Chapter 6

ARIA

I wake to unfamiliar silk sheets against my bare skin and the disorienting realization that I'm not in my bed.

I am hurting in places I didn’t know could hurt.

Everything between my thighs feels raw and swollen, like I’ve been split open and put back together. My wrists have faint red rings from the silk ties, and when I shift, the sheets slide over skin that’s tender everywhere he touched, licked, and bit. The ache is proof. Proof that last night actually happened. Proof that I let Dante Ashford (no, begged Dante Ashford) take the one thing I’d saved for the man I thought I was going to marry.

The man who was fucking my twin sister yesterday.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, but the images are still there: Marcus’s back muscles flexing, Vivienne’s smug little moan when she saw me in the doorway. I shove the memory down hard and open my eyes again.

This is not my bed. This is not my apartment. These are thousand-thread-count sheets that smell like cedar and sex and him.

I sit up too fast and have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. The sheet slips to my waist, and cool air hits my breasts ... my nipples still sensitive, and still traitorously tight from the memory of his mouth. I clutch the fabric to my chest like a shield and look around. The room is enormous, all dark wood and steel and glass, the city glittering beyond the windows like it’s bowing to the man who owns half of it.

Oh God. Dante.

The bathroom door opens.

Dante steps out already dressed (black suit, black shirt, no tie, top button undone just enough to make my stomach flip). He looks infuriatingly perfect, like he slept eight hours and conquered a small country before breakfast instead of spending half the night...

My face burns at the memory.

Those ice-blue eyes lock on me immediately, and I swear the temperature in the room drops five degrees and climbs twenty at the same time.

“Good morning, fiancée,” he says, voice low, amused, and completely in control.

The word fiancée slams into me like a fist. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My throat feels scraped raw from screaming his name last night.

He crosses the room in four silent strides and sets a cup of coffee on the nightstand. The scent hits me (strong, perfect, exactly how I take it). Of course, he knows how I take my coffee. He probably knows my blood type and my cycle and every single thing that makes me come undone.

"What time is it?" My voice comes out rough, scratchy from screaming his name.

"Seven thirty." He turns from the window, and those ice-blue eyes track over me with the same predatory focus as last night. "I let you sleep in. Normally, I'm in the office by six."

I let you sleep in. Like he's done me some great favor.

"I should go home," I say, looking around for my clothes. My dress from yesterday is draped over a chair, carefully laid out. My bra and panties are folded on top. The thoughtfulness of it throws me.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, eyes flicking over the sheet I’m clutching like a life raft.

Sore. Terrified. Alive for the first time in twenty-four hours.

“Fine,” I croak.

He doesn’t smile, but something dark and satisfied flashes across his face. “Liar.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that the mattress dips, and I have to fight the urge to lean into him. He hands me a tablet. “Read this. Sign it. We announce today.”

I take it with shaking fingers. The screen glows with a contract (our contract). Cold, clinical words that somehow make last night feel even more real.

One-year minimum marriage.

Ten million dollars if I walk after that.

Sexual exclusivity.

I keep my job, my name, my life (except the parts that now belong to him).

My pulse is hammering so hard I can hear it. I scroll to the signature line. I should read every clause, or call a lawyer, even do anything except what I’m about to do.

But I picture Vivienne’s smirk.

I picture Marcus’s bored grunt when he realized I was standing there.

I picture the way they both looked at me like I was nothing.

"The sexual exclusivity clause," I say, my finger stopping on that section. "That means..."

"That means you're mine and only mine for the duration of our marriage." His voice drops, taking on that dark edge from last night.

"No other men touch you. No one else gets to see you the way I saw you. Understand?" Heat pools low in my belly despite the soreness. "And you? No other women?"

"No other women," he says, it like a vow. "When I commit to something, I commit fully. Even a marriage of convenience."

I sign.

The second the stylus leaves the screen, something inside me settles. Like a decision I didn’t even know I was making has finally locked into place.

Dante takes the tablet, checks my signature, and nods once like he is approving. Then he reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.

My breath stops.

"Give me your left hand."

I extend it automatically. The morning light catches on Marcus's ring—the two-carat princess-cut diamond we chose together three months ago. It feels like a lifetime ago now.

Dante's lip curls in distaste. "Take that off."

I twist the ring, and it slides off easily. Too easily. Like it was never meant to stay there.

I hand it to Dante. He examines it for exactly two seconds before dropping it carelessly on the nightstand.

"Tacky," he pronounces. "And poorly cut. He had no taste."

Then he pulls out a different ring.

I stop breathing.

It's stunning. A massive emerald-cut diamond set in platinum, flanked by two smaller baguette diamonds. The center stone has to be at least five carats, and it catches the light in a way that makes it look like it's full of fire.

But it's not just the size that stops my heart. It's the craftsmanship. The vintage setting. The way it looks like something that belongs in a museum, not on my finger.

"This belonged to my grandmother," Dante says quietly. "She wore it for sixty years of marriage to my grandfather. When she died, she left it to me with instructions to give it to my wife."

His grandmother's ring. He's giving me his grandmother's ring.

"Dante, I can't..." I start.

"You can." He takes my left hand, his fingers warm and firm around mine. "The contract says this marriage is for one year minimum.

But appearances matter. And my wife wears family jewelry, not some mass-produced garbage from Marcus Kane."

He slides the ring onto my finger.

It fits perfectly.

Of course it does. Because apparently, the universe has decided that my life is now a surreal fever dream where billionaires propose marriage and family heirlooms fit like they were made for me.

"It's worth approximately two million dollars," Dante says, still holding my hand. "Don't lose it."

Two million dollars. On my finger. Just casually sitting there like it's normal.

"I've never worn anything this expensive," I whisper.

"Get used to it." He releases my hand but doesn't move away. "You're an Ashford now. Or you will be in three weeks. Everything about your life is going to change."

The words sink straight between my legs. I’m wet. Instantly, shamefully wet. My body remembers exactly who it belongs to now, even if my brain is still trying to catch up.

I stare at the ring glittering against my skin and feel something dangerous bloom in my chest. For the first time since I opened that bedroom door yesterday, I feel powerful.

Dante leans in until his lips brush the shell of my ear. “Get dressed, wife. In two hours, the entire world finds out who you belong to.”

He stands, already moving toward the door like the matter is settled. Because for him, it is.

I sit there naked, sore, branded with his ring and his scent and his future, and I smile.