Chapter 2 Chapter Two
I stir from my slumber as sun rays assault my face.
With a groan, I reluctantly sober up and open my eyes to what appears to be a posh master’s bedroom.
My gaze flickers weakly between the waterfall chandelier, spilling warm yellow light all over the room.
I pause for a minute or two, then sit up and lean my back against the headboard.
Pressing my hand to my temples, I attempt to massage off the ache that's threatening to split my head in half.
Gosh, I feel like shit. My head feels like it's been used to practice a drum contest or something.
I'm obviously suffering from a hangover this morning.
And even though my thoughts are a bit hazy at the moment, I still recall everything that happened last night—events that eventually led me to this luxurious bedroom.
I married a Mafia boss. It was impromptu—something I never imagined would happen to me in a million years. But you know what they say about life being unpredictable.
I let out an exasperated breath after regaining my composure. Barely.
I glance around the unfamiliar room, searching for a sign of life. But the silence is deafening, and that alone confirms there’s no one here with me.
Not even the person I expected to see by my side on bed. Don't get me wrong, I’m damn grateful we slept in separate rooms. The kiss was already too much, I wouldn't want to add more to that.
Taking a deep breath, I sigh again before lowering my hand from my face, my gaze lost in the distance as I ponder my thoughts.
Fuck, what have I done?
I married a stranger last night. Because of my sister's persuasion.
I know it's a one-month contract thing, but still—how am I supposed to navigate my personal relationship with this fake ass marriage now?
Because the last thing I want is to end things with Zayn. It’s not happening. Nope. He’s the man I love and the man I want to be with.
I should blame Sky for this misfortune, but then again, I was the one who ultimately agreed to it. Not that she left me any choice, but still...
I guess I’ll just have to find a way to explain everything to my boyfriend and beg for his understanding—today. I’m sure he’d agree; after all, we’ve been dating for the past two years in a long-distance relationship.
So, what’s one more month he can’t endure? I know it’s inconsiderate, but I’m doing this for my sister—and for my family.
Sky told me last night that the Mafia boss—Lorenzo—promised to help Dad with his failing company, which was on the verge of bankruptcy, if Dad agreed to give one of his daughters in marriage. What an odd request, considering that man is one of the most charming and enigmatic men I've ever seen in my life. He's also young. And a billionaire too. He could easily marry anyone he wanted, so why would he ask my father that?
Anyways, that's a discovery for another day.
Lorenzo didn’t exactly specify which one of us he wanted when he made his request, so that must be the reason he didn’t find it odd when I appeared at the altar yesterday instead of my sister. Or so I think.
Speaking of my newly wedded husband, I still don’t know much about him... aside from the derogatory labels Skylar used to describe his personality last night.
I didn't take Sky's words to heart because I know how dramatic she can be about stuff like this. Scoff.
I turn to reach for my phone on the bedside table when the door to my room suddenly pushes open.
A redhead woman—around my age if not older—walks in, capturing my attention as she closes the door behind her.
"Good morning, Madam," she greets politely, her hands clasped in front of her with a genial smile etched on her face. She radiates warmth.
I clear my throat and withdraw my hand in the air, leaning back against the headboard. "Morning. Who are you?" I reciprocate her tone.
"I'm Agnes," she introduces herself. "The chief of staff around the house. I've been working for the boss for the past seven years."
"Okay, I'm..."
"I know," she swiftly interrupts. "You're the boss's wife."
Alright then, Miss I-Know-It-All, have at it, I muse inwardly.
I nod subtly. "Uhm,"
"Welcome, ma'am. It's good to have you. I hope you love it around here. And if you won't mind the trouble, I'd like to take you on a house tour later. Actually, boss's orders."
Once again, I pause and nod. "Okay, sure."
She smiles and exhales, "Cool. Is there anything in particular you'd like for breakfast?" she asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
I merely contemplate for a moment. "Uhm, not really. I'm okay with anything."
She observes me, then nods curtly. "Alright then. I’ve prepared a warm bath for you and also picked out your outfit for today. If you need anything else, let me know. I'll be in the kitchen downstairs."
I nod sharply in understanding. "Uh, thanks."
She smiles kindly. "If you'll excuse me." She's about to turn on her heel when I call out to her abruptly.
"Uhm, what about..." I clear my throat. "The boss?" I ask, referring to you-know-who.
Agnes disregards my awkwardness and replies smoothly, "He's in his room, preparing for a business trip as we speak."
What?
Not the reply I was expecting. Who goes on a business trip a day after they get married?
Well, I guess Sky wasn't capping after all when she told me this man is a sucker for his business.
Nonetheless, I nod at Agnes, effectively dismissing her. Agnes seems alright, she's quite friendly. I think I might like her.
After the door clicks shut behind her, I sit up, throwing my legs onto the ground.
The moment my feet touch the porcelain tiles, a shiver runs through me.
My gaze then sweeps across the room once more, taking in the lavish interiors and furniture—a chaise lounge is positioned by the floor-to-ceiling window, two plush sofas are arranged on the other side of the room, and there's a work desk, a vanity dresser, and a walk-in closet filled with clothes that obviously cost more than my annual wages.
Wow.
But why am I so surprised? Last I checked, I’m married to a billionaire.
I fix my gaze on the exquisite sight of expensive art pieces hanging on the walls, but my eyes are drawn to a unique framed drawing among the others. It's the only one that really stands out in terms of details.
The frame contains a detailed drawing of a woman—a beautiful one. Her long, wavy brown hair cascades down her shoulders, and her pink lips are parted with such elegance, complementing the sultry way she poses her face for the portrait—or picture, even. She looks like a model, but something tells me she's not—at least not professionally.
I believe so because I work at one of the biggest modeling agencies, and I handle every top model who’s ever walked past the company's door. If this woman is a model, she’d definitely be a top one, given her frame is resting on a billionaire’s wall.
But I guess she’s not.
Who is she, then? I wonder.
I stare at her picture for a while, losing myself in her beauty.
Eventually, I snap myself out of it when the ornate clock by the bedstand beeped. I glance at it.
It reads 10 a.m.
My heart skips a beat in realization. Damn, I slept for that long?
I rise to my feet, release a yawn, and strip off my nightdress before stalking to the bathroom to freshen up.
I return to the bedroom twenty minutes later, after soaking myself thoroughly in the Jacuzzi. I swear Agnes deserves a reward from me cause that's one of the best baths I've had in my twenty-seven years of living. No kidding.
Loosening the sash of the silk robe I'm clad in, I tug the garment off my shoulders so it falls down my back before settling into the chair in front of the vanity.
My wet, golden hair sticks to my face, and my eyes—the color of wildflowers—gleam in the mirror as I take in my features.
I can't help but glance over at the framed drawing of that lady again. I can't quite pinpoint why, but something about it keeps stirring my curiosity.
I swallow hard as I return my gaze to the mirror, inwardly comparing my beauty with hers. I feel a twinge of skepticism.
Don’t get me wrong—I'm beautiful. It's obviously the reason I work in one of the biggest modeling industries worldwide—but I doubt my beauty is anywhere near this lady’s. She's on another level.
Shaking off my dumb thoughts, I focus on the lotion I’m applying to my bare shoulders. I massage the cream into my soft skin, my hand gliding to my breasts. I shrug off the robe for more exposure, letting the fabric pool at my waist.
I'm about to apply more lotion to my palm when the door to my bedroom bursts open abruptly.
I flinch sharply, springing to my feet and instinctively slapping my hands across my chest to cover my breasts.
What the fuck—
My heart pounding, I dart my gaze toward the door—at the culprit—hoping to shoot laser beams with my eyes at Agnes.
But surprisingly, it isn't Agnes at the door.
It's someone else—of the opposite gender! A very familiar someone.
He stands in the doorway, hands casually tucked into his pockets, exuding the nonchalance of an unbothered person. He's dressed in formal attire, his muscles rippling through the immaculate white long-sleeve shirt that complements his pressed black slacks.
Power radiates from him as his dark grey eyes rake over me—my half-naked self.
I feel myself melting under his scrutiny, but I fight to maintain my composure inwardly.
"What the hell was that for?" I yell, turning away from him to adjust my robe. "Hello? Don't you know how to knock or something?" I say in frustration, ignoring the way my body is already heating up.
Even though my back is now turned to him, I can still feel his gaze drilling holes into my body. It makes me feel hot and bothered.
My spine jerks when his nonchalant, deep voice echoes in the air. "Knocking is overrated," he says calmly, "and why the hell would I commit such an atrocity before I see my wife?"
My jaw and palms clench by my sides—Is he being serious right now?
I turn to face him once more, his muted gaze locking onto mine. "You think knocking is an atrocity?" I scoff derisively. "There's something called privacy, you know."
"I don't."
My brows furrow, but before I can retort further, he beats me to it.
"I'm leaving town for a few days. You're not allowed to leave this house till I get back. Agnes will take care of you. Be good."
I frown at his last words. Be good? What am I—a kid or something?
Huff.
"Understood?" he demands.
I nod with a glare. "Yeah, sure."
His expression is hard to read as his gaze runs over me once more—calculating. I noticed his jaw clenched. But he doesn't say anything else.
He turns to leave, but just then, my curiosity resurfaces in time, and I call out to him, halting him in his tracks.
"What is it?"
I point at the frame and ask, "Who's that? Pardon my curiosity—it tends to get the best of me sometimes. But she's just really beautiful." I say.
His muted eyes trail my finger until his gaze lands on the frame. It’s quick, but I notice a small sparkle ignite in his dead orbs when he observes the image.
His jaw clenches more tightly than before, but he pulls his gaze back to me with an icy stare. "Mind your own business."
That’s all he says before slamming the door behind him.
Confusion creased my brow as I pondered—what the hell just happened? Did I mistakenly hit a nerve
or something? Why did he look so infuriated when I asked? It's just a harmless question.
Well, is it?
I turn once more to the frame, my eyes darting between the image.
Now, I doubt it—this lady is obviously someone familiar or even significant to him.
But, who the hell is she?