Domenico
I paced the dimly lit hallway outside the bedroom I had just locked Chiara in, my jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
“It’s not like we’re really married.” Chiara’s voice echoed in my mind like a mocking mantra.
I raked my fingers through my hair. Of course, we weren’t. She was my wife in name only. It was supposed to be a business arrangement to make my grandfather hand over the company—a contract marriage where we both stayed for the benefits.
Then why? Why did hearing her get so defensive about her lover make my blood feel like it was boiling in my veins?
“Lover?” The word tasted sour in my mouth.
I tugged at my collar, the crisp white shirt suddenly too constricting and hot against my skin. Then I moved to the living room, still pacing.
The air in the suite was cool, yet
