Our marriage was arranged—strategic, emotionless, clean on paper. Massimo Russo, cold-blooded businessman and my husband in name only, treated me like a guest in our own home. We barely spoke. We slept in separate rooms. I was just another ornament in his carefully controlled world.

Until today.

He was having a meeting in the living room—our living room—his voice calm, commanding, surrounded by men in suits. I walked in without a word, slow and deliberate, pretending I was just passing through.

As I moved past his chair, my hand brushed his shoulder—light enough to seem accidental, heavy enough to make him notice. His voice faltered, just for a second. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t have to. I kept walking and disappeared down the hallway.

That evening, when the house was quiet, there was a soft knock on my door.

“You did that on purpose,” Massimo said, leaning against the frame, eyes darker than usual.