He Never Chose Me

“Wow,” I said at last, closing the door behind me with a soft click. “I thought you were still busy having a reunion with your ex.”

His gaze dropped for a second, traveling down my body. From the thin heels, to my bare legs, to where the dress cinched at my waist, to the neckline that was bold enough to qualify as a friendly reminder that you’re married.

Then it came back up to my face. “Midnight,” he said coldly. “You’re just getting home.”

I dropped my clutch onto the side table and walked in, my heels slicing through the silence. “I’ll admit, Italy has great nightlife. You should try it sometime. Oh, wait… you already started.”

Something tightened in his jaw. “I was at a business dinner.”

“Business that wears a tight nude dress and an entire bottle of highlighter on her cheekbones?” I lifted a brow. “Nice. Very modern of your father.”

“Paparazzi are everywhere,” he replied coolly. “They can crop anyone into a photo.”

“Unfortunately, they didn’t crop your hand off her back.” I let out a short laugh, nudging my heel off with a small kick, then the other. My bare feet sank into the thick rug. “But relax. This is Italy. People care more about football than the morality of heirs.”

His eyes tracked me, every movement, as I walked to the vanity, took off my earrings, slipped the hair tie from my wrist, and twisted my hair up into a messy knot.

“What’s your problem, El?” I asked, meeting our reflection in the mirror. I looked like an after-party poster. He looked like a watch ad. “You get to have a date with your ex, but I’m not allowed to drink tequila with my friends?”

“You left without saying anything,” he said.

“Don’t be dramatic.” I turned around and leaned back against the dresser, hands gripping the edge of the wood. “Besides, your butler knew. He even told me, ‘have fun, signora.’ Very supportive.”

“Giancarlo isn’t your husband.”

“Correct.” My voice sharpened. “My husband was busy with His Ex.”

Something flashed in his eyes when I said it. “You saw the photos,” he guessed flatly.

“Are you really trying to test my IQ right now?” I folded my arms across my chest, pushing my breasts up a little. I didn’t forget my arsenal. “Yes, I saw them all. Three, to be precise. Great angles. Great lighting. Chemistry…” I gave a small shrug. “Not bad.”

He stood. That simple movement was enough to shift the air. One second he was sitting at the edge of the bed, the next he was on his feet, full height, the physical definition of serious problem in bipedal form.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“A little,” I admitted, holding up two fingers. “But sadly not enough to forget your face.”

He took a step closer. Every step was measured, slow, like he was counting the distance. I could smell his cologne now, threaded with a faint trace of restaurant smoke.

Alessandra had smelled this tonight too. Probably from a much ruder distance.

“You think this is fair?” he asked, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave. “You’re a Ricciardi wife, and you’re out there dancing in a club, smelling like tequila, letting men put their hands on you—”

“Aww.” I cut in, my smile curving sharp. “You’re jealous? That’s adorable.”

“This isn’t about jealousy.” His eyes flashed cold. “This is about the family name. Reputation. Photos can come out anytime. You know who your family is, and you know who mine is. You know what’s at stake.”

“Oh, I know.” I pushed off the vanity and closed the distance by one step, until our chests were almost brushing. “I also know I’m not a porcelain doll you can lock on a shelf while you go socialize with your past.”

“Alessandra is part of the family’s business network,” he said, too quickly. “Meeting with investors—”

I laughed, loud and sharp. “So now you’re calling a romantic dinner with the woman who cried at our engagement party ‘networking’? Great. When I sleep with another CEO, I’ll call it the same thing.”

“Ara.” He said my name low, warning threaded through it. “Don’t start.”

“You started.” My chest rose and fell. “You started when you stood at the altar six months ago looking like you were being forced to marry the Joker instead of me. You started when every time I sit through your family lunches, you sit there like an M&A lawyer, not a husband. And today…” I lifted my chin. “Today you upgraded. At least you smiled. Shame it wasn’t at me.”

We were too close now. My breath mingled with his. His eyes held something back, something hard and dark and piled up over time.

“This marriage,” Rafael said quietly, each word dragged out of his jaw, “doesn’t work.”

I went still for a fraction of a second. I drew in a short breath, holding back the sting that climbed from my chest to my throat. It burned like tequila, just without the good part.

“You only realized that after dessert with Alessandra?” I asked, my voice flat. “Or did you have this speech drafted since our first month living here?”

“We’ve been six months,” he went on, like I hadn’t spoken. “And every day is a battlefield. We fight about little things, big things, things that don’t even matter.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I don’t see… a future… here.”

There was a small part of me that, for some stupid reason, still hoped he’d say but I want to try.

The idiot part.  The part that liked the way he looked at me when neither of us had clothes on.

I cut that part out myself.

I nodded slowly, swallowing around the pain. “Deal,” I said. My voice was normal. Impressive. “We’ll tell our parents next week. Call the lawyers. Split the assets. I’ll handle the dramatic part myself.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Maybe he hadn’t expected me to agree that quickly. Men love to think they’re the only ones holding the detonator.

“Ara—”

“It’s fine.” I lifted a hand, stopping him. “Seriously. You’re right. This marriage doesn’t work. You don’t have to pretend to try if you don’t want to.” My mouth curved a little. “I’m too pretty to beg, anyway.”

That wasn’t arrogance. It was fact.

Latin cheekbones. Blue eyes. Small waist. Breasts built by genetics and cheese, not silicone. In a lot of other universes, I was the grand prize.

Unfortunately, I got married in the wrong one.

Rafael reached out a hand. For a fraction of a second, I thought he was going to shake on it… whatever it was. Some formal divorce pact.

Instead, his fingers tipped my chin up. Angling my face toward his. “Tomorrow morning,” his baritone dropping, “we’ll talk about lawyers.”

I parted my lips to say okay, or make sure he’s hot, or something equally useless.

I didn’t get the chance.

In one movement, he yanked me toward him. My back hit his chest, then my body tipped and the room tilted with it. The mattress caught me with an infuriating softness. The same bed where we’d fought with words and settled things in far more primitive ways.

I stared up.

Rafael stood at the side of the bed, his silhouette tall against the warm yellow light. The tie was gone, but his shirt was still on, half the buttons undone. His chest rose and fell slowly.

“What are you doing?” I asked, even though my body already knew the answer before my brain did.

He braced a knee on the mattress, leaning in until his face hovered just inches above mine. Those gray eyes were darker now, no longer just cold. Something slow and burning lived at the bottom.

“Today,” he said, voice roughened at the edges, “will be the last day I touch you.”

My heart stopped for a split second, then slammed into my ribs, furious.

Last.

The word echoed in my head.

Rang all the way to my fingertips.

I could’ve said no need, gotten up, run to the bathroom, locked the door and cried into the jacuzzi. I could’ve gone full dramatic, turned my face away, flown to Boston in the morning and never looked back.

But, I laughed. “So dramatic, El,” I said, shifting slightly, my dress riding a few inches higher on my thighs. “Very B-grade mafia movie. ‘Last night with the boss.’”

He didn’t smile. His big hand slid to my waist, dragging me closer until the dress hitched higher and his breath brushed my mouth.

“Ara,” he whispered. “Stop talking.”

“If I stop talking,” I shot back, though my own breath had started to tremble, “you’re going to fall in love with me.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with you,” he answered on reflex.

It hurt. Clean and fast. Like a needle going in without anesthesia.

I smiled wider. “Exactly,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

His hand tightened at my waist, firm enough to remind me he had the kind of strength that could break more than vertebrae.

“So?” I pushed, meeting his eyes head-on. “You want to make me one last mistake, signore? Go ahead. I’ll need something to remember when the lawyers start reading numbers.”

There was a fraction of a second when I thought he would back away. That he’d drop his hand, step off the bed, leave the room, and close the door for good.

He didn’t.

Instead, he lowered his head and covered my mouth with his.

His kiss wasn’t some soft, apologetic goodbye. It was rough.

His teeth caught my bottom lip, tugging just enough to make me moan into his mouth. My hands moved on their own, grabbing his collar, yanking him closer.

My whole body reacted like Pavlov’s dog, except the bell was his cologne and his anger.

Last, my brain repeated, even as I shoved at his shoulder so he’d roll and his body came down fully over mine.

Last.

His fingers found the zipper at the back of my dress. A movement his hands knew by heart. He’d pulled it down on our first night, our third, our seventh, and on all the nights after the stupidest fights.

The fabric slid over my skin, the air cool against me for a second, before his body heat covered it again.

For a few minutes, my brain stopped asking why a man who wanted to divorce me was still touching me like I was the only thing keeping him sane.

For a few minutes, I let my body lie.

Let it pretend we were fine. That this wasn’t an ending, just the start of another chapter.

Later, when it was over, when the room went quiet again and I was alone staring at the ceiling, I’d remember that he never really tried.

That out of all the women he could’ve chosen, the blonde ex with premium silicone, the European socialites with pedigrees like family crests… he never really chose me.

But right now, with his hands moving over my skin and our breaths tangled together, I shoved that truth down, deep, into the same place I buried every feeling I didn’t have time to process.

If this really was the last time Rafael Vittorio Ricciardi touched me, so be it.

I’d make sure he remembered every second.