Page 20 of Legacy (The Sovereigns #2)

Adriana

I feel like such a bitch.

But I’m not a bitch. I’m a boss.

And bosses don’t blink first.

His mother though, damn it. That’s rough. His face when he said that. His eyes.

Damn him and those eyes. Those stupid gorgeous eyes.

I can barely breathe in this space—his scent is all around me.

Heavy.

I’m drowning in it.

That voice and that damn smirk. Angelo Amato is sex on legs and I hate him.

I hate him.

But Dios, this food. I take a bite of the paella. It’s divine. I don’t even care who Clara is, the woman can cook!

The silence is deafening and without this meal being this delicious I would explode. I can feel his eyes on me.

“I’m glad you like it.”

I freeze.

Did I say that out loud?

No.

My eyes meet his .

I have to swallow the fucking shudder that runs through me when he looks at me like that. Like he can see me.

“It’s good,” I say simply, grabbing a napkin to wipe my mouth.

He smirks.

“I can tell, you’re making that humming sound that you make when you really like something.”

My heart flutters.

He remembers.

No. Ice.

I am ice.

I have to be ice.

I place the napkin down and take a breath steeling my resolve.

“Let’s continue negotiations.”

He arches an eyebrow, puts his fork down, and stands.

“Over a drink,” he offers, extending a hand to me.

I look at his hand—memories clawing up from the past like vines trying to strangle me.

I stand without his help and gesture in front of him.

“Show me the way.”

He stills, just a second, before dropping his hand and stuffing both into his pockets.

I follow him toward the living room. The smell of roses is almost as suffocating as his cologne. My eyes rake over his back—how the fabric of his black dress shirt shifts over muscle.

Sleeves rolled. Inked arms. Red and black lines etched like a war story.

Nothing on his hands. Only rings on his right, none on his left.

Interesting.

The living room is absolutely stunning—bathed in natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows. The maroon curtains hang like velvet secrets. Plush black couches arranged like a magazine spread. Stylish. Controlled. Deadly.

It’s the kind of room I’d dream of .

A space too perfect.

A trap dressed as a home.

And the flowers—roses lined on nearly every surface. But now I see it clearer. Carnations mixed in with the roses.

The mistake he never forgot.

He pours two glasses of wine by the bar and hands me one.

I take a seat on the far end of the couch. He sits across from me.

He’s trying to rewrite history.

I glance at his eyes.

Soft.

Don’t fall for it.

“I read over the contract multiple times, and despite the fact that I do not want to be married—” I pause. Give him a pointed look. “—it reads like a typical business merger.”

He watches me. Waiting.

I continue.

“No need for an heir, no co-mingling of our businesses, separate bank accounts—I keep mine, you keep yours. So what was this for?”

I take a sip of wine before I continue.

“For company? Were you, what—lonely?” I laugh, low and bitter.

Another sip.

Damn. This is good wine.

“Yes.”

I almost choke.

“What?”

“Yes. I was lonely. And I wanted only one person. You. ”

My lips part. I blink.

Once. Twice.

That’s not what I planned for.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just raw honesty.

And I hate how it slides under my skin like a blade.

I take another sip, slower this time.

But the alcohol doesn’t help.

It goes straight to my spine and my mouth betrays me.

“So what—you force a marriage because we had a week-long fling five years ago?” I lift my brows. “That’s a little obsessive. Even for you.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t arrange the marriage to relive the week, Adriana,“ he says voice low, clipped. “I arranged it because I couldn’t forget you.”

My stomach dips.

“Cute,” I fire back, heat rising in my chest. “But if you think I’ll be warming your bed just because we’re married on paper, you picked the wrong woman.”

The moment it leaves my mouth, I know I’ve said too much.

His expression shifts—like storm clouds over glass towers.

“I see,” he murmurs.

He lifts his wine for the first time, sets it down untouched.

Then leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

“Then for a lawyer… you didn’t read clearly enough.”

My spine snaps straight.

“Excuse me?”

“Page sixteen,” he says, voice like a knife unsheathing. “Section four. Paragraph two.”

I blink.

“The section on consummation.”

His tone is casual now. A dagger disguised as calm.

“It’s necessary to keep the marriage valid. Otherwise—” He leans back again, ice in every inch of his posture. “You forfeit the jewel sector to me.”

The glass slips in my hand. I catch it before it falls.

No.

No, that can’t be—

“You’re lying,” I breathe.

“Am I?” He shrugs. “Read it again. ”

He stands, strolling back to the bar like he didn’t just ignite a war.

“Like I said,” he calls over his shoulder, “you didn’t read clearly enough.”

No.

No .

NO.

I slam the wine glass into the table and it shatters—fragments everywhere, red staining everything in its path.

My blouse.

My hand.

My patience.

I stand.

“I’m not fucking you for my jewels.”

My voice cuts the air. I’m shaking. Rage tightens every muscle.

He turns—calm. Measured. Unmoved.

His eyes trail the table. The mess. My blouse.

Then settle on mine.

“Then the jewel sector is mine.”

He pauses. A beat. Two.

“Then what will you have in this marriage Adriana?”

The question slices deeper than I want it to. My breath hitches, chest heaving. My jaw is clenched so tight my breaths come sharply out my nose. The sting behind my eyes aches.

“Nothing,” he says.

Smooth. Cold. Icy finality.

He points vaguely toward the left. “Your room is the first door down this hall to the right.”

Then he turns away—just like that.

Like it was a business transaction.

Like erasing my choices—shredding my autonomy is as a simple as ink on page.

Dismissed .

He just dismissed me.

Bastard.

I stare at his back

How the hell did he win this?

I never lose.

I don’t break.

I won’t.

I grab my bags by the elevator and storm down the hall to my new room. Tossing them inside, I slam the door shut and slide down against it, breath catching, nerves wrecked.

That’s when I notice the blood. The glass embedded in my hand.

Fuck.

Angelo Amato can’t win.

He won’t.

***

Waking up the next morning, the taste of bitterness is still pooled on my tongue. I flex my bandaged hand and wince.

The blood-stained cotton balls from last night are discarded on the bedside table. My head feels light, a ringing lingers in my ears.

I take a breath.

The fights not over.

I push myself up, feet hitting the cold floor. My reflection in the mirror across the room is a disaster. Hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed.

I look like defeat.

“No,” I whisper to myself, turning away from the mirror.

I need a plan. I need... leverage.

I take a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away yesterdays sour memories .

Wrapping myself in a plush robe that hangs by the bathroom door, I quickly get back to my room.

The room is cool and untouched, pristine like a hotel. But it smells like him. That soft cologne, warm smoke. The scent seeps into the walls.

In to me.

My eyes fall on my suitcase sitting idly by one corner.

The contract.

He could have been lying.

I fumble with zips and pull out our marriage contract.

Page sixteen.

Section four.

Paragraph two.

My heart slams against my chest as I read over it again and again. There it is... undeniable in black and white print:

“The marriage must be consummated within sixty days of living together for full rights to be retained by each party.”

My breath hitches.

He was right.

Damn it.

A wave of fury washes over me.

Swallow it Adriana.

New plan.

I grab my phone.

The phone rings twice.

“What’s wrong?” Rafael’s voice comes out quick, urgent.

“That lawyer you know here, can I have her number?”

A pause.

“Are you okay? Do you need me?”

“No Rafe, I got it handled, just the number.”

“Texted.”

My phone buzzes.

“Thank you. ”

“Be good, if you need me I’ll be on the next flight.”

“I know.”

I hang up the phone, a chilled resolve settles in me.

Angelo can’t know that I’m rattled. He apparently feeds off my fear, my uncertainty. It’s time to turn the tables.

I call the lawyer immediately, explaining the situation in the calmest voice I can muster.

“Meet me at Smash and Sugar in an hour,” she says.

I take a breath.

I can do this.

I won’t lose.

***

Smash and Sugar is a bakery. One straight out of a Pinterest board—exposed brick, pale pink walls, a glass counter full of croissants and pastel pastries, and the faint hum of indie guitar in the background.

But the second I step inside, it’s not the sugar that grabs my attention—it’s the six-foot-plus man flipping a knife between his fingers by the espresso bar. He’s all lean muscle and danger, dark hair cropped close, his white button down stretching across his back as he tosses the blade like a toy.

He catches it mid-air and smiles at me. Warm. Easy. A little too easy.

Unsettling.

I give him a small nod and order a black coffee at the counter, ignoring the way the barista eyes my bandaged hand, then head to a corner booth by the window.

I need distance from knife guy…

from everything.

A few minutes later, the door swings open, and Vanessa Reyes steps in like she owns the whole damn block .

She’s about five-foot-ten, heels included, with olive skin and a head of long black waves that bounce as she walks. She’s dressed in a tan belted trench over tailored slacks, black gloves tucked into her bag. Regal. Collected. Razor-sharp in every step.

I stand to greet her, shaking her hand. Her grip is firm, her gaze already sweeping over me like she’s calculating what kind of client I’ll be.

We sit. I pull the contract from my bag, the same cursed paper I stared at for hours this morning. She doesn’t waste time. She flips directly to page sixteen, eyes scanning as she speaks.

“Well,” she says finally, “you weren’t imagining it. Paragraph two is crystal clear. The marriage must be consummated within sixty days for each party to retain full rights.”

My heart sinks again, even though I knew it was coming.

“But,” she adds, flipping ahead, “there are cracks.”

I lean in. “What kind?”

Vanessa turns a few pages back, tapping another clause with her manicured nail. “Clause 5.2. He was required to introduce you to his immediate family within seven days of the contract’s execution.”

I freeze. “He didn’t.”

Her brow lifts. “How long has it been?”

I almost laugh. “Six months.”

She grins. “Perfect.”

My jaw drops slightly. “Perfect?”

She leans back in the booth, visibly satisfied. “He breached first. That clause was likely included to demonstrate integration into the family—essential for a valid alliance. If he failed to uphold it, that weakens the entire agreement.”

“So, I can nullify the contract?”

“Not quite. Not yet,” she says. “But you can force his hand. Use the breach to demand an amendment.”

I exhale, tension easing slightly. “What else? ”

She scans again. “It says both parties must consummate the marriage for full rights, but it only specifies what you forfeit—the jewel sector. There’s no reciprocal clause explaining what he loses. That’s lopsided.”

I nod slowly, the plan building in my mind. “So we argue bad faith. Use his failure to meet one requirement and the imbalance in language to renegotiate.”

“Exactly,” she says, impressed.

I straighten my shoulders. “I want to do it myself. No lawyers. No back and forth with his people.”

Vanessa hesitates but ultimately nods. “Then I’ll draft a clean amendment proposal. My assistant can bring it to you tomorrow.”

She slides a business card across the table. “Call if anything changes.”

I take the card, slipping it into my bag. “Thank you.”

She gives me a tight, knowing smile. “You’re tougher than you look. In a courtroom, this would be a long shot. But in a backroom negotiation with a man like him? It’s your best weapon. Use it.”

She leaves without another word, heels clicking against the floor, the door swinging closed behind her.

I sit back in the booth, pressing my fingers against my temples.

Okay.

He might’ve won last night.

But I don’t lose.

Not when I have a plan.

Not when I have the law on my side.

Not when I’m me.

Not when I’m Adriana fucking Castillo.