The Moretti Marriage Contract

The Morning After

Ruthlyn’s POV

9:00 AM came far too quickly.

I walked into the dining room feeling like I’d been hit by a train. My lips were still slightly swollen, a constant reminder of George’s mouth on mine.

George was already there, looking perfectly composed in a charcoal gray suit. It was like last night hadn't happened. He was back to staring at his tablet, his face a marble mask.

"Good morning," I said, taking my seat.

"Madam," Arthur greeted, pouring my tea.

"George," I said, my voice clearer this time. He didn't look up. "I saw the news this morning. Moretti Pharmaceuticals. The lawsuits are getting worse, aren't they? People are saying the board might face criminal charges."

The clink of George’s spoon against his cup stopped. He slowly looked up, his silver eyes cold and sharp as glass.

"You shouldn't believe everything you read on the internet, Ruthlyn," he said, his voice flat.

"I’m not an i***t, George. I know why you’re stressed. I know why you were a 'mess' last night," I said, leaning forward. I knew he was hurting. "Is that why you’re so desperate for this Gala? To prove to your shareholders that you're stable even while your company is killing people?"

Arthur went still in the corner. George’s jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might crack.

"Eat your breakfast, Ruthlyn," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The dance instructor is waiting in the ballroom. We have a performance to prepare for."

"Is that all this is?" I challenged. "A performance?"

George stood up, his chair screeching against the floor. He leaned over the table, his presence looming over me. "In this house, the performance is the only thing that keeps you alive. Remember that."

George’s POV

The mention of the pharmaceuticals felt like a physical blade between my ribs. She sat there, draped in my silk and eating my food, judging the very empire that was currently keeping her family out of the gutter. She knew nothing of the bribes, the autopsies I was burying, or the wolves waiting for me to trip.

"Is that all this is?" she challenged, her voice tilting with that shipyard defiance. "A performance?"

I didn't just stand up; I surged. My chair hit the floor with a hollow thud that echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Arthur vanished into the shadows of the pantry,he knew when the air was about to turn lethal.

I leaned over the table, my shadow swallowing her whole. "You think you’re being clever, Ruthlyn? You think reading a few headlines gives you the right to dissect my business?"

"I think I have a right to know if my 'husband' is a criminal," she shot back, though I saw the slight tremor in her hand as she set her teacup down.

I didn't answer with words. I rounded the table in three strides. Before she could even gasp, I gripped the arms of her chair and jerked it back, spinning her to face me. I leaned down, my face inches from hers, my hands pinning her into the seat.

"Let’s get one thing straight," I hissed, my voice a low, vibrating growl that made the silver on the table rattle. You’re here because I made sure you had somewhere else to be.

‘Don’t mistake that for permission to question how I run what I built.”

His grip tightened.

“And when it matters,you follow my lead.”

“My company’s 'legal troubles' are the reason you aren't currently sleeping on a floor in a shipyard. Do not..ever...bring up my business at this table again."

"Or what?" she breathed, her eyes wide but still burning. "You'll bite me again?"

The memory of her skin under my teeth last night flashed through my mind, mixing with the white-hot rage of the morning. My gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes.

“For the next seventy-two hours, every move you make reflects on me. Don’t forget that." I threatened. "To the ballroom. Now."

Ruthlyn’s POV

My heart was thundering so hard I could feel it in my throat. George looked truly dangerous,not just "billionaire stressed," but "predator on the hunt." I had pushed him too far, and for the first time, I felt the sheer weight of the power he held over me.

I followed him to the ballroom in silence.

The room was massive, floors polished to a mirror shine, with a small, wiry man in a tuxedo waiting by a grand piano.

"Master George, Madam," the instructor said, bowing. "I am Mr. Sterling. We have very little time to perfect the Moretti Waltz. If you please, take your positions."

George didn't look at me. He stepped into the center of the floor and waited. I walked toward him, feeling the heavy silk of my morning gown swishing around my ankles.

"Hand on her waist, Monsieur," Sterling commanded. "Madam, left hand on his shoulder. Right hands joined. Eyes on each other. Always on each other."

George’s hand landed on my waist, and I nearly jumped. His grip was firm, his fingers splayed across the small of my back, pulling me flush against his hard, suit-clad frame. My hand went to his shoulder, feeling the rigid tension in his muscles.

"Closer," Sterling urged. "You are newlyweds. There should be no daylight between you."

George jerked me forward until our chests collided. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the lingering tension of our fight at breakfast.

"Begin," Sterling said, nodding to the pianist.

The music started,a slow, haunting melody. George moved with a grace that surprised me, his long strides forcing me to keep up. We spun across the floor, the world blurring into a swirl of gold leaf and marble.

"You're stiff," George muttered into my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

"Maybe because I'm being held by a statue," I whispered back.

His hand tightened on my waist, pulling me so close my breasts were crushed against his chest. "Keep your eyes on me, Ruthlyn. Smile. Look like you actually want to be here."

I looked up at him, my face inches from his. Up close, I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes and the way his jaw was still locked in fury. The physical proximity was agonizing. Every turn of the dance sent a new jolt of electricity through me.

Suddenly, George’s phone buzzed in his pocket,a sharp, insistent vibration. He ignored it for two rotations, but then it buzzed again. And again.

"Stop," George barked at the pianist.

He pulled away from me so abruptly I nearly stumbled. He snatched the phone from his pocket, his face turning an ashen gray as he read the screen.

"What is it?" I asked, my bravado from breakfast vanishing. "George?"

He didn't look at me. He looked... haunted. For a split second, the mask of the Ice Heir cracked, and I saw a flash of raw, agonizing guilt.

"Arthur!" George roared, turning toward the door.

"Is it the company?" I stepped toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. "George, is it the people who got sick?"

He flinched away from my touch as if I were made of acid. He looked at me, and for the first time, there was no lust, no anger,just a cold, hollow emptiness.

"Stay here," he said, his voice a ghost of itself. "Finish the lesson with Sterling. I have to go."

He turned and practically ran from the ballroom, leaving me standing alone in the center of the vast, echoing space.

I looked at Mr. Sterling, who was awkwardly adjusting his cufflinks. "What just happened?"

"The world of the Morettis happened, Madam," Sterling said softly. "I suggest we practice your footwork. You’ll need to be steady for what’s coming."