CHAPTER 8: The First Night

POV: JAXON ROMANO (Flashback - Six Years Earlier, Age 28)

I stood in the doorway of Isla's room, no, not Isla's room, my wife's room and tried to ignore the self-loathing that had been building all day.

She sat on the edge of the bed in a simple white nightgown, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Without the glasses she'd been wearing all day, I could finally see her face properly. She was... pretty. Not in the flashy, obvious way Vivian had been at dinner, but in a quiet, understated way that I might have appreciated if I'd been capable of appreciating anything beyond my own discomfort.

Her hands were clasped in her lap, and she was staring at them like they held answers to questions she couldn't voice.

"Are you... okay?" I asked, which was possibly the stupidest question I'd ever asked in my life.

She looked up at me with those dark eyes, brown, I could see now. A warm brown that seemed completely at odds with how cold I was making this entire situation.

"I'm fine," she said softly.

She wasn't fine. Even I could see that. She looked terrified. Young. So much younger than twenty-two.

I should have called this off. Should have told her we could wait, that we didn't need to do this tonight, that there was no rush despite what I'd said about legal requirements.

But I'd been trained by Dante Romano to see emotion as weakness and comfort as unnecessary sentiment. And some part of me wanted this over with. Wanted the last piece of this obligation checked off so I could go back to my real life, my work, my company, my actual priorities.

"We should..." I gestured vaguely at the bed, unable to finish the sentence.

Isla stood, her movements careful and controlled. Like she was trying not to take up too much space even in her own room.

"Should I... what do you want me to do?" she asked, and the question nearly broke me.

She was asking for instructions. Like this was a task she needed to complete correctly. Like she thought there was a right way to do this that would make me... what? Happy? Satisfied? Less cold?

"Just..." I moved toward the bed, sitting on the edge. "Come here."

She did, sitting next to me with maybe a foot of space between us. We sat there in awkward silence for a moment, two strangers about to engage in one of the most intimate acts two people could share, and we couldn't even look at each other.

"Have you..." I paused, realizing I should have asked this before. "Is this your first time?"

Her cheeks turned red. "Yes."

Of course it was. She was twenty-two, had lived at home, had been controlled by her father. Of course she was a virgin.

Which meant I was about to take something from her that she'd never get back, in the most cold and clinical way possible.

"I'll try to be gentle," I said, which was probably the first genuine thing I'd said to her all day.

"Okay."

I should have kissed her. Should have tried to build some connection, some warmth, something other than this sterile transaction we were about to engage in.

But I didn't know how to be that person. My father had beaten the softness out of me by the time I was ten. Had taught me that affection was manipulation, that tenderness was a weapon people used against you, that the only safe way to exist was behind walls so high nothing could get in.

I'd become exactly what he'd shaped me to be: cold, calculating, emotionally stunted.

And Isla was paying the price for that.

I reached for her, and she flinched. Just slightly, just for a second, but I saw it.

She was afraid of me.

"I won't hurt you," I said. "Not intentionally."

"I know." But her voice shook.

I kissed her because it seemed like what I was supposed to do. Her lips were soft, clearly inexperienced. She didn't know how to kiss, and I didn't know how to teach her because I'd never kissed anyone with gentleness. Every kiss I'd ever had was about dominance or desire or the simple mechanics of sex, not about connection.

She tried to respond, tried to match my movements, but I could feel her trembling.

"Lie down," I said, pulling back.

She did, lying on her back with her hands at her sides, staring up at the ceiling like she was preparing for surgery rather than her wedding night.

Everything about this was wrong. I knew it. Felt it in every uncomfortable moment, every awkward touch, every silence that stretched between us.

But I didn't stop.

I moved over her, tried to make it as quick and painless as I'd promised. Tried to be gentle even though I didn't really know how. She made a small sound of pain when I entered her, her hands gripping the sheets, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I'm sorry," I said, and meant it.

She didn't respond. Just lay there, enduring, while I fulfilled my legal obligation and destroyed any hope of this marriage ever being something real.

It lasted maybe ten minutes. When it was over, I moved off her immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed with my back to her.

"Are you okay?" I asked again, the same stupid question.

"Yes." Her voice was small. Broken.

I should have stayed. Should have held her, talked to her, tried to make this less awful than it had been.

Instead, I stood up and started getting dressed.

"You should... there's a bathroom there if you need it." I couldn't even look at her. Couldn't face what I'd just done. "Get some rest. I have an early meeting."

I was halfway to the door when her voice stopped me.

"Jaxon?"

I turned. She'd sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, her hair messy, her eyes wet with unshed tears she was clearly trying to hide.

"Yes?"

"Was it..." She paused, struggling with the words. "Did I do okay?"

The question gutted me. She was asking if she'd performed adequately. If she'd passed some test. If I was satisfied with the transaction.

I should have told her the truth that she'd done nothing wrong, that I was the problem, that she deserved better than what I'd just given her.

Instead, I said, "Yes. You did fine."

Fine. Like she was a project that met minimum requirements.

"Goodnight, Isla."

"Goodnight."

I left her there, in her room on her wedding night, and I walked to my side of the penthouse. Poured myself a scotch. Then another. Then another.

Tried to wash away the feeling of what I'd just done.

I'd married a girl I barely knew. Taken her virginity with all the warmth and care of a business transaction. Left her alone and crying because despite her attempts to hide it, I'd heard the sob that escaped as I closed her door.

And I told myself it was fine. That this was what she'd signed up for. That she knew this was a business arrangement and nothing more.

I told myself she'd adjust. That she'd accept the terms of our agreement and we'd coexist peacefully in this penthouse, two people living parallel lives that never truly intersected.

I told myself I'd done nothing wrong.

I was lying to myself even then. But I was good at lying to myself. I'd been doing it my entire life, telling myself that my father's abuse was discipline, that emotional distance was strength, that I was better off without the messy complications of actual human connection.

My phone buzzed. A text from my father.

Is it done?

He meant the consummation. The legal requirement. The final piece of the arrangement.

Yes, I typed back.

Good. Now focus on business. Don't let her distract you.

I looked down the hallway toward Isla's room, where my twenty-two-year-old wife was probably still crying, and I thought: there's no danger of that.

She wasn't a distraction. She was barely a presence. I'd already compartmentalized her into a section of my life labeled "handled" and moved on to more important things.

I responded to some emails. Reviewed a presentation for tomorrow's meeting. Made notes on a project proposal.

Work. That's what mattered. That's what was real. Everything else, including the girl sleeping alone on her wedding night in a room I'd assigned her was just... background noise.

At some point, after midnight, I went to bed. My room. My space. My sanctuary from anything resembling emotional responsibility.

I didn't dream of Isla. Didn't think about the fear in her eyes or the trembling in her hands or the way she'd asked if she'd "done okay" like she was taking a test she might fail.

I slept soundly, the sleep of someone who'd convinced himself he'd done nothing wrong.

But somewhere, buried beneath years of Dante Romano's conditioning and my own carefully constructed emotional walls, a small voice whispered:

You'll regret this. You'll regret all of it. And by the time you realize what you had, it'll be too late.

I ignored that voice.

I was good at ignoring things that made me uncomfortable.

The next morning, I woke at five-thirty as usual. Went for my run in Central Park. Came back to the penthouse at seven, expecting it to be empty, expecting Isla to still be asleep after her first night in her new home.

Instead, I found her in the kitchen.

She'd changed into jeans and a simple sweater, her hair pulled back, glasses on. She looked small and young and completely out of place in my sleek, modern kitchen.

She was making coffee.

"Oh," she said when she saw me, jumping slightly. "I didn't hear you come in. I was just... I made coffee. I didn't know what kind you liked, so I just made a regular pot. Is that okay?"

She was nervous. Babbling. Trying so hard to do something right.

"That's fine," I said, moving past her to the refrigerator.

"I can make breakfast," she offered quickly. "If you want. I'm not a great cook, but I can do eggs, or toast, or…"

"I don't eat breakfast."

"Oh. Okay. Well, I can just…"

"Isla." I turned to look at her. "You don't need to do this."

"Do what?"

"Cater to me. Make coffee. Offer to cook. I have a routine. You don't need to be part of it."

I meant it to be helpful. To release her from obligation. But I watched her face fall, watched something dim in her eyes, and I realized how it had sounded.

Like I didn't want her there. Like she was an intrusion on my real life.

Which, in fairness, was exactly what I'd meant.

"I just thought..." She clasped her hands together. "I'm your wife. I thought I should..."

"You're my wife legally. But we both know what this arrangement is. You don't need to pretend otherwise."

"I'm not pretending. I just want to…"

"Want to what?"

She looked at me with those soft brown eyes, and for just a second, I saw something there. Something that looked dangerously like hope.

"I want to try," she said quietly. "To make this work. To be a good wife. To…"

"I don't need you to try, Isla. I need you to understand the terms we agreed to. Separate lives. Minimal interference. That's the arrangement."

"But we're married. Doesn't that mean…"

"It means you have my name and my financial support. That's all it means."

I said it coldly. Trying to kill whatever hope she was harboring before it became a problem.

I watched her absorb the words. Watched her straighten her shoulders, lift her chin, try to maintain some dignity even as I crushed whatever fantasy she'd been building.

"I understand," she said finally.

"Good." I poured the coffee she'd made, it was perfect, exactly how I liked it, which I didn't acknowledge and headed toward my home office. "I'll be working most of the day. Mrs. Rosa will be here at nine to show you where everything is. If you need anything, the account information is on the counter."

"Jaxon?"

I paused at the doorway but didn't turn around.

"Should I make coffee tomorrow? Or would you prefer I didn't?"

It was such a small question. Such a simple request for guidance. But answering it would mean acknowledging her, considering her, letting her become part of my routine.

"Do whatever you want," I said. "Just don't expect me to adjust my schedule for it."

I walked away, leaving her standing in the kitchen with the coffee she'd made and the hope I'd just crushed.

And I didn't let myself think about it. Didn't let myself feel guilty or conflicted or anything except focused on work.

Work was safe. Work was controllable. Work didn't ask questions like "should I make coffee tomorrow?" with a voice that trembled just slightly, revealing how much a simple answer would have meant.

I had no idea that Isla would make me coffee every morning for the next eleven months. That she'd have it ready at exactly the time I came back from my run, made exactly how I liked it, even though I never once thanked her or acknowledged the gesture.

I had no idea that such a small thing, letting my wife make me coffee, saying thank you, acknowledging her tiny attempt at connection could have changed everything.

But that morning, I was still Dante Romano's son. Still convinced that emotional distance was strength. Still certain that keeping Isla at arm's length was the smart, safe choice.

I worked until ten PM that night. When I finally emerged from my office, the penthouse was dark. Isla had left a covered plate of food on the counter, she'd made dinner even though I'd never asked her to.

I threw it away without tasting it.

Went to bed in my room. Alone. Safe behind my walls.

And I told myself I'd made the right choice. That this marriage would be exactly what it was supposed to be: a legal arrangement between two people who remained strangers.

I told myself Isla would accept this. That she'd stop trying. That she'd retreat into her own life and stop bothering me with things like coffee and hope and the desperate need for connection I couldn't give her.

I was wrong about all of it.