Chapter 5 - Contract Marriage

Alexandra Rossi.

I am utterly, completely lost.

For a moment, the world goes dark, and I surrender to it, savoring every point of contact where Antonio’s hands claim my skin. My breath comes in ragged gasps, keeping frantic pace with the desire clawing its way up my throat, demanding release.

And once again, he pulls away.

This time, my own hands fly up, fists closing tightly around the crisp linen of his shirt collar, anchoring him as I try to steady my insane, panting breaths.

“You…!” I choke out.

“Do you want me to finish this right here, Alexa?” His challenge is a low, dangerous rumble.

“You bastard—“

His lips are on mine again, cutting off my curse with a searing kiss that steals what little air I have left. Then his mouth is at my ear, his whisper a hot, gravelly promise that coils deep in my belly.

“I want more from this than just a touch, Alexa,” he growls into the sensitive shell.

I swallow hard, trying to moisten my parched throat. My heart is a wild, caged thing beating against my ribs, too loud, too frantic to control. Every breath is a struggle against the electric current he’s sent coursing through me. I am drowning again in the midnight depth of his eyes, until a sudden warmth envelops me.

It’s his suit jacket, heavy and imbued with the scent of him—spice, clean cotton, and sheer, undeniable masculinity—draped over my exposed shoulders and the flimsy silk of my short, backless dress.

“Go home,” he commands, voice rough. “Unless you’d prefer to stay—“

I shove against the solid wall of his chest with all my strength, breaking the spell. Drawing a sharp, steadying breath, I step back. My trembling hands smooth my dress, and my fingers swipe at my lips, checking if any trace of my lipstick remains.

“W-Where is your driver?”

It is past midnight when I finally reach the house.

A familiar, cold panic grips me—the fear that Tristan has arrived first, that he’ll find my absence. My heels, a punishing twelve centimeters, click a frantic, uneven rhythm on the marble as I rush inside, nearly tripping and twisting my ankle in my haste to reach our bedroom on the second floor.

Yes.

Our bedroom.

It is empty.

Desperately, utterly empty. No Tristan. No sign of his return. Not even a trace of his cologne lingers in the air.

Then I remember. He requested tonight. He asked not to come back.

Or perhaps it was just my foolish heart, hoping he might change his mind after the opera’s final curtain fell. But the cold, repeating facts are a relentless slap to my face, a brutal reminder: my life is Tristan’s personal joke.

My marriage. My title. My very existence has been invisible to him for five long years.

The ultimate irony? I remain, in my own husband’s eyes, a pathetic, untouched virgin.

My legs give way.

Tears fall in a silent, endless stream. My shoulders shake with violent, soundless sobs. I am breaking. I cannot hold the pieces together anymore.

I let myself collapse, sinking onto the icy cold floor. My whole body trembles. A crushing weight sits on my chest, making each breath a ragged, irregular fight. I am shattered.

I wrap my arms around myself, a futile attempt to hold the fragments in place.

I must harden my heart now. I must forge my resolve anew. I will repay Tristan for every ounce of indifference, for every moment of neglect.

I gather the memories, each shard of pain that has slowly eroded me over the years. I will use them not to drown, but to fuel me. To force myself to rise.

It’s then, in the oppressive darkness of our marital chamber, that I see it.

Tristan’s private safe is open.

The safe. The one whose contents have been a mystery to me for five years. The one whose combination I never learned. The one that required my absence from our room whenever he needed to access it.

My breathing stills.

My limbs feel heavy, yet propelled by a new, grim determination.

I push myself up. My feet, now bare, carry me across the room.

I stare into the open maw of the safe, and my world tilts on its axis once more.

“W-What is this?” The whisper escapes my numb lips.

No stacks of cash. No gleaming gold bars.

The secret vault is a treasure trove of madness. Neat rows of pills and small bags of fine powder. Paraphernalia for consumption. And beneath them, files. Contracts and agreements between Tristan, the Laurent Group, and a major drug cartel—a syndicate that was, until recently, the FBI’s most wanted.

A violent chill races down my spine.

Every muscle in my body locks rigid. My throat is desert-dry yet burning at the same time. I am frozen, staring, unblinking, at the lineup of hidden insanity that has lived under my roof, beside my bed.

Then I see it. A small, unassuming bottle labeled LSD.

The very drug Tristan so casually mentioned to Isabella. I’d thought it a cruel joke, something impossible to obtain. Now, I know exactly how Tristan gets it.

I don’t hesitate.

My phone is in my hand, its camera lens capturing every damning detail inside the steel box. I take close-ups of the documents, the bags, the bottle. My hands won’t stop shaking, the tremors vibrating up my arms. With clumsy fingers, I secure a small sample of the powder and one of the pills, sealing them in a spare cosmetic bag.

The evidence feels radioactive in my palm.

My mind races, a cyclone of fear and fury. But through the storm, one name emerges, clear and singular: the only person ruthless enough, connected enough, and perhaps, perversely, invested enough to help me wield this knife.

I dial the number.

“Mrs. Alexandra Rossi!” The voice that answers is smooth, familiar, and sends my heart into a fresh, frantic gallop.

“Rossi!” I correct, my voice sharper than I intended. “Just Rossi.”

A low, knowing chuckle travels down the line. “Alright, Rossi. I must admit, I didn’t expect your call quite this soon.”

I swallow another wave of nausea. My insides are a riot, a battlefield of insane considerations screaming in my head. I clutch the tiny bag of proof, my grip so tight my knuckles bleach white. I bite my lip hard, the sharp pain a desperate anchor.

The tension is a live wire. Every nerve is pulled taut, directionless and screaming.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

The simple question is my undoing. “Y-Yes… I—“

“You’re not.” He cuts through my pretense effortlessly. “Is he there?”

His voice. The deliberate emphasis on each word. The calm, controlled tone that somehow carries more threat than a shout. It unravels me completely. A ragged sob breaks free, followed by a torrent of tears I can no longer suppress.

“I’m coming over. Wait right th—“

“Don’t!” The word rips from me, stopping Antonio Bianchi cold.

Yes.

The man I called is Antonio Bianchi.

This cascade of madness, these horrific facts about my marriage, have all led me straight to him. He is the only possible exit from this labyrinth. My conviction is terrifyingly clear. Yet, the man himself is a spectrum of shadows, his morality a shifting gray that makes me doubt everything—even my own desperation.

A new, crucial question forms in my mind, a test and a plea rolled into one.

“I… I need your help, Antonio.”

“I’ll be there now.”

“No!” I say again, firmer this time. I drag air into my lungs, forcing composure. “I will send you something. Keep it safe. And tell me… tell me how to use it.”

Silence stretches on the other end, vast and heavy. I can almost hear him thinking, calculating.

Finally, he speaks. “Someone will be at your location in ten minutes. Give the package to him. And do nothing else that might put you in danger. Is that understood?” The command is absolute, leaving no room for argument.

The line goes dead.

True to his word, in under ten minutes, a young man with a soldier’s posture stands in my doorway. His eyes are flint, scanning me with cold efficiency. The bulge of a pistol is visible beneath his tailored black jacket. For a second, doubt paralyzes me.

Then he extends a sealed note. I recognize the bold, slashing handwriting immediately. It contains a single, confirming phrase only Antonio would know. My last shred of hesitation evaporates. I place the small cosmetic bag into his waiting, gloved hand.

He nods once, turns, and melts back into the night.

I lean against the closed door, my body spent. On the foyer table, where the man left it, sits a single, crisp folder. With trembling fingers, I flip it open. The title page steals the last breath from my lungs:

[MARITAL CONTRACT: ANTONIO BIANCHI & ALEXANDRA ROSSI]