The Moretti Marriage Contract

The Breaking Point

George’s POV

The drive back from the cathedral was a blur of rain and red tail lights. Lorenzo Valenti had blinked. He saw the look in my eyes and realized I wasn't there to negotiate, I was there to decide how far I could push him before he broke.”

The cargo would be at the port by dawn.

But the victory felt hollow. My skin was still buzzing from the sight of Ruthlyn at that dinner table. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the water darkening that white fabric. I saw the defiance in her eyes.

"Drop me at the front," I told the driver. "And Arthur,don't wake me unless the world actually ends."

"Understood, sir," Arthur said, his eyes reflecting in the rearview mirror with a knowing, silent caution.

I walked into the manor, the heavy silence of the house pressing against my eardrums. I didn't go to my wing. I didn't go to the kitchen for a drink. I went straight to the West Wing.

I didn't knock. I didn't care about the protocol anymore.

Ruthlyn’s POV

I was lying on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. I had seen a few headlines on my phone earlier,vague rumors about "Moretti Holdings" and "shady offshore movements",but nothing concrete. The only thing the news actually confirmed was that George’s pharmaceutical company was being sued into oblivion.

When the door swung open, I didn't even have to look. The air in the room changed instantly.

George stood in the doorway, His coat was gone, his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was a mess. He looked like a man who had just survived a wreck.

"You're back," I said, sitting up. I was still wearing those denim shorts and the damp tank top. I didn't care.

He didn't speak. He walked toward the bed, his footsteps heavy. He stopped inches away, looking down at me with a gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight."You like to push, Ruthlyn," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You like to see exactly where the line is."

"I like to know who I'm dealing with," I countered, my heart hammering. "The billionaire in the suit? Or the man underneath?”

George reached out, his hand wrapping around my nape, his thumb tilting my chin up. His touch was hot, bordering on bruising. "Last night, I was a mess. Today, I'm just finished with the games."

He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the cold night air and the faint scent of expensive tobacco on him. "That stunt at dinner... the water... did you get the reaction you wanted?"

"I don't know," I whispered, my breath hitching as his hand tightened. "Did I?"

"I wanted to tear that table apart," he admitted, his eyes dropping to my lips. "I wanted to show you exactly what happens when you provoke a Moretti in his own house."

He didn't wait for a reply. He crushed his mouth to mine, and this time, there was no hesitation. It was a claim. His mouth took mine like a claim, all heat and intent and I met him halfway, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us.

He groaned, a deep, primal sound that vibrated through my chest. He moved over me, his weight pinning me to the mattress. His hands were everywhere,my waist, my hips, the silk of my slip bunching up as he sought the heat of my skin.

I felt his heart racing against mine, a frantic, jagged rhythm that matched my own. For a moment, the world outside,was gone.

His lips moved to my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "Ruthlyn," he breathed, his voice broken.

The heat was overwhelming. My body was screaming for him to stay, to finish this, to let the contract burn. But as his hand slid higher up my thigh, the ghost of Dante’s warning flashed in my head. Watch your back.

George paused, his forehead resting against mine, both of us gasping for air. His eyes were dark, a storm of lust and something that looked terrifyingly like a need he couldn't control.

"George," I whispered, my voice trembling.

He froze. He looked at me,really looked at me,and I saw the "Ice Heir" trying to claw his way back to the surface. He saw the flush on my cheeks, the way my hair was spread across the pillow, and the raw vulnerability in my eyes.

He closed his eyes, his chest heaving. With a sudden, jerky movement, he pulled away and stood up.

"I can't," he rasped, turning his back to me. His hands were shaking. “Not like this,” he rasped. “Not when I don’t know if I’d stop.”

"George..."

"The Council Gala is in forty-eight hours," he said, his voice returning to that cold, robotic monotone, though it cracked at the edges. "I need you focused. I need me focused."

He walked toward the door without looking back. "Get some sleep, Ruthlyn. Tomorrow, the dance instructor arrives at nine. Don't be late."

The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the cold silence of the room, my skin still burning from a fire he’d started,and refused to finish.