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The next morning, I wake before she does. She’s still curled up in the sheets, her hair spilling across the pillows, her breathing steady and soft. I let myself watch her for a moment, memorizing her quiet beauty.

Then, reluctantly, I slip out of bed and make a call.

By the time she wakes, breakfast is already waiting downstairs.

She blinks sleepily at me as I sit on the edge of the bed, my hand brushing over her hip. She sniffs, her voice still thick with sleep. “Breakfast is ready?”

I nod. “From the restaurant where we had our first date.”

A slow smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “You remember?”

I lean in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I remember everything.”

She flushes slightly but doesn’t argue.

We eat together, and she looks lighter for the first time since yesterday. Not completely healed—not yet—but a little less weighed down. A little more like herself.

After breakfast, I don’t let her retreat into the house, into solitude.

Instead, I take her with me—to every meeting, every discussion. I let her see the world I move through, the weight I carry. If she’s going to be part of this life, she needs to understand it.

She sits beside me at the long conference table, quietly observing as my men report on shipments, negotiations, and shifting alliances. Her fingers rest lightly against the polished wood, her expression unreadable, but I can see how she’s absorbing everything, piecing it all together.

I glance at her at one point, and she meets my gaze. There’s no fear in her eyes. No hesitation. Just understanding.

She knows who I am now. What I do. And she’s still here.

Under the table, I reach for her hand, my fingers brushing over hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

She stays.

23

ARIA

Three days have passed since I returned home in tears after my conversation with Marco.

And for three days, Nicolas has been by my side.

He hasn’t let me alone for a single moment.

This morning, I don’t wake up to the feel of my husband's tongue between my thighs or his cock in my mouth, as I have for the past three days. Instead, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains pulls me from sleep. The warmth of the blankets should be comforting, but the guilt pressing against my chest today grows heavier with each passing day.

I turn onto my side, reaching for the space beside me, but it’s empty. Nicolas isn’t here.

Maybe he's grown tired of comforting me, of making me feel like the sexiest woman in the world. Maybe my time of self-pity has run out, and he’s downstairs waiting—ready to ask the questions he hasn’t voiced yet.

My heart pounds, a cold dread curling through me, but before my thoughts spiral any further, I notice a small slip of paper resting on his pillow.

I sit up, my fingers brushing against the note. His handwriting is bold, unmistakable.

Meet me in the kitchen for breakfast.

I stare at the words, my breath catching in my throat.

The past few days have been a stolen luxury, a fragile escape from the truth that still lingers between us. I know I can’t outrun it forever. Eventually, I’ll have to tell him what I did. Face the consequences of my betrayal.