwork, and undiagnosed personality disorder. Which leaves only one logical conclusion: you’re a masochist.”
I fight the pull of a grin, keeping my jaw firm as I swallow it down.
“As much as I enjoy how you lace every conversation with sarcasm, I hate to break it to you, I’m totally serious.”
She rolls her eyes with theatrical flair. “If you pull a ring out of your pocket, I swear I’ll faint right here, right now.”
I raise both hands in mock surrender. “No rings. I promise.”
“Good.” She exhales. “This was the full show, or is there an encore?”
I tilt my head, calm and unbothered. “Can we talk seriously now?”
She stops and looks at me, without answering. But that pause? That’s how I know I’ve got her attention.
There’s something about this woman that fascinates me.
I admire her for the fire, the way she holds her ground, even when the odds are stacked against her.
Even two nights ago, after that confrontation with Anton, she held it together, on the surface.
But she was shaken. Anyone could see it.
And still, she trusted me enough to come to the hotel.
I left her at the front desk with one instruction: get her to a room.
No questions, no pressure. I couldn’t bring myself to leave her there alone and go off to handle club business, but I respected her space.
I sent her up tea and sandwiches. She looked pale, trembling, like she hadn’t eaten. She needed sugar. And space. And sleep.
The next morning at eleven, I got her thank-you text. I replied with a dry: “ My pleasure, Sassy. You really should stay out of trouble.”
Lena pulls trouble in like gravity. And I’m done pretending I don’t care.
Now, she’s standing in front of me again, that same fire in her eyes. “Okay,” she says, her voice edged. “Let’s say you haven’t lost your mind. Explain to me why the hell you need a wife.”
I smile, satisfied. She’s not pushing me away. Not yet. There’s less bite in her voice now. Like, some part of her actually wants to hear me out. I run a hand through my hair, trying to buy some time. She watches me, eyes narrowed, mind racing. I can practically hear the gears turning.
“I’ll explain, Sassy,” I say, leaning back against the car with calm, “but only if you let me finish a full sentence without cutting me off with that signature sarcasm of yours.” I pause, letting the silence do its work. “Which, by the way, doesn’t fool me.”
She doesn’t answer. Just presses her lips together and juts her lower lip defiantly, almost mocking. Maybe she really is going to let me talk. Good to know.
“I’m tired of women who treat me like a transaction, chasing the money, the status, the bragging rights of being Mrs. Monti.”
I throw her a dry smile, already bracing for the eye roll.
“And I’m sick of the tabloids dissecting my love life every week like I’m some walking reality show.”
Lena crosses her arms and fixes me with a skeptical stare. “So?”
“So, I want a wife,” I say without hesitation, meeting her eyes directly.
She doesn’t flinch, but her gaze is searching, calculating. Digging for the part I haven’t said yet.
“A wife?” she repeats, like she needs to hear it again to believe it.
I nod slightly. “Yeah. Someone the world can see. Someone official. A wife, so people stop asking, speculating, assuming.”
I watch her reaction for a second, then go on. “A woman who’s the opposite of everything I’ve dealt with so far. Independent. Capable. Focused on her own life. Someone who couldn’t care less about being a trophy, draining my accounts, or parading around like a status symbol.”
Lena shifts in her seat, turning fully toward me with her shoulders squared and chin high. That same spark in her eyes. Defiant. The kind that always makes me want to push back.
“And why me?”
I can’t help the slow grin that pulls at my mouth. I’ve been waiting for this exact question.
“Because you don’t give a damn about me,” I say.
I catch the flicker in her eyes. Bullseye.
“Because you’re not a risk,” I go on, letting the words land one by one. “Not in that sense. I know you don’t give a damn about my money. You’re not tied up with anyone. Your only focus is your career. And I can give you leverage, the kind that changes everything.”
She grips the sleeve of her coat involuntarily. But I catch it, even if she tries to play it cool.
“What exactly does that mean?”
I shrug, like the answer’s obvious. “Protection. Support. Access to real resources.”
I let that land. Then add, “plus, having a rich husband would give you the freedom to only take on the work you want. No more hustling to survive.”
She pins me with a long look. “Didn’t peg you as the sugar-daddy type.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re the kind to run around shopping all day. But I do have standards for my wife, and she’ll always have whatever she wants at her fingertips.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t need a knight in shining armor, Dominic. I’ve told you that already.”
I tilt my head, watching her carefully. “Good. Because I’m not offering a rescue. I’m offering a partnership. One that works for both of us.”
Then I let it sit. I watch her weigh it, the gears grinding behind those stormy eyes. She’s fighting the urge to say no just to prove she can’t be pushed. But the idea’s out there now. And she knows I’m not wrong.
She finally speaks. “So you want to… actually do it? Like, real marriage? With papers and everything?”
I lean in just enough to feel the tension coil in her shoulders. “Yeah. It has to be believable. Verifiable.”
She wets her lips, and for the briefest second, her eyes flick to my mouth. Interesting.
“And how long until we get divorced?”
“Already planning the ending, Sassy? Don’t you want to find out what it’s like being my wife before asking for the exit clause?”
She looks away, but her body already knows what she won’t say out loud.
“What’s the matter?” I murmur. “Afraid you couldn’t pull off playing Dominic Monti’s wife?”
It’s bait. She knows it. But she still takes it and scoffs, lifts her chin, and meets my gaze head-on.
“You won’t know where the act ends… and I won’t let you forget me.”
A slow smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. She’s going to be trouble. My kind of trouble.
“Careful what you promise, Sassy. I might just hold you to it. We’ll see just how well you can play... my wife. ”
She rolls her eyes again, reaching for the car door like she’s done with the whole conversation. But then she pauses, hand on the handle, and throws me a sidelong glance.
“And what about you? Planning to stop sleeping with other women? I mean… no sex at all?”
My mouth twitches, but I manage to keep it in check.
Of all the things she could worry about in a fake marriage… that’s where she lands? Well, that’s unexpected.
I take my time looking, because she notices. And I want her to.
“Why? Got something in mind?” My voice drops just a notch. “Are you making an offer?”
This time, I get a growl. “Don’t even think about it.”
She reaches for the handle again, but I catch her hand gently.
“Think about what, exactly? The marriage... or the sex?”
She slips free with practiced ease, tucking her hair behind her ear like none of this got to her. But I’m betting it did.
“We’ll see. I’ll let you know.”
She snatches the hideous wig and cap, steps out of the car, then pauses and glances back with a wicked smile.
“It’s late. I’m going home… before I start to like this idea.”
For a second, she lingers.
“And Dominic…”
Her gaze holds mine. Calm.
“Thanks for the rescue. I’ll try not to make it a habit.”
She walks away with her chin high, like she’s got it all together. But she doesn’t. The hand holding the wig is shaking.
Is that how she’s going to handle our marriage? Push my buttons? Run when things get too real?
Because ready or not, Helena Medina—stubborn, irresistible pain in the ass—is about to become Mrs. Dominic Monti.