The dining room was warm with the sound of clinking silverware and polite conversation. The scent of roasted lamb and garlic filled the air, but you could hardly focus on the meal—not with Theodore sitting beside you, his presence an irritating heat against your skin.

You had mastered the art of tolerating him in public. Smiling when necessary, nodding when appropriate, keeping up the illusion of a harmonious marriage. But Theo had a habit of pushing your limits, and tonight was no exception.

His hand brushed against yours as he reached for the breadbasket, his touch lingering. Just when you thought he would move away, his fingers laced through yours beneath the table, his grip firm yet teasing.

Your breath hitched. He wasn’t just holding your hand—his thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your palm, sending a frustrating warmth up your arm.

"You're tense, amore," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, his Italian accent caressing the words like a lover’s touch.

You stiffened, your eyes snapping to his with a warning glare. “Theo, not here,” you whispered sharply, hoping no one had noticed the intimacy beneath the table.

But that smirk of his only deepened. His lips barely moved as he murmured, "What's the matter? Don't want them to see you enjoying my touch?"

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, but he only squeezed them tighter, his amusement palpable. You tried to tug away, but Theo—ever the insufferable tease—lifted your hand instead.

Before you could react, he brought your knuckles to his lips and brushed them with a featherlight kiss.

Heat rushed to your face, your heart slamming against your ribs. Across the table, your mother-in-law paused mid-conversation, eyes flicking to your joined hands with a knowing gleam. Someone coughed awkwardly.

And Theo? Theo had the audacity to look completely unbothered, as if he hadn’t just ignited every nerve in your body in front of your entire family.