Chapter 2 His Rules, My Resistance

The sun was barely up when I woke to the sound of footsteps.

I sat upright in the massive bed, heart thudding. For a moment, I'd forgotten where I was. Then I saw the velvet curtains, the marble floors, the dress from last night draped over a chair like a crime scene.

Reality hit like a punch.

I was married.

To a man who looked at me like a problem he didn't ask for but wouldn't let go of.

I padded to the door, pressing my ear against it. The footsteps faded. A door closed somewhere down the hall.

I wasn't being watched... yet.

I dressed quickly in one of the outfits left in my closet tailored, elegant, expensive. My fingers itched for something familiar, something soft and mine. But nothing in this mansion was mine. Not even me.

I wandered into the hall, finding my way downstairs, where a maid pointed silently to the dining room. I pushed open the door and found Luca already seated, a cup of coffee in his hand and his phone in the other.

His eyes flicked to mine.

"Sit."

No good morning. No smile. Just a command.

I sat, trying not to flinch when our knees brushed beneath the table. The space between us felt electric, like the air right before a storm.

"You don't need to speak at my meetings," he said, scrolling through something on his screen. "You'll attend only the public ones where appearances matter. Otherwise, you'll stay out of the business."

"Is that one of your rules?" I asked, reaching for a piece of fruit just to keep my hands busy.

"Yes. And this one's not negotiable."

"And if I break it?"

He looked at me. Just looked. And it was enough.

That stare cold, calculated, predatory.

"You won't," he said simply.

"You keep saying that like you know me."

"I don't need to know you. I just know what happens when people don't listen to me."

Charming.

"So," I said, trying to steady my voice, "how does this work? Are we... pretending in public? Or are we supposed to play house behind closed doors too?"

Luca set his phone down slowly, folding his hands in front of him.

"In public, we're a power couple. In private, we're whatever you can tolerate as long as you don't interfere."

"And what do you tolerate, husband?" I asked, meeting his gaze.

His lips curved slightly. "Defiance. Just enough to keep me interested."

My stomach fluttered, and I hated that it did.

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, and the moment vanished. He stood.

"Your driver will take you to the gallery at noon. There's a charity event. You'll be photographed. Wear something red."

"Red?"

"You're mine," he said without turning back. "The world should see it."

Later that afternoon, I stood in front of a gilded mirror, adjusting the crimson dress one of his assistants had sent up. It fit too well. Like it had been chosen to hug every curve I wished he wouldn't notice.

But he would.

Because that was the thing about Luca Moretti-he noticed everything. Even when he pretended not to care.

The charity gala was a blur of flashbulbs, champagne, and whispers. Everyone knew who he was. Everyone looked at me like I was the trophy he stole off someone else's shelf.

He kept his hand on the small of my back the entire night. Possessive. Cold. And yet somehow... protective.

When the crowd thinned, he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"You're good at pretending," he murmured. "But you're not fooling me."

"Fooling you about what?" I whispered back.

His hand tightened. "That you hate me."

I turned to him slowly. "Maybe I don't hate you."

He arched a brow.

"Maybe I hate what you make me feel."

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, something cracked in his armor. Just a sliver.

Desire. Guilt. Or maybe... something else.

But then a man approached-a stranger with a dark suit and colder eyes.

"Mr. Moretti," he said, nodding politely. "Your wife is... lovely."

Luca didn't smile. "She's not for you to look at."

The man stiffened. "Of course. My mistake."

Luca's hand didn't move from my waist until the man disappeared into the crowd.

I turned to him, heart pounding. "That was a little possessive."

"That was restraint," he replied, eyes locked on mine. "Next time, I won't just use words."

That night, back in the mansion, I stood outside his door.

I don't know what I was doing. I don't even remember walking there.

But just as I raised my hand to knock, the door opened.

Luca stood in front of me, shirtless, eyes shadowed by something darker than exhaustion.

Neither of us spoke.

He stepped aside.

And I stepped in.

I thought I was walking into danger.

But the truth was worse.

I was walking into the arms of the man I was starting to crave.