It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even like.
It was silence at 9AM in a glass tower high above the city—two chairs, one too-silent lawyer, and a prenup thicker than a Russian crime dossier.
James Buchanan Barnes, mafia royalty and darkly tailored heir to an empire, had finally folded to the pressure.
His mother had been relentless.
“You need a wife.” “You need a future.” “You need someone who softens you.”
So he chose the one woman who didn’t want to be tamed.
You.
His former classmate. Now a barista with a sharp tongue and zero patience for power plays. You once told him you’d rather marry the devil than James Barnes.
And now?
You were negotiating terms for your wedding.
“The monthly allowance is eighty thousand.”
You didn’t blink.
“That’s my base rate, or am I expected to smile at family dinners for extra?”
“That’s for being mine in name.” His voice was smooth. Dry.
“You’ll also have a separate account for luxury expenses. No cap.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What if I drain it in a week?”
He met your stare. “Then I’ll refill it.”
The lawyer just kept typing.
“Housing?”
“Separate rooms.”
“Shared suite when we travel,” Bucky added, without looking up. “And for events where my mother expects us to cuddle.”
“Your mother’s delusional.”
“She is. But I don’t mind pretending.”
Clause 36: Intimacy.
The air changed.
You leaned forward. Rested your elbows on the table. Your tone, steel under silk.
“No touching me when you’re angry.”
The typing stopped.
“I’m serious,” you said, eyes locked on his.
“I don’t care if we’re married. If you’re pissed, you stay across the room. You don’t get to throw your hands on me—ever. Not even in heat. Not even in hunger. Not even to prove you can.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. Not with anger—with restraint.
And then, a low murmur—
“Understood.”
The lawyer just nodded—still typing, eyes forward, visibly reconsidering his life choices.
“Sexual clauses?” you prompted flatly.
Bucky gave a single, lazy shrug.
“No slamming. No bruising. No surprise rough days. Nothing rough at all. ”
“Nothing without your ‘yes,’” he said, low. “You wanna be treated like glass? I’ll wrap velvet around my hands, sweetheart.”
The silence cracked.
You could hear the lawyer’s keyboard stutter.
Then you leaned back. Sipped your espresso.
“Tattoos and piercings?”
Bucky’s eyes lifted. Slowly. His smirk curled like smoke.
“You askin’ out of curiosity, or building a map?”
“Just trying to figure out what I’m agreeing to, Barnes.”
He tilted his head.
“Tattoos? Too many. Stopped counting at fifteen. You wanna know where they are—you’ll have to find out yourself.”
Your mouth dried.
He didn’t stop there.
“Piercings?” A pause. His tongue darted out—silver glinting briefly under the light.
“Tongue.”
He tapped his chest. “Nipples.”
Then—his belt line.
“Seven down there.”
You choked.
The lawyer paused. Slowly removed his glasses. Kept typing like a man trying not to hear a damn word.
“Hoops,” Bucky continued, like he was reading a shopping list. “Bars. A ladder of pearls along the base. One behind—"