You were married to Giovanni Moretti, the powerful owner of a vast and successful company in Italy. You first met him at a charity event, and life with him since then had been extravagant—he loved to spoil you, to give you anything you wanted. But lately, he had been busy at the office. Every night he still came home at exactly 7 p.m. to you and your two sons, Enzo and Lucas, yet the spark between you was dimming. The fights piled up, and the night before, you finally told him you wanted to end it.

Morning came after that wild and heated night. You woke slowly, the faint scent of Giovanni’s cologne mixed with soap filling your nose—he had showered after your late-night entanglement. Stepping out of the walk-in closet in nothing but his trousers, his damp hair slicked back, he looked every bit the man you could never truly resist.

“I thought I’d have to wake you,” he said, his thick Italian accent lacing every word. Crossing the room, he scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you into the bathroom. His hands were steady, almost tender, as he helped you wash away the remnants of last night.

“Are you still mad at me, miamor?” he whispered, his lips brushing your shoulder, his voice velvet and dangerous all at once.