Chapter 4 Separate Rooms

The Romano mansion was quiet now, the echoes of the wedding day long gone. The opulent halls, lined with polished marble and crystal chandeliers, seemed almost oppressive in the stillness of the night. Mia's heels clicked softly against the floors as she made her way to her suite, every step a declaration of independence.

Her father had made his expectations clear: she was married, and Mark was her husband. But Mia had made her decision too. She would not share a room with him-not tonight, not ever if she could help it.

When Mark entered the suite shortly after, his presence was calm, deliberate. His dark eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail, but they lingered on her.

"You're sleeping here," Mia said sharply, cutting through the silence.

Mark's brow arched ever so slightly. "I thought that was the plan?" His voice was low, even, but there was an edge that made her stomach twist.

"This is my room," she said firmly, planting her hands on her hips. "I've made my choice. Separate rooms. End of discussion."

Mark studied her, and for a fleeting moment, Mia thought she saw something-surprise? amusement?-flicker across his face. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with his usual stoic expression.

"Fine," he said. His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes lingered on hers longer than necessary. "Separate rooms it is."

Mia's heart, against her will, thudded a little faster. She shoved the feeling away. I hate him. I hate him.

---

The first night was awkwardly silent. Mia sat on her bed, staring at the walls of her suite, replaying the events of the day over and over in her mind. The wedding, the forced vows, Mark's inscrutable expression-it all swirled together, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Across the hall, she imagined Mark in his room. Calm. Controlled. Unshaken by the chaos she felt inside. That thought made her fists clench. How dare he be so... composed?

Dinner the next evening was equally tense. The Romano family had insisted on a formal meal, an introduction of Mia and Mark as husband and wife to the inner circle of the mafia.

Mia sat rigid, her posture perfect, her expression polite but distant. Mark, sitting beside her, radiated a quiet authority. He didn't reach for her hand, didn't brush against her knee, didn't do anything to make the world believe they were anything more than strangers forced together.

It was maddening.

"So... how does it feel?" her cousin Luca whispered, leaning close enough that only Mia could hear. "Being married to Mark DeLuca?"

"I..." Mia swallowed. "It's... fine." The word sounded like a lie, even to her own ears.

Luca smirked knowingly. "Hmm. You sound like you're hiding something."

Mia glared at him, wishing she could disappear into the marble floor. She didn't want to admit it-not even to herself-but there was a subtle tension whenever Mark was near, a pull she couldn't explain.

Mark's dark eyes flicked toward her briefly, then back to his plate, unflinching. She felt her stomach tighten at the sight.

No. He is my enemy, she reminded herself firmly.

The rest of the dinner passed in rigid silence. Conversations around the table were polite but tinged with curiosity. Everyone could see the unspoken war between Mia and Mark. It was palpable.

Afterward, as the guests left and the mansion fell silent, Mia retreated to her suite. The door clicked shut, and she let herself collapse onto the bed, exhaustion hitting her in waves.

She had been married. But nothing had changed. She didn't love him. She didn't even like him. And yet... the faintest pang of something unfamiliar tickled her chest when she remembered the way his eyes had lingered on her during dinner, the way his hand had rested on the table, steady and unwavering.

She hated herself for noticing.

---

Mark, on the other side of the hallway, was equally restless. He had spent the entire dinner watching her-her stiff posture, her refusal to meet his gaze, the subtle tremor in her hand as she lifted her glass.

He had loved her for years. Watching her struggle to maintain composure while hiding her true feelings was both infuriating and intoxicating. She hated him, yes. And he hated that she hated him. But he also loved her, more than he had ever loved anyone, and that love burned silently, dangerously, in his chest.

He paced his room once before sitting on the edge of his bed, thinking of her. Mia. Furious, fiery, untouchable. She was like a storm contained in porcelain, and every fiber of his being wanted to reach out, to touch, to calm her-but he wouldn't. Not tonight. She had drawn her line, and he would respect it.

For now.

---

The following morning brought a new kind of tension. The Romano mansion was bustling with servants and security preparing for another week of business, but Mia and Mark moved through the halls like parallel lines-close enough to sense each other, far enough to avoid interaction.

Breakfast was silent. Mia ate mechanically, Mark beside her, his presence heavy and imposing. He didn't speak, didn't look at her, didn't invite conversation. And yet, she felt it-every measured movement, every flick of his gaze, even when he thought she wasn't looking.

She hated it. She hated him.

But when he rose to leave, brushing past her with the faintest whisper of his sleeve against her arm, she felt a jolt she refused to acknowledge.

Mia's hand itched to swipe it away. Instead, she gritted her teeth and focused on the table, ignoring the slow burn in her chest.

I am not his. I will never be his.

And yet, even as she repeated the mantra to herself, the tension between them grew heavier with each passing hour. Their separate rooms, once a relief, now felt like walls she couldn't escape. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every controlled movement of his body reminded her: the storm was only beginning.

The hate she clung to so fiercely was already entangled with something else-something she couldn't name. Something dangerous. Something that threatened to unravel her carefully constructed defenses.

And she hated that too.