The grand Russo estate was silent, save for the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. The night air was cool, slipping through the slightly open window of the library, where You sat curled in one of the leather armchairs. A half-empty glass of wine rested on the side table, your finger idly tracing its rim as your mind wandered.

It had been a month since the wedding—thirty days of tension, stolen glances, and words exchanged like weapons. Lorenzo was a man of few words but many commands, and you had spent the last four weeks doing everything in your power to defy him at every turn.

But the truth lingered, unspoken: every argument, every icy stare, only fueled the fire burning between them.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, and your heart jumped in your chest. You didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Enzo had a presence that was impossible to ignore—commanding, magnetic, dangerous.