Page 24 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

KASI

I can barely breathe in this dress. Maria fastens the diamond necklace around my throat while I stare at my reflection, trying to recognize the woman looking back at me.

“You look like a queen, Mrs. Moretti,” Maria says, stepping back to admire her work.

A queen. Three months ago, I was scrubbing floors in a bakery. Now I’m wearing diamond jewelry that sparkles like captured starlight, preparing to schmooze with New York’s elite at the Metropolitan Museum fundraiser.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Mr. Moretti is waiting downstairs,” Maria adds, gathering up the discarded dresses we rejected.

My stomach flutters at the mention of his name. Three days since Miami. Three days since he claimed every inch of my body and then retreated behind his walls again. We’ve barely spoken beyond the necessary pleasantries.

I find him in the foyer, adjusting his cuff links with the same precision he uses for everything else. The black tuxedo makes his silver hair look like platinum, and when he looks up to see me descending the stairs, his green eyes darken.

“Ready?” he asks, offering his arm.

“As I’ll ever be.”

The ride to Manhattan is quiet except for the hum of the engine and the city lights streaming past our windows. Alaric reviews his phone while I try not to think about how his hands felt on my skin three nights ago.

“The Benedettis will be there tonight,” he says without looking up. “Tony Benedetti’s been pushing for a partnership in our Chicago operations.”

“Really? What kind?”

“The kind where he does half the work for sixty percent of the profit.” His mouth curves into a cold smile. “We’ll be declining.”

“How diplomatically?”

“Diplomatically enough that he doesn’t declare war. Firmly enough that he gets the message.”

This is my role now. The beautiful wife who smiles and charms while her husband conducts business over champagne and canapés. Part trophy, part translator, part shield against the uglier aspects of his world.

I should hate it. Instead, I find myself looking forward to watching him work.

The Metropolitan Museum has been transformed into a glittering paradise.

Crystal chandeliers cast rainbows across marble floors while guests in designer gowns and tailored tuxedos mingle among priceless artifacts.

The theme is “Art and Philanthropy,” which translates to “rich people showing off their tax-deductible generosity.”

“Alaric!” A woman with silver hair and kind eyes approaches us. “How wonderful to see you.”

“Elena,” he replies, kissing her cheek. “You look radiant. Elena Benedetti, this is my wife, Kasimira.”

“The famous new bride.” Elena takes my hands, studying my face with sharp intelligence. “My dear, you’re even more beautiful than the photographs suggested.”

I like her immediately.

“We should find our table,” Alaric says, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back.

The touch sends heat shooting through me. Three days of careful distance, and one simple gesture undoes my composure completely. I can feel the memory of his mouth on my skin, the weight of his body claiming mine.

Focus, Kasi.

Dinner passes in a blur of introductions and careful conversations. I smile at the right moments, laugh at mediocre jokes, and quietly deflect probing questions about our “whirlwind romance.”

“Mrs. Moretti speaks six languages,” Tony Benedetti tells his wife across the table. “Quite impressive for someone so young.”

“I have a gift for languages. Always have.”

“Your Russian was flawless when you spoke with the Petrovs,” Elena mentions casually.

Every conversation stops. The Petrovs are Bratva, and admitting contact with them is dangerous territory.

“Business requires communication,” Alaric says, his voice carrying a warning.

“Of course.” Elena’s smile doesn’t falter. “How practical to have such a talented wife.”

The moment passes, but I catch the looks exchanged around the table.

After dinner, we move to the Egyptian wing for the auction. Wealthy philanthropists bid ridiculous amounts on art they may never display, all in the name of charity. A Monet sketch sells for two million dollars. A Roman sculpture goes for four.

“Boring,” I murmur to Alaric during a particularly intense bidding war over a medieval manuscript.

“Wait for it,” he replies.

The manuscript sells for six million to a tech billionaire who probably can’t read Latin.

“See? Boring,” I whisper.

His mouth quirks up at the corner. It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve gotten from him since Miami.

The evening drags on. More introductions, more careful conversations, more performances of respectability over cocktails that cost more than minimum wage workers make in a week.

“Mrs. Moretti.” A voice behind me makes my blood freeze.

I turn to find Viktor Petrov’s cousin, Dmitri, smiling at me with too many teeth. We met him briefly in Miami, but seeing him here feels like a threat.

“Mr. Petrov,” I reply carefully. “What brings you to New York?”

“Business.” His English is heavily accented, but his eyes are sharp. “I wanted to say that you handle negotiations well for someone so…inexperienced.”

“Experience is overrated.”

“Perhaps. But loyalty…” He steps closer, invading my personal space. “Loyalty is everything, no?”

Before I can respond, Alaric appears at my side. He doesn’t say a word, just slides his arm around my waist and stares at Dmitri with the kind of stillness that precedes violence.

“Enjoy your evening,” Dmitri says, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender.

“What was that about?” I ask when he’s gone.

“Fishing expedition,” Alaric says. “Seeing if you’ll turn.”

“Turn?”

“Against me. Against the family.” His arm tightens around me. “Some wives have been known to…change allegiances when the price is right.”

“And you think I would?”

“I think you’re smart enough to survive, whatever that requires.”

It’s not exactly a declaration of trust, but coming from him, it might as well be.

The rest of the evening passes without incident. We bid politely on a few pieces, donate the expected amount to the museum’s endowment, and play the part of devoted newlyweds for the cameras.

But all I can think about is the heat of his hand on my back, the way his eyes track my movements across the room, the memory of how he looked at me when I came down the stairs.

By the time we’re in the car heading home, the tension between us is thick enough to cut.

“You did well tonight,” he says, loosening his tie.

“Did I meet expectations?”

“You exceeded them.”

The praise shouldn’t matter as much as it does. But after years of being told I was worthless, every acknowledgment of my competence feels like oxygen.

“The Benedettis liked you,” he continues. “Elena especially. That’s not easy to earn.”

“She reminds me of my grandmother. Before she died.”

“What was she like?”

“Strong. Stubborn. She used to say that women in our family don’t break, we just bend until we find a new shape.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “She was wise.”

“She would have liked you.”

“Would she?”

“She appreciated dangerous men. She said they were honest about what they wanted.”

“Hmm. Can you guess what I want?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with three days of unspoken tension. I could give him a safe answer, something about business or respect or family loyalty.

Instead, I meet his eyes in the reflection of the window. “Control. Power. And me, whenever you stop being too proud to admit it.”

His pupils dilate, and I know I’ve hit the target.

“Careful, Kasimira.”

“Or what?”

“Or I might give you exactly what you’re asking for.”

The promise in his voice makes my pulse race. By the time we reach the estate, my skin feels too tight, and every breath comes too shallow.

We walk into the house in silence, our footsteps echoing off marble floors. At the bottom of the stairs, he stops.

“Goodnight,” he says, his voice carefully controlled.

I want to say goodnight back, go to my room like a good wife, and pretend my body isn’t burning for his touch, but I step closer instead.

“Alaric.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that unless you mean it.”

“What if I do mean it?”

“Go to bed, Kasimira.”

“Come with me.”

The words escape before I can stop them.

For a heartbeat, I think he might. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and his breathing gets rough.

Then he steps back. “Goodnight.”

This time, it’s final. He turns and walks toward his office, leaving me standing alone at the bottom of the stairs.

I watch him go, my skin still humming with unfulfilled desire, and realize that Miami changed everything.