3

[Madison Rose]

Marco held both of my cheeks. My lips parted because of what he did, allowing his tongue to enter my mouth. It explored as if searching for something inside me. I couldn't help but close my eyes tightly. Something strange was happening in my stomach. It felt like a storm raging there, and I couldn't explain it.

I couldn't breathe anymore. Nevertheless, I couldn't bring myself to push him away or stop him from kissing me. Instead of stopping him, I saw myself being drawn into what he was doing. This was part of my duty as his wife: to satisfy my husband's needs, so he wouldn't think of divorcing me and leaving me.

When he finally released my hand that he had been holding earlier, I slowly wrapped my arms around his neck. Our kisses deepened, and I found myself reciprocating each of Marco's kisses.

"Hmm..." I couldn't help but release a small moan because of that. I seemed to have lost myself completely and my sanity had abandoned me.

His hand moved from my neck. I could feel his warm touch as it trailed down my neck and down to my chest. I involuntarily flinched when he grazed the curve of my right breast. It didn't stay there long; his hand moved down to my abdomen, almost reaching between my thighs, and I accidentally bit his lip.

We both became motionless, particularly as the taste of blood entered my mouth, a metallic sensation that sent a shiver down my spine.

"I-I'm sorry," I managed to utter, my face turning crimson with embarrassment.

He gazed at me blankly, his eyes void of any emotion. He let out a sigh, distancing himself from his previous position above me.

I nervously bit my lip. Had my accidental action disappointed him? It was mortifying!

"Marco..." I couldn't recall if I had addressed him by his name before or if this was our first encounter. "Were you being unfaithful? Is that why you vanished for a month?"

Marco appeared before me with incredible speed, leaving me overwhelmed. Feeling unable to confront him directly, I cast my head downward, avoiding his gaze.

With considerable effort, I managed to voice my concern, the words tasting bitter as I spoke. "Someone sent my father pictures of you with another woman. He accused you of infidelity and planning to divorce me," I stammered.

Summoning my courage, I lifted my eyes to meet Marco's, determined to confront the situation head-on.

He took a step toward me, causing me to flinch, anticipating harm. But to my surprise, he refrained from any physical contact. Leaning in, he placed his hand on the edge of the bed.

"I am not betraying you," he coldly declared. "Though you should be grateful for the woman in those pictures; she prevented your premature demise."

He straightened his posture after uttering those words, but his face remained shadowed and inscrutable.

"That's precisely why I implored your father, in utmost secrecy, to keep our wedding affair intimate without any media exposure," he explained, a tinge of disappointment lacing his voice. "Unfortunately, he couldn't restrain himself and leaked the news of our impending nuptials. Fortunately, no photos of you surfaced."

He shook his head, conveying his frustration. "You must understand that the moment our adversaries learn of my marital union, being the head of our family, your safety becomes imperiled." He angled his head to one side. "Just consider my month-long absence as a measure taken to ensure your well-being."

His words seeped into my thoughts, leaving me momentarily lost. The notion that the woman in the photograph might be lying in a grave six feet under flashed through my mind. Is she deceased? And if so, what caused her demise?

I was so lost in my thoughts that I failed to notice the hand extended towards me. My focus shifted to the hand and then rose to meet Marco's gaze. Tentatively, I accepted the gesture and stood up from the bed, all the while studying his expression.

Earlier, I had assumed he would be furious with me, resorting to coercion. I had anticipated punishment, much like my father's methods, if I didn't conform to his desires. However, things didn't unfold as I expected.

"Let's head home, Maddie."

Those words felt like a gentle embrace on my heart. For the first time, hearing someone else call me by my name brought an immense sense of solace.

I was surprised to hear my name uttered by someone who appeared heartless, but they said it with the gentlest and most caring voice imaginable. As we traveled from my father's home to my husband's, silence enveloped us. I closed my eyes, aware that in my thoughts, I referred to Marco as my husband. It is factually correct since Marco is indeed my husband, yet it feels strange. I stole a glance at Marco, seated across from me in the car, completely absorbed in his laptop. As long as there were no phone calls demanding his attention, he occupied himself by fervently typing away on his device.

I wanted to establish a meaningful connection with him, fostering a sense of comfort and familiarity, given that we had committed to a lifelong partnership. However, in the presence of Marco, with his chilling, penetrating eyes locked onto me, my self-assurance faltered.

If my father was intimidating, Marco surpassed him, exuding an intensity that was tenfold more formidable.

Whenever Marco shifted his gaze, I instinctively looked away, my heart pounding momentarily, fearing he might direct his attention towards me.

Resolutely, I focused my eyes on the scenery beyond the window, a familiar view that I had witnessed when departing from Marco's residence to my father's abode.

We arrived at a prestigious gated community where Marco's house was situated. Referring to it as "ours" still felt odd to me.

Soon enough, I noticed the grand and sophisticated entrance gate of the house. It stood tall, displaying the family emblem prominently. Recalling my initial visit, I was mesmerized by the emblem intricately carved in gold against the gate's black backdrop.

As the gate swung open, our car pulled through. Not too far away, I caught sight of the familiar residence where I had stayed briefly before departing.

I suddenly recollected his mention of the woman he accompanied in another country. Unfortunately, the woman had passed away, and I remained unaware of the circumstances surrounding her death. Curiosity urged me to inquire with Marco, but I found myself hesitant. Marco possessed an aura that deterred one from delving further into matters he had already disclosed. It seemed as though he provided selected details and expected no further inquiries; the rest remained strictly off-limits. Should you inquire for additional information, his irritation would ensue.

At this moment, the last thing I desired was to provoke his anger. There was a concern that he might...he might inflict harm upon me as my father did whenever he was furious.

As the car halted in front of the house, an individual opened the door for me. Stepping out, I noticed all the domestic staff and Marco's employees standing in a structured line, ready to greet us. An electric shock coursed through me as I caught sight of Marco standing by my side.

Amicably, we were greeted by everyone present. Gradually, Marco's hand transitioned from my back to my waist, prompting me to inhale deeply. During those fleeting moments, I pondered the unwritten path his hand might explore next.

Together, we crossed the threshold into the abode. In addition to the cordial staff, two individuals occupied the office—a man and a woman, their imposing presence mirroring their employer's formidable aura.

Considering Marco's enigmatic demeanor, it would not astonish me if all his employees displayed a similar emotional detachment.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Moretti," they both greeted me, sending a peculiar jolt of electricity down my spine upon hearing those words.

It's true, I am now Mrs. Moretti after marrying Marco. We're officially husband and wife. How long will it take for me to fully embrace this new identity?

"I'm Lucille," the woman introduced herself.

"Lorenzo, Mrs. Moretti," the man chimed in.

Nervously, I offered a smile in response and reached out my hand to shake theirs. However, they both glanced at my hand briefly before shifting their gaze to Marco, who stood beside me.

I caught Marco's gaze as he fixated on my hand, prompting me to swiftly retract it. Wasn't this a customary practice here? I mean, shaking hands upon meeting someone new.

Lucille cleared her throat and assumed a rigid posture.

"They'll serve as your personal guards," Marco interjected, ushering me away from them, concluding our conversation.

Once again, I beamed at Lucille and Lorenzo, receiving nods in return.

Marco held me tightly, yet I didn't experience any discomfort. It was unlike when Walter embraces me. Comparing the touches of these two important men in my life was inevitable. With Walter, fear saturates my being, as I anticipate his cruelty. Whereas with Marco, whenever he holds or touches me, my heart finds solace. However, the lingering fear remains, as I dread the possibility of Marco hurting me someday too.