"Three Years as His Ghost Wife. Then Another Man Said, 'I Want Your Wife.'" hoặc "He Slept in a Chair for Three Years. The Moment Another Man Looked at Her, He Panicked."

I sat in the dark library on the second floor, a cashmere throw draped over my shoulders, staring out the massive arched windows at the moonlit gardens. My wrist still throbbed faintly where Enzo’s fingers had gripped it. Every word he had spoken in the car echoed in my head, but the silence he left behind was louder.

Downstairs, a heavy oak door clicked shut.

Footsteps—slow, heavy, and deliberate—ascended the grand staircase.

For three years, I had known the exact cadence of Enzo’s walk. This wasn't him. The steps were too soft, too fluid, moving with a feline grace that belonged to a different kind of predator.

My breath hitched. I stood up slowly from the leather wingback chair, my hand closing instinctively around a heavy brass letter opener resting on the mahogany desk.

The library door, which I had left ajar, slowly creaked open.

A figure stepped into the sliver of moonlight cutting across the Persian rug. He wore a dark silk shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing the hollow of his throat.

Dante Russo.

I froze, the blood draining entirely from my face. "How did you—"

"Your husband’s security detail is impressive, Arya," Dante murmured, his voice smooth and hypnotic as he closed the door quietly behind him. "Lots of cameras. Lots of men with automatic weapons. But they're used to looking outward, protecting the estate from an invasion. They didn't expect someone to simply walk through the front door using a key that was handed to them by someone on the inside."

"You're trespassing," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. I raised the letter opener, though I knew it was useless against a man like him. "If Enzo finds you here—"

"Enzo is currently in his study on the ground floor, pouring himself a very expensive glass of scotch and trying to figure out how to kill me without starting an all-out civil war," Dante interrupted, taking a slow, unhurried step toward me. He looked entirely at ease, as if he were strolling through his own living room.

He stopped a few feet away, his amber eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Put that down, little bird," he said softly, nodding toward the letter opener. "I didn't come here to hurt you. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it in the middle of a crowded ballroom."

"Then why are you here?"

Dante smiled, the scar on his lip pulling into a crooked, dangerous shape. He took another step closer, and the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco washed over me.

"I came to see if the rumors were true," Dante said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "I heard that Chicago’s most feared crime lord married a brilliant, beautiful woman three years ago, and then locked her away in a cage of diamonds and silk. I wanted to see for myself if he actually appreciated what he stole."

"Stole?" I frowned. "I wasn't stolen. I married him of my own free will."

"Did you?" Dante tilted his head, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his amber eyes. "Did he court you? Did he look at you the way a man looks at the only thing keeping him breathing? Or did he hand you a contract, put a ring on your finger, and spend the last three years pretending you don't exist?"

The accuracy of his words struck me like a physical blow. I couldn't hide the micro-reaction; my breath hitched, and my eyes dropped to the floor for a fraction of a second.

Dante saw it. A triumphant, dark smile spread across his face.

"Ah," he whispered, stepping into my personal space. His hand reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against my cheekbone, feather-light and terrifyingly intimate. "So the iron king has feet of clay. He has a treasure he's too cowardly to claim."

I slapped his hand away, my chest heaving with indignation. "Get out."

Dante didn't flinch. He just laughed—a low, melodic sound that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He slowly lowered his hand, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I'll leave for tonight, Arya," Dante said softly, stepping back toward the door. "But don't get too comfortable in this cage. Because very soon, your husband is going to have to choose between his empire and the woman he's pretending not to love. And when he fails you... I'll be right here."

With that, he slipped back out into the hallway, vanishing into the shadows as silently as he had arrived.