Chapter 1: Awakening Regrets

Sunlight poked through those thick curtains, hitting the messed-up sheets with a warm light. Isabella Moretti shifted, her whole body sore in ways that screamed last night wasn't a dream. Her skin still buzzed from where he'd touched her. Those firm hands exploring every bit of her like he owned it. She blinked hard, her head throbbing from all that champagne and the mess she'd gotten into.

Where was this place? It reeked of wealth: high ceilings, marble bits showing under scattered clothes, and that killer view of Milan only the super wealthy got. Not Lorenzo's cold house that felt like a trap. This spot? Too cozy, too fancy for a random hotel. Some rich guy's hideout, maybe. Her stomach dropped as bits of the night came rushing back.

It began at that fancy masked club, tucked away in Milan's fashion area. The spot where big shots hid behind masks and low lights to let loose. She'd gone by herself, sick of her life closing in. Three years stuck with Lorenzo Bianchi, the billionaire CEO running tech giants and property deals. It was all fake, a contract. Her dad had gambled away everything, almost losing the family vineyard. Lorenzo stepped in, paid it off, but only if she'd be his quiet, perfect wife. No real feelings, no heat. Just showing up at events, faking smiles for photos, and lonely nights while he chased work or other women.

The sadness had been eating at her for months, a low-key pain booze helped numb but never fixed. Last night, she dove into the drinks, the club's beat dragging her to the floor. Then he showed up, a tall guy in a black mask, owning the space without trying. Shoulders broad in his shirt, hair a bit wild, hinting at trouble. He didn't bother asking; grabbed her hand and led her through the crowd like she belonged to him.

They danced tight, way too tight. His body against hers, heat coming off him through her thin red dress. "Bella," he whispered in her ear, voice deep with that Italian twist that made her tingle. She didn't say her name; kept it hidden. The mask was her safety net.

Drinks kept coming, leading to a back booth where everything else faded. His fingers grazed her thigh, pushing her dress up slowly, inch by inch. "You need this," he said, breath hot on her neck. "Let it out, piccola." Her heart raced, heat building down low. It'd been ages since anyone made her feel wanted, not just a decoration.

She nodded, buzzed more from him than the booze. He tugged her to a side room, door shutting with a click. No talking needed. With masks on, making it hotter, he pushed her against the wall, his hands sliding up, thumbs brushing under her breasts through the fabric. She gasped, arching closer. "Yeah, like that," he growled, kissing her hard, tongues fighting, teeth grazing, her melting into it.

He hoisted her up easy, her legs around his waist, carrying her to a soft couch. Dress bunched up, fingers at her lace panties, teasing the edge before slipping in. Slow strokes, circling her spot, pressing in, making the need grow till she whimpered. "So ready for me," he whispered, voice rough. Finger in, then another, curling perfect, thumb rubbing her clit steady. It built fast, her hips grinding against him. She shattered with a cry, her body shaking and vision blurring.

But he kept going. His jacket off, shirt unbuttoned, chest ripped, dark hair trailing down. She reached, hands shaky on his belt. He was hard, ready. She knelt, lips around him, tongue working slow then fast, taking him deep. His hand in her hair, guiding gentle, groans low. "Dio mio," he said, sounding wrecked. That power rush, making him come undone, got her hooked.

He yanked her up, switched spots. Putting on a condom quickly,he pushed in smooth, filling her up. She moaned, nails on his back as he started slow, teasing pulls, then harder, deeper thrusts. Each one hit right, building again. Mouth on her neck, breasts—sucking hard, biting soft, sting mixing with pleasure. "Again for me," he demanded, and she did, tightening around him in waves. He came too, face in her hair, body tense.

They flopped down, out of breath, masks hiding who they were. No names, no next time. Just that wild release.

Morning now, guilt punched her gut. What the fuck? Cheating on Lorenzo—even if the marriage was bullshit—could end it all. He'd wreck her family if he knew. She knew him; his "care" was all about owning, and a scandal? Divorce, vineyard gone forever.

She got out of bed, her legs wobbly. The stranger was gone—left early? No message, nothing. She dressed fast, her red gown crumpled and guilty. Leaving her mask on the floor, she flagged a cab, journeying home to her cold mansion.

The ride home was a blur. Lorenzo was probably at work, buried in deals. She would have a long shower, change, and act like nothing had happened. But pulling up to the gated house, her stomach knotted. That night woke her up, a craving she couldn't shake. And a quiet fear: what if he found her?

The door shut behind her, locking like always. But she didn't know his shadow was creeping closer.

Italian Phrases:

Bella - Beautiful

Piccola - Little one

Dio mio - My God