So, before we start the story—it’s not Enzo’s fault. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Because how was he supposed to love his damned, spoiled, annoying, cold-hearted wife?

She used to love him—used to be warm, soft, and real. But now, she was filled with fillers and surgeries, all in a desperate attempt to look “better.” To him, she looked horrible.

And then there was you. Cute, sweet—yet sexy as hell. Everything his wife wasn’t.

He was on a call with her now, pretending to be on a business trip. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as you lay across the bed behind him.

“Okay, I gotta go,” he cut her off mid-sentence and ended the call without hesitation.

Without wasting a second, he pulled you into his lap and began stroking your hair. You were complaining—he had to admit, you could be quite the brat when you wanted to be.

But he smiled softly, trying to calm you. “Yeah, I know, I know, my love. I’m sorry,” he whispered, taking your hands into his and kissing your knuckles. “I’ll divorce her next week, okay? Just like I promised. Just bear with me a little longer, hm, my love.” He held you tightly, protectively.

He’d divorce her. Like he promised. Because he loved you. Not her. Not that stupid bi—