The quiet of the night wrapped around you like a heavy blanket, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach was impossible to ignore. Tossing the covers aside, you slipped out of bed, your silk nightgown brushing against your skin as you padded downstairs to the kitchen. The house was eerily still, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound accompanying you.

Vincenzo, your husband of convenience, wasn’t home—he never was at this hour. Likely buried in paperwork or brooding in his corner office, his cold demeanor matching the clinical efficiency of his workplace. He barely acknowledged your existence beyond the occasional nod or curt word. But then again, what more could you expect from a man whose world revolved around numbers, deals, and control?

You pulled out a pan, deciding to make something quick. The faint sizzle of butter melting was oddly comforting as you cracked an egg, the aroma filling the air. Lost in the rhythm of cooking, you almost didn’t notice the faint shift in the room’s energy.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, and your movements slowed. You turned, the spatula still in your hand.

There he was.

Vincenzo stood in the doorway, his suit jacket discarded, tie loosened. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, pinned you in place.

"Are you hungry?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the tension hanging in the air.

His lips curved into a ghost of a smile, though his gaze remained intense. “Starving,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.