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I hate him.

I hate him for the cruel things he said about my father, for twisting the one pure memory I have left. I hate him for what he’s done to my life, for how he’s stripped me of control. And most of all, I hate him for the way he makes my own body betray me—for the heat, the pull, the maddening ache I can’t seem to suppress no matter how hard I try.

Finally, I force myself to move. My legs feel like lead as I make my way to the bed. Sliding under the silk sheets, I try to find comfort, but the fabric is cold against my skin. I huddle to one side, as far away from the middle as possible.

But even here, there’s no escape.

The sheets smell like him—woodsy, masculine, with that intoxicating darkness that clings to him like a second skin. It feels like he’s everywhere, invading every corner of my mind and body.

There’s really no escaping him, is there?

This is my life now. The sooner I accept it, the better off I’ll be. A lump forms in my throat, but I force it down.

I amnotgoing to cry. Not now. Not ever in front of Nicolas.

The bathroom door opens. Don’t look at him.

I hear him moving around the room, his footsteps deliberate but unhurried. Then, the bed dips under his weight as he climbs in. He stays on his side, and the space between us is a chasm neither seems willing to cross. I think he might say something for a fleeting moment—but he doesn’t.

I shut my eyes, desperately willing myself to sleep.

But the silence feels too loud, and sleep refuses to come. I keep still, not moving until his breathing evens, soft and steady, signaling that he’s drifted off.

Only then do I allow myself to turn.

His face is turned toward the ceiling, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together even in sleep. The tension in his features is unmistakable, as though he’s locked in a battle with some unseen enemy.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks… sad. I don’t know why that thought keeps crossing my mind, but there it is again.

Still, he seems to be sleeping soundly, his breaths steady and even.

“How can he sleep so peacefully after…” I whisper, the words trailing off. Does it even matter? No. He’s still an asshole.

I shake the thought away and turn on my side, yanking the blanket tighter around me as if it could shield me from my thoughts.

I shouldn’t care. Idon’tcare.

I repeat the words in my head, a mantra I cling to, over and over, until exhaustion finally pulls me under.

8

NICOLAS

I can’t sleep. Not with Aria lying so close, yet so far away.

First of all, I’m still semi-hard. My body hasn’t fully recovered from that… moment between us earlier. Even the cold shower did nothing to erase the memory of her scent, her taste, or the sound of her moans.

Secondly, I can’t risk letting Aria find out about my night terrors and amnesia that follow them. If she knows, Marco will know, too. And if Marco knows, he’ll twist that knowledge into a weapon against me. I’ve learned the hard way never to hand him ammunition.

But as much as I’m trying to stay guarded, I know Aria must be wrestling with her own thoughts. She won’t fall asleep easily, not with her enemy lying beside her, awake and all too aware.

Even though Marco told her that I wasn’t responsible for the car explosion, I doubt she truly believes it. Right now, to Aria, I'm still the enemy—the man who tore her life apart. The man she’s forced to share a bed with.

Sleep won’t come easy for either of us.

But she needs it. Tomorrow, she starts her new life as Nicolas Paolo's wife. She’ll need all her strength for what’s to come.

To ease her mind, I fake it.