Chapter 6 – The Line We Cross

Isabella

The Pamplemousses Botanical Garden is sprawling and green, making the villa’s manicured perfection look like a toy. Giant lily pads float on dark ponds while tangled canopies break the sunlight into scattered gold.

Dante walks beside me, hands in pockets, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He hasn't stopped critiquing the trip since we stepped out of the car.

"The humidity is going to ruin that linen," he says, eyeing my dress. "And these paths are poorly maintained. A waste of an afternoon."

"They have giant tortoises here," I say, trying to ignore him. "Over a hundred years old."

"Captive reptiles. Fascinating," he draws out the word with heavy sarcasm.

I stop in my tracks. "You don't have to stay if you're so miserable."

"I'm not miserable. I’m being realistic. This is a tourist trap, Isabella. You’re letting the 'experience' blind you to the lack of utility."

"Utility?" I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. "Of course. How could I forget? Everything with you is a transaction. A favor. You’re doing me a 'favor' by existing in the same space."

He doesn't flinch. "I am ensuring you don't wander off and make another twenty-thousand-euro mistake. Someone has to provide the common sense you clearly lack."

"Is that what you call this? Common sense?" I step closer, fed up with the mask. "You’re not here to protect the family interests, Dante. You’re here because you can’t stand the idea of me having a single moment you don't control. You’re so obsessed with your 'standards' that you’ve forgotten how to be a human being."

"We are married on paper," he says coldly. "Don't mistake my presence for anything else."

The words land like a slap, but I don't back down. I cross my arms, refusing to move another inch. "Then go back to the villa. Go back to your spreadsheets and your 'real' world. I’d rather be alone with the 'captive reptiles' than spend another second listening to your miserable bullshit."

He stares at me, his jaw tightening as the silence stretches between us.

"Go," I repeat, pointing back toward the gate. "I’ll find my own way around."

I keep walking, my heels clicking sharply against the stone path.

He catches up in four strides, his hand closing around my wrist. It’s not hard, just firm enough to force a halt. "I didn't say I wanted to leave."

I wrench my arm free. "You don't have to. You make it obvious every time you look at me—like I'm an obligation you’re forced to endure."

A flicker of something dark crosses his face. "That's not—"

"It is." I take a breath, my voice trembling with the weight of the day. "I didn't want to marry a man who can barely stand to be in the same room as me. But we're here. The least you could do is stop acting like being near me is torture."

Dante stands rigid, his jaw working as if he's grinding down a retort. Then, he pulls off his sunglasses. His eyes lock onto mine, stripped of their professional shield.

"It's not torture," he says, the volume of his voice dropping dangerously low.

"Then what is it?"

He doesn't answer. He just stares at me until the silence becomes heavy, suffocating.

The drive back to the villa is a vacuum of sound. Once we arrive, I don’t wait for him to open my door. I bolt inside and retreat to my room, leaning against the wood as the lock clicks.

"Isabella." His voice comes from the hallway. "Open the door."

"I’m resting," I tell the doorframe.

"We need to talk."

"We just spent three hours not talking. I think we’re done."

I hear his footsteps linger, then fade.

By the time I emerge for dinner on the terrace, the sun is a bleeding red on the horizon. Dante is already there, a glass of wine in his hand, his back to me as he stares at the ocean. I sit across from him, serving myself the grilled fish in a pointed, metallic silence.

Halfway through the meal, he sets his fork down with a sharp clack.

"You disappeared the second we got back," he says.

"I needed space."

"You slammed the door in my face, Isabella."

"After you walked away from me. Again." I drop my silver, the sound echoing off the stone. "That’s what you do. Every time we get close to being civil with each other, you destroy it."

"I walked away," he says, leaning over the table until he’s invading my space, "because I didn't want to say something I'd regret."

I meet his glare head-on. "Like what?"

"You want to know what I’d regret?" Dante stands, the chair scraping harshly against the stone. He rounds the table, his shadow swallowing mine. "I'd regret reminding you that you carry the Moretti name now. That name comes with a husband you don't get to interrogate."

"The name is a shield for you," I snap, standing to meet him. "You use it to shut me out whenever you feel something you can't put on a spreadsheet."

"I use it because it's the only thing keeping this mess of a marriage together," he growls, stepping into my space. "You think you want 'real'? You have no idea what you're asking for."

"Then show me," I challenge, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Stop hiding behind the contract and show me."

His eyes darken, the grumpy restraint finally snapping. "Fine."

He doesn't wait. His hand cups my jaw, fingers tangling in my hair to tilt my head back, and then his mouth is on mine.

This isn't the polite, curated kiss from the wedding. This is a claim. It’s hard, hungry, and clinical in its intensity, designed to silence me, but it backfires the moment I gasp into him. He groans low in his throat, a sound of pure surrender, and pulls me flush against the rigid line of his body.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer as the world outside the terrace vanishes. Every frustration from the flight, the market, and the garden melts into the heat of his touch.

"This is a mistake," I breathe against his lips, my head spinning.

"I know," he mutters, his teeth grazing my jaw before returning to my mouth. "Shut up, Isabella."

He lifts me onto the edge of the table, sweeping the silver aside with a crash. His hands are everywhere....my waist, my thighs, the skin he’s been pretending to ignore for days. The Moretti name, the contract, the rules....they all burn up in the heat of his touch.

We don't make it to the bedroom.

His back collides with the wall first, and I seize the moment, pressing my lips against the rapid pulse in his neck. We barely make it three steps before he turns us around, and suddenly my back is pressed against the cold wall, his hands trapping me in. One hand props itself next to my head while the other glides under my dress.

He lifts the hem as I raise my arms, and the dress vanishes. A moment later, my bra slips off, and the villa's cool air brushes against my warm, flushed skin.

His hands reach for my breast, and as I arch into his touch, he makes that same sound again, the one that pierces right through me.

"You look incredible like this," he murmurs, his voice rough and raw, betraying the façade of the man he tries to appear.

He never gives me a moment to catch my breath. He bends down, his mouth capturing one nipple, and my thoughts completely cease.

I gasp, steadying myself by placing my hands on his shoulders, as he watches my expression intently, his tongue moving deliberately before shifting to the other side. By the time he pulls away, I'm left breathing heavily, my skin warm and vibrant.

"Is it here?" I inquire.

"Right here, right now," he murmurs as his hand moves lower, settling between my thighs. "Only if you'd like me to stop."

I don't want him to stop.

I reach for his shirt and pull it over his head. Broad shoulders that taper down to a defined chest. That sharp jawline. Blue eyes gone almost black. Black hair falling forward.

He notices me staring. "See something you like?"

He doesn't give me time to breathe. He leans down and his mouth closes over one nipple and I stop thinking entirely.

I gasp, my hands coming up to his shoulders for balance, and he takes his time, watching my face as his tongue moves before switching to the other side. By the time he pulls back I'm breathing too hard, my skin flushed and alive.

"Here?" I ask.

"Here. Now." His hand slides lower, between my legs. "Unless you want me to stop."

I don't want him to stop.

I reach for his shirt and pull it over his head. Broad shoulders that taper down to a defined chest. That sharp jawline. Blue eyes gone almost black. Black hair falling forward.

He notices me staring. "See something you like?"

"Don't get cocky."

"Too late."

Then his mouth is on mine again, harder this time, hungrier, and we're moving toward the bedroom. His hands find the waistband of my underwear and drag it down, and somewhere between one step and the next I forget why I was angry.

He kicks off his shoes. His pants follow. When he finally lifts me onto the bed the movement is careful, almost gentle, which contrasts so sharply with the heat in his eyes that I feel it like a physical thing.

I open my legs to give him space after he's over me. I can feel how hard he is even though he's still wearing boxers, and as I move my hips up against him, he quickly closes his eyes as if he's trying to maintain control.

My toes curl into the covers as his head lowers and his lips finds my breast once more, taking it completely this time. He swaps sides as my hips rock against him, creating heat between my legs until I'm certain that this alone will cause me to crumble.

But it's not enough.

After his boxers vanish, there is nothing left between us. He hisses through my palm as I reach for him and encircle his thick length.

He exhales, "Jesus, Isabel, you're killing me." "You're so wet."

He moves, bringing my legs up onto his shoulders, and everything is altered by the angle. Then he begins to move, using long, methodical strokes that dive deeply into me. When I groan, he repeats the action, as if he is learning by heart what causes me to crumble.

It's not that long. I cry out as I break.

He never stops. Just keeps going, steady and unrelenting, hitting the same point each time, and the beat shifts and quickens until my head goes blank and I start to come apart once more.

When he gets close, I can see. His jaw hardens. His hold on my hips becomes nearly bruising. With unwavering concentration, he smashes into me and finally breaks too, trembling over me.

His mouth finds mine again and I stop thinking about control, stop caring about all the reasons this was supposed to be a terrible idea.

Afterward we lie in the dark with nothing but the sound of our breathing slowly returning to normal. His arm is draped across me, his hand resting on my hip like an anchor.

"This doesn't change anything," he says eventually.

I turn my head to look at him. His jaw still tight even now. "Doesn't it?"

"We agreed. This marriage is—"

"A contract. I know."