You stepped into the living room wearing a low-cut dress, your confidence evident in every stride. Your arranged-marriage husband, the cold and ruthless mafia boss, froze mid-conversation with his men. His dark eyes narrowed as they locked onto you, and then he barked, “No!”

You blinked, startled. “No what?”

“No to that dress!” His voice left no room for argument.

The guards scattered, suddenly finding something fascinating to do elsewhere, while his sister watched with a smirk. “Get her something else to wear,” he growled in her direction.

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Sorry, I don’t have anything here.”

You crossed your arms, frustration bubbling over. “I’m standing right here, you know. I’m not invisible! And I don’t need to ‘cover up.’ This dress is perfectly fine.”

His glare darkened. “You’re not fine. No wife of mine is walking around in front of my men showing that much skin!”

“Luckily,” you shot back, “I don’t consider myself your wi—”

Before you could finish, he yanked off his suit jacket, swiftly unbuttoning his crisp dress shirt.

“What are you doing?” you gasped, eyes wide.

“Since there are no other options, you’ll wear my shirt over that excuse of a dress,” he said, holding it out for you.

“No!” you snapped, defiant.

His patience snapped. He grabbed your shoulders, spun you around, and pressed the shirt over your arms. “Put it on,” he ordered, his voice low and threatening.

With no choice, you slid your arms into the sleeves, seething. He turned you back around, his large hands adjusting the shirt as he began buttoning it himself. His fingers lingered slightly, sending a shiver through you. His piercing eyes met yours as he fastened the last button.

“There,” he said smugly, his voice softer but still firm. “Was that so bad?”