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‘I’ll be crucified. Again,’ she corrected. ‘While you’ll be the charming rogue who gets away with anything. Again.’

‘Life is unfair, isn’t it?’ he muttered cynically.

Tilly stabbed a piece of gnocchi. ‘You’ve sent your staff away for a fortnight.’

‘Selling this marriage even for a short time will be easier if fewer people witness our…tiffs.’

‘It’s costing you a lot.’ She wasn’t sorry about that.

He leaned back. ‘I’m sure it’ll be worth it in the end.’

When she was gone. He was a fool. She could have been gone sooner if he’d not been so determined to use her to get at his father for reasons she didn’t understand—and suddenly had a sick feeling about.

Did he ever hit you?

‘I wonder what Erik will say,’ she muttered.

Alex’s expression tightened. ‘I’ve told him we’re married. I’ve not told him that we’re ending it in a few weeks.’

‘You want us to act as if this is real in front of everyone?’ Even his own brother?

‘More than that, we must prove it is before Domenico can breathe the word annulment.’

Prove how? Tilly dropped her fork. ‘Are you saying we have to consummate the marriage?’

‘Are you clutching your pearls in horror?’

She swallowed, shoving down the shocking flare of heat deep inside. ‘It wasn’t what we agreed.’

‘We can make another agreement.’ He watched her for a beat, then bitter laughter burst out. ‘Relax, Princess. I’ve never dragged an unwilling woman to my bed and I’m not starting with you.’

She couldn’t think of a comeback because her stupid brain had latched onto the concept of his bed. What? Why was she suddenly burning up?

‘We’ll leak a wedding photo and a honeymoon snap which our personal paparazzo will take tomorrow. We’ll need to fake it.’

Fake what on what honeymoon? Her heart thundered. Did he mean take photos of them together? Close? Kissing? Starring in a fake porn video was one thing, but to actually get close to Alex? She couldn’t. Just couldn’t. But only now did she realise exactly why. Horrified, she clenched every muscle because if she didn’t, she’d melt. Good heavens no—she could not be tempted by the thought of touching Alex Montesi!

‘You don’t need to look so damned scared.’ Alex suddenly pushed away from the table, abandoning her to dine alone.

She didn’t. She escaped to the bedroom Bianca had shown her. Because yes, she was scared. She was increasingly worried not about her future, but her own state of mind. What the hell was that reaction? Why was Alex so inside her head?

Her phone was on top of the neatly packed clothes in her bag. She snatched it up. Erik had messaged and she sent a quick text reply—she didn’t want to lie to him on a call. She didn’t open any other messages, certainly not social media. She wasn’t a masochist—she already knew they were saying she was too bloodless to be with Alex. Too boring. If only they knew how her blood burned right now.

She toed off her shoes and flopped on the bed. Should shower. Should unpack properly. Should do something. Instead she lay there battling to believe everything that had happened today—most of all that brutal question. Did he hit you?

And for all her fury, for all her fear, for all her frustration…her heart twisted.

* * *

A growling sound woke her. She blinked, then heard it again. Felt it. Her stupid stomach—empty and roaring. She glanced at her watch and sat up, appalled to realise she’d not just slept all afternoon, but also half the night. Alex hadn’t bothered to fetch her for dinner. Which was fine. But now she was ravenous and sleeping more was impossible.

Getting downstairs was easy given that motion-sensor low lights illuminated the way. In the immaculate kitchen she peeked in the fridge but felt too awkward to pry into the neatly stacked containers, so she took out a couple of eggs and some bread. She’d make a small snack and sneak back to bed. As she fossicked for a small pan and toaster, she smiled to herself. She’d never had access to a kitchenette or anything in the palace and she’d certainly never asked for meals outside of the set hours, so this was…fun. She toasted the bread and was just about to lift the pan of poached eggs from the heat when she heard a sound behind her.

‘What are you doing?’

She turned and gaped. He was naked. Almost naked. Black silk boxers rode low on his hips but there was so much skin above and below—bronzed skin stretched over rippling muscles—that she was stunned. She blindly reached for the pan.

‘Don’t—’ He broke off as she dropped the pan—and eggs—straight into the sink and shook out her hand. ‘The handle gets really hot.’