Chapter 3

Salvatore

F rom my office on the highest floor, I have a panoramic view of everything I own, everything I control. The buildings, the businesses, the people—they all move to the rhythm I set. This is my kingdom, built brick by brick, deal by deal.

My desk is cluttered with contracts and proposals, each one more profitable than the last. Despite all of the work I still have to complete, my thoughts are focused on one thing: Serena. It's been two week since she discovered the contract, and she still hasn’t gotten over her little temper tantrum.

I tug at my collar, trying to relieve the irritation that prickles my skin whenever I think about her words: "Don't you love me? Don't you fucking love me?" Her voice, so desperate and raw, grates on my nerves. It reminds me of my past.

"Salvatore, don't you love me?" My mother's sickly sweet voice creeps into my consciousness. Those words have haunted me for years. She'd ask me that every time she crawled into my bed late at night, every time she demanded more than a son should give.

I clench my fists, forcing the memories to the back of my mind. It’s irrational, but I feel angry at Serena for making these memories resurface.

Regardless, she needs to know that arranged marriages are how things go in our world. She’ll get over it, eventually. She has to. The agreement with her father is clear: she wasn’t supposed to know about the arrangement. It was supposed to make things easier. Clearly, it hasn’t.

Her running to the guest bedroom is nothing but an act of rebellion. Every night, I find myself standing outside the door, debating whether to drag her back to our bed. But that would only fuel her defiance. She needs to come back willingly. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

"Come in," I say.

Mathew, one of my most trusted advisors, steps in. "Sir, the board meeting is about to start," he informs me.

"I'll be right there," I reply.

I make my way to the conference room and take a seat at the head of the table, with the board members' attention focused on me, ready for my instructions. As they discuss the latest merger, my mind wanders back to Serena. I could have handled it better, I suppose. Less blunt, less cruel. But the conversation threw me into a bad headspace. In that moment, I was back to that eleven-year-old kid with his mother’s hand on places it didn’t belong.

It isn’t that I don’t care for her. I do. More than I have ever cared for anyone in my life. But it isn’t love. Love is a concept I can’t grasp, a weakness I can’t afford. Serena is my wife, she softens my edges, makes me more approachable in social settings, and looks impeccable on my arm at every event. She is a great way to blow off steam after a grueling day of negotiations. She has her uses, and I value her for them.

It's not just her body or looks that I care about either—though they are assets in our social circles. It's also her sharp mind, her quick wit, and the way she effortlessly wraps people around her finger. I haven’t even looked at another woman since we’ve been together. Serena satisfies all my needs, and I’ve never felt the urge to seek anyone else out. Every woman I’ve ever seen pales in comparison to Serena, so why would I step out?

I don’t want her sad or hurt. Despite my coldness, I don't relish her pain. I just can't figure out how to console her without feeling like I'm going against my own beliefs, turning into the exact thing I hate. My mother taught me that love is a weapon.

In a twisted sense, it is a relief that I no longer have to play the doting husband, the obedient puppy at her feet. That act has been exhausting. I did it to keep the peace, to maintain the facade. Now, with the truth out, I can be more... authentic. More myself. The version of me that built this empire, that commands respect and instills fear.

But there is a part of me, a small, dark corner of my mind, that wonders what it would be like if I could feel what she wants me to feel. If I could love her the way she wants. It is a fleeting thought, one I quickly bury under layers of logic and control.

The boardroom’s chatter breaks me out of my thoughts. I listen to the board members present their plans and strategies, focused on the drone of financial data and market forecasts. Real estate, commodities, financial services—we have our hands in everything. Our reach is vast, our influence undeniable.

I raise a hand, and the room falls silent. “The merger goes through,” I declare, my voice leaving no room for argument. “We acquire at sixty percent valuation. Final offer.”

There's a collective nod of approval, pens scratching furiously against paper. They execute my will.

The meeting ends, and so does my day. As I move towards the elevator, one of the guards, Marco, falls into step beside me.

"Sir," Marco says quietly as we step into the elevator. There's an edge to his tone that immediately catches my attention.

I shoot him a glance, one eyebrow raised. Marco doesn’t waste words, and if he’s speaking now, it’s important. "Mrs. Agosti has left the mansion," he murmurs, his eyes avoiding mine out of respect—or perhaps fear.

My jaw tightens as I process this information. "Where is she?" I ask, my voice deceptively calm.

Marco hesitates for a fraction of a second. "We're trailing her now. She’s heading downtown."

The elevator doors slide open, and I step out, my mind racing. I slide into the back seat of the car, Marco taking his place in the front. The engine purrs to life, and we merge into the stream of city traffic to head downtown.

Serena will come around, one way or another. She has to understand that this is where she belongs, by my side, whether she likes it or not. And if she thinks she can escape or defy me, she’s gravely mistaken. In my world, no one steps out of line without consequences. She needs to learn that some boundaries cannot be crossed. Without order, there’s chaos, and I won't let anyone—even Serena—bring chaos into my world.

She hasn’t left the mansion for almost two weeks, not since she found the contract. Her sudden decision to go out is unusual. Where is she going?

Marco’s phone buzzes before he informs me, “She’s at a café on Fifth and Main.”

I glance down to see a message from him. Attached is a picture of Serena sitting at the corner table, but she’s not alone. Opposite her is a woman I don't recognize—mid-fifties, well-dressed.

“She’s meeting with this woman. No known connection,” he tells me.

An unfamiliar woman. Not one of her few friends, not a family member. My mind starts going haywire, scenarios and motives swirling in a dark storm. Serena doesn’t have many friends, and this woman certainly isn’t one of them. She’s planning something, something I hadn’t accounted for. What are you planning, Serena?

The café comes into view, and I exit the car quickly. I stand outside, watching them through the glass. The woman’s expressions are calm and composed, while Serena’s face is a mix of determination and something else—something I can’t quite read from this distance. Who is this woman, and what could she possibly want with my wife?

I text Marco: “Find out who she is. Everything.”

I slip my phone back into my pocket, my eyes never leaving Serena. Whatever game she’s playing, I’ll be ten steps ahead. I need to know every detail, every move, every possible outcome. And then, I’ll remind her just how deep this game really goes, and how outmatched she truly is within it.

Through the café window, I see the woman slide a piece of paper across the table to Serena. Serena hesitates for a moment, then digs a pen from her purse and begins to sign.

My blood runs cold. The sight of that simple act—a signature—sparks a fury so intense I nearly self-implode. What the hell is she thinking, signing something without running it through me first?

I stride toward the café entrance. The bell above the door chimes softly as I push it open, the sound a jarring contrast to the roaring in my ears. I make my way to their table, my eyes locked on Serena, who looks up just as she finishes signing.

“Serena,” I say, my voice deadly, “what do you think you’re doing?”

The woman across from her quickly intervenes. "Excuse me, sir—"

"Who are you?" I cut her off, my gaze never leaving Serena's.

The woman, slightly taken aback, finally introduces herself. "I'm Evelyn Harper, Serena's former university professor. She’s agreed to join my firm as a junior partner."

My eyes flick to the document now lying on the table, freshly signed and stamped. Serena's signature stares back at me, taunting, defiant. All this for a job she didn't discuss with me first.

My grip tightens on the back of Serena’s chair until my knuckles turn white. "You signed a contract to work for her without consulting me first?" I hiss under my breath.

Serena’s eyes meet mine, unwavering. "I needed this for myself, Salvatore. This isn’t about you."

Ignoring the anger in my demeanor, Harper tries to defuse the situation. "Mr. Agosti, Serena is an incredible talent. Her skills will be an asset to any firm, and I am honored to—"

“This is between my wife and me,” I snap, cutting her off. “Your involvement ends here.”

Harper retreats, throwing a quick goodbye to my wife and stuffing the contract in her briefcase, knowing better than to engage further. Serena looks at her apologetically before standing, her chin tilted upward.

"I’ve signed the contract, Salvatore. Deal with it."

Without another word, I grab her arm, practically dragging her out of the café. She resists, but I tighten my grip, making her follow. Once we’re in the car, I slam the door shut, signaling to Marco to raise the visor to give us privacy.

I glare at her. “Did you even read the contract?” I snap.

She scoffs. “One of us here is a lawyer, and it isn’t you."

“What professional discusses these things in a café?"

Her eyes blaze with defiance. "I chose where we met up to talk. Don't interfere in my life any longer."

"You aren’t going to work for her, Serena. My wife works for no one."

"It isn’t any of your business what I do," she retorts.

“If you told me you wanted to practice, I would have built a firm from the ground up for you," I growl.

She rolls her eyes, and my hands itch to spank her. “I do not want anything from you.”

“You aren’t going to work for her,” I bark.

She looks at me, and I can’t find any trace of the woman that once looked at me with smitten eyes.

"Watch me.”