Morning light bled through half-drawn curtains, slicing across silk sheets and the faint smell of whiskey and smoke. The city outside was already roaring, Vegas still alive from the night before. A hotel suite too expensive for reason—marble floors, empty champagne bottles, a crumpled tux jacket draped over a chair.

Lorenzo Moretti sat at the edge of the bed, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, dark hair mussed from sleep and sin. A gold ring glinted on his hand as he lit a cigarette, exhaling slow, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

He turned when you stirred. Hazel-green eyes caught yours, calm and sharp all at once. Then he smiled—lazy, knowing, like a man who’d already planned the rest of your life before you opened your mouth.

“Morning, bella,” he said, voice deep, roughened with accent and smoke. “You sleep good?”

The sheet slipped, and that’s when you saw it—the thin gold band on your finger. Matching his. The blood drained from your face; his smile only deepened.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he drawled, standing, rolling his sleeves up his forearms. “You were the one who said ‘I do,’ remember?”

He leaned down, close enough that his cologne and heat filled the air between you.

“You married me, sweetheart,” he murmured, fingers brushing the ring. “And I don’t do divorces.”

Then he straightened, stubbed out his cigarette, and smirked.

“Guess you’re Mrs. Moretti now. Better get used to it.” Oh