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“You’ll have everything you need and be fully taken care of as my wife,” he assures me, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to convince me to accept this marriage or if he's pretending he cares.

“It’s not that,” I stammer.

“Then what is it?” he asks, glancing my way before focusing back on the road.

“I just…I haven’t had as many experiences as you have. I just—”What am I even trying to say?

“Experiences like what?” he cuts in.

Well, umm.My mind suddenly goes blank, and I blurt out, “A threesome. I’ve never done that.”

What the hell is wrong with me that my mind would jump straight to a threesome?

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I have no idea why I even said it. The only time I ever thought about a threesome was with Ryan Matthews, my high school lab partner, turned first boyfriend. The guy was a walking hormone and kept trying to convince me it was a great idea.

Eighteen-year-old me panicked and said no, obviously. Then Cloverscared him off before we even made it to prom. So yeah, technically, I lost my virginity to a guy who nearly set the science building on fire trying to light a cigarette with a Bunsen burner, then ghosted me because my fake dad gave him the death stare in the school parking lot.

Memory lane comes to a screeching halt when Alessio clears his throat. I glance over at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “And that’s something you want?” he asks, trying not to punch the steering wheel.

Alessio has a weird thing about anyone else seeing me naked.

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” he says casually. I’m sure women like Nicole throw themselves at him, and he’s had a million threesomes. I hate how jealous that thought makes me feel. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Besides,” he adds, “you’re mine, and anyone who lays even a single finger on you, let alone sticks a dick in you, is a dead man walking. Why don’t you pick some extravagant trip instead, or something else you want? I can give you all those experiences.”

“Yeah, until you get bored, or the next flight attendant comes tits-first at you,” I fire back. The words slip out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it.

He glances over, a smug smirk lighting up his face. “Well, I like your tits. And despite what you think, I’m not that kind of man.”

“And what kind of man is that?” I shoot back, my fingers nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt in a futile attempt to steady myself. This conversation is spiraling out of control.

“I may cheat death,” he says, “but I’d never cheat on my wife.”

The word wife echoes in my head, leaving me staring at him like a deer caught in headlights. My mouth opens and closes, searching for a response, anything to counter the absurdity. He tosses that word around as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Wife,” I finally parrot, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. We stop at a red light, and he turns, gripping my chin so our gazes lock.

“You’re wearing my ring, aren’t you?”

That’s his big argument? My thoughts spiral, but I can’t form a witty retort to save my life. Clearing my throat, I attempt to regain some composure. “Just because I’m wearing a ring doesn’t mean I’m okay with being someone’s wife.”

He raises an eyebrow, amusement lighting his eyes. “Not justsomeone,my wife.”

I keep tugging at the hem of the shirt, feeling heat creep up my neck. “Maybe you’re jumping the gun a little.”

“It needs to be done,” he counters, leaning back in his seat with an infuriating calm that makes me want to both strangle him and kiss him senseless. “Besides, you’ve been mine since the day you started looking into me, and now I’m just making it more permanent.”

Well damn, should I feel flattered or terrified? I bite my lip, struggling to formulate a response, but all I can manage is to stare at him like an idiot.

Thankfully, the car’s moving again, and we’re nearly at the gate. The guards open it without making him stop, it’s standard procedure for Alessio.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll go in through the garage.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, finally ready to get out of the car. But as soon as the garage door lifts, I’m hit with a sight I’m not prepared for. It’s like stepping into a billionaire’s personal showroom: a Bugatti Chiron, a Ferrari LaFerrari, a McLaren P1, and even a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Rows of gleaming motorcycles line the walls, looking like he’s running some exclusive dealership on the side.

We step out of the car, and Alessio’s phone ringing has him distracted. He starts barking orders in Italian over the phone like whoever’s on the other end owes him their soul.

But I can barely make out a word he’s saying because, oh my god, my eyes land on it. A vintage Triumph Bonneville. It’s the exact same model Clover rebuilt, the one he let me ride the summer I got my license.