A Cold Deal and a Colder Wedding

Any ordinary man might have flinched at such an insane declaration. Enrico Di Ravelli merely let out a low, scraping laugh that held absolutely zero humor. He didn't even lower the barrel.

"You plan to be my wife, do you?"

A few tense minutes dragged by before the naked woman scrambled out of the bed. She gathered her scattered clothes and shot Maren a venomous glare before fleeing the penthouse.

Once the heavy doors clicked shut, Enrico stepped out of the shadows. He had thrown on a black silk robe, knotting it loosely at his waist. It was a casual gesture, yet Maren’s brain completely failed to scrub away the aggressive visual from moments ago. She could still see the sheer momentum of his heavily muscled frame driving into the mattress, treating the act of sex like a punishing, mechanical workout.

"Did you come dressed like a high-end hooker thinking it would guarantee a yes, princess?"

The biting chill in his voice snapped her right back to reality, instantly erasing the inappropriate direction of her thoughts. He dragged his metallic gaze over her exposed skin with overt contempt.

Maren tightened her grip on her small designer purse, fighting the sudden urge to hurl it directly at his arrogant face. She despised everything about him, especially the condescending way that royal nickname rolled off his tongue.

"I assumed playing the part might make you at least consider the business proposal."

She forced her tone to remain entirely steady. It took a monumental amount of effort, considering she was still flanked by his heavily armed guards and currently burning with absolute disdain for the man.

Enrico took a seat on a plush leather chair, casually crossing one powerful leg over the other. Maren deliberately kept her focus on his face, refusing to look down at the athletic build she already knew was hiding under that silk fabric.

"Well, princess, I hate to disappoint you," he said effortlessly. "But you aren't my type. Not for a corporate marriage, and definitely not for my bed. Get out. And do make sure to tell my mother that I don't play along with her little traps."

Cold panic seized her chest. If she walked out of this building without his protection, her father’s ruthless associates would undoubtedly have her eliminated before the week was over.

Pure survival instinct overrode whatever dignity she had left. Maren abandoned her spot by the door and marched right up to him. The security detail immediately raised their weapons, the loud clicks echoing through the suite, but she ignored them. She grabbed onto his robe-clad forearms, letting her utter desperation show.

"Please," she choked out, the polished facade finally cracking. "I have absolutely no one left. I've been publicly branded a traitor by my own family. If I don't have the weight of your name shielding me, they will kill me. Please."

It was the second time today she found herself desperately grabbing onto this man, but the stakes were infinitely higher now.

The guards waited in absolute silence for his signal to drag her out of the penthouse. Instead, Enrico just looked down at her small hands gripping his arms.

"And what exactly makes you think I have any desire to take you in?"

Maren swallowed hard against the thick, humiliating knot forming in her throat. Her vision blurred slightly.

"I don't know," she whispered, releasing her grip and taking a shaky step backward. "You have too much at stake to tie yourself to a ruined reputation. I shouldn't have come."

She turned to walk away, fully resigning herself to the brutal fate waiting for her downstairs.

A large, rough hand suddenly wrapped around her jaw. Callused fingers clamped down, halting her retreat and forcing her to look up. Enrico had closed the distance silently, completely overshadowing her smaller frame.

"Go back to the house," his deep, gravelly voice vibrated in the quiet space. "And wait for me."

***

Normally, Maren despised taking orders from anyone. She also knew her frantic, begging performance at the penthouse hardly counted as a successful business negotiation. Yet, when she sat in the stifling mansion parlor later that afternoon and recounted the exchange, Renata Di Ravelli practically glowed with satisfaction.

"My darling," the older woman praised, her silver eyes glinting with calculating sharpness. "I knew you were a rare find."

Before Maren could even try to decipher that cryptic compliment, the heavy parlor doors swung open. A swarm of makeup artists carrying garment bags rushed into the room.

"Wait, what is happening?" Maren asked, completely overwhelmed as two stylists instantly descended on her hair.

"You are going to be a stunning bride," Renata remarked smoothly, ignoring the panic. "It is just a shame none of this is actually real."

Before Maren could process the ominous statement, a breathless housekeeper stepped into the room.

"Ma'am, Master Enrico has arrived."

Maren’s pulse spiked violently at the mere mention of his name. Everything was moving at a sickening speed.

"Alright, let's get this over with," Renata commanded, standing up and smoothing down her immaculate dress. "Come along, Maren."

Maren finally managed to force a full sentence out of her dry mouth. "Where exactly are you taking me?"

Renata paused. Her perfectly sculpted face hardened for a fraction of a second before melting back into a severe, plastic smile.

"Congratulations, Maren. You are getting married right now."

The next thirty minutes passed in a surreal, suffocating blur. Maren found herself mechanically descending the sweeping marble staircase of the Di Ravelli estate. She was tightly laced into an incredibly heavy, extravagant designer gown she had never seen before, clutching a bouquet of white roses with trembling fingers.

The massive foyer had been transformed. Strangers she had never met populated the rows of chairs, all staring at her. She felt exactly like a heavily painted, decorative prop being formally auctioned off to a monster.

Just days ago, she had expected to take over her family's empire and marry a childhood friend. Now, she was entirely stripped of her autonomy, walking to her own execution.

As her vision started to blur with unshed tears, Renata’s perfectly manicured fingers clamped down on her bare arm like a vice.

"Do not even think about disgracing me today," her new mother-in-law hissed quietly into her ear. "Smile brightly and look beautiful. I absolutely refuse to let these people think I am saddled with a miserable, ugly daughter-in-law."

Maren forced a stiff nod, blinking the moisture away as she focused on the end of the aisle.

Enrico stood rigidly by the altar. He looked incredibly imposing in a tailored, jet-black suit, though his thick dark hair was noticeably messy—as if he had literally just dragged himself out of bed to attend a minor chore. He possessed a raw, dangerous magnetism, yet his silver eyes were completely, offensively bored as she approached.

The ceremony itself felt like a calculated insult. The minister rushed through the sacred vows at breakneck speed, clearly instructed to treat the event like a tedious corporate merger rather than a union. Enrico remained entirely devoid of emotion, staring past her shoulder.

"You may kiss the bride," the minister announced hastily.

Enrico stepped forward and clamped his heavy hands onto her waist. He leaned down and pressed a shockingly cold, fleeting kiss directly against the side of her chin. He deliberately avoided her mouth, yet the brief contact still sent a stupid, entirely unwanted jolt of heat through her chest.

The moment the obligatory press photos were snapped, Enrico turned his broad back on her. He walked straight out of the hall with his massive security detail without offering a single word to the woman he had just married.

Hours dragged on during the excessively lavish reception. Maren stood entirely alone, enduring the thinly veiled whispers of the elite guests. When she could no longer take the isolation, she marched straight up to her mother-in-law.

"Where is he?" Maren demanded.

Renata smoothly excused herself from a wealthy investor and turned around. She raked a highly critical gaze over Maren’s expensive dress and exhausted posture.

"You really should go retouch your makeup, darling," Renata noted dismissively. "You look terrible."

A hot, indignant fury began to boil over in Maren's chest.

"I am asking you where my husband is," she pressed, her voice lowering into a hard demand.

Renata tilted her head, a cruel, amused little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Since you insist on knowing," Renata replied easily. "His favorite mistress, Mariana, flew back into the city this afternoon. He is currently with her. Now, do you need someone to help you fix your face?"

A bucket of freezing water violently extinguished the fiery anger in Maren’s chest. She swallowed against a sudden, massive lump of pure humiliation, her eyes rapidly stinging with hot tears.

On the exact day of her wedding, just hours after exchanging vows, her new husband had abandoned their reception to go fuck his mistress.