Page 35

She moves slowly, deliberately, every step as calculated as a queen’s. And the dress… the dress is breathtaking. Emerald green, sculpted perfectly to her figure, lace sleeves adding an understated elegance. Her hair is swept to one side, cascading over her shoulder like a waterfall of silk. Her lips are painted a deep red that’s both daring and impossible to look away from, while her skin glows faintly in the dim light of the car’s interior.

For a moment, I can’t breathe.

She looks like she was made for this. For me.

Fuck.

I say nothing at first, letting the silence stretch between us, my gaze fixed on her. The way the dress hugs her waist, the faint shimmer of her perfume—strawberries, sweet and enticing—lingering in the air when she shifts—all ignite something primal inside me.

I feel the heat rising and spreading until I have to adjust my pants to make the growing discomfort bearable. My restraint is a thin, fragile thread stretched to its limit

Her head snaps toward me suddenly, catching me in the act of staring. Her eyes narrow, lips curving into a slight smirk. “What? Not beautiful enough for you?”

Her tone is sharp, defensive, as always. It’s a wall she keeps between us, but I’m getting used to it. I shake my head, the corner of my mouth tugging into a smirk. “Nothing. I thought blue was your color, but now I’m starting to think…every color might be.”

Her cheeks flush instantly, a delicate pink spreading across her face. She quickly turns away, her faze fixed out of the window, but not before I catch the way her lips press together like she’s trying not to smile.

The rest of the car ride is quiet, but I feel her. Her eyes flicker to me every so often, subtle and fleeting, as if testing her boundaries. She looks away just as quickly every time, like she doesn’t want to be caught. It’s so fucking cute, and it’s hard not to call her out on it.

The restaurant is everything it’s meant to be: polished wood, gleaming chandeliers, a quiet hum of subdued conversation. It’s the place where power doesn’t have to announce itself—it just exists, and everyone else knows their place.

My hand rests lightly on her lower back as I guide her to the table, the warmth of her skin seeping through the delicate fabric of her dress. It’s grounding in a way I can’t explain, like touching her keeps me tethered.

The waiter arrives with wine and appetizers—bruschetta, arranged like something you’d see in an art gallery. I barely glance at the plate, my attention is fixed on her.

“What’s your favorite flower?” I ask, breaking the silence.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes are on her plate, her fork idly pushing at the carefully arranged bruschetta as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Aria,” I say, my voice dropping lower, more intent.

She hums softly, still not looking up.

“I asked what your favorite flower was,” I repeat, watching her closely.

Her head lifts then, her expression somewhere between skeptical and confused. “That question was for me?”

I frown, leaning back slightly. “Who else would I be talking to?”

She glances around the restaurant, her eyes darting to the other tables, the chandeliers, and the waiter hovering at a polite distance. Then her gaze snaps back to me, and she points between us. “You’re askingmewhat my favorite flower is?”

I almost smile at the disbelief in her tone. “I’m trying to get to know you,Bambina. Like any good husband would.”

Her eyes widen briefly before she sighs, her lips twitching as if fighting a smile. After a moment, she answers, “Lilies. White ones.”

“Elegant,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. That checks out.”

Her head tilts and her eyes narrow slightly, studying me. “And you? What’s your favorite flower?”

“Black Dahlia,” I reply without hesitation.

She leans forward, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her hand. “Why?”

I swirl the wine in my glass, letting the deep red catch the light as I consider my words. “It’s resilient. It thrives in the shadows. It’s beautiful, but there’s an edge to it—something dangerous just beneath the surface.” I pause, meeting her gaze, letting the weight of my words hang between us. “It’s a survivor.”

Her expression softens, her usual guardedness slipping away for a brief moment. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. She leans back, her fingers absentmindedly tugging at the edge of the napkin in her lap. “That’s… unexpected.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”