Chapter 10 Chapter 10
When I walk out of the campus gates, the first thing I see is Sebastian—leaning against his black Bentley, one hand in his coat pocket, the other casually scrolling through his phone. He’s not standing like a husband waiting for his wife. No, he looks more like a boyfriend—the type who knows exactly how he makes girls blush. Relaxed, confident, effortlessly dangerous.
His eyes lift when he sees me, and a subtle smirk touches his lips.
“Had a good day?” he asks, pushing off the car as I approach.
I shrug, brushing some hair off my face. “Yeah, pretty good… except for all the gossips and eyes on me.”
He chuckles, stepping closer and opening the passenger door for me. “Takes a lot to be my wife, right?”
He winks, and I can’t help but roll my eyes, sliding into the leather seat. He closes the door with a soft thud, then walks around and gets into the driver’s side.
The engine purrs to life, and we pull away from the university, merging into the city’s rhythm. He drives with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally resting on my thigh like it’s second nature.
We arrive at a high-end mall, its front lined with glass panels and pristine marble floors inside. The kind of place where the scent of money lingers in the air—subtle, quiet, heavy.
He leads me through the entrance and into a boutique I’ve only seen in magazines—Louis Vuitton. My steps slow.
“I’ve never been in one of these,” I whisper.
Sebastian looks at me. “Well, you’re not just in one today. You’re shopping.”
And that’s what we do. Or rather, he does. He picks out dresses, heels, beachwear, silk lingerie, even sunglasses—like he’s designing me from head to toe for our honeymoon in France.
In Prada, I try on a white sundress that hugs my curves and falls just above the knee. He leans against the fitting room wall, arms folded, eyes sharp.
“Come here,” he says, pulling me close. I step between his legs, and he slides his hands around my waist, admiring the dress—and me in it.
“This one’s my favorite,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my jaw. “But I’ll still prefer what’s underneath.”
His fingers play at my hem, and for a moment, the air thickens with electricity.
“Sebastian,” I whisper, half a warning, half a sigh.
He chuckles, then kisses me quickly and smooth’s my hair. “We’ll take it,” he calls out, and the boutique assistant smiles knowingly.
At Chanel, he surprises me with a cream quilted bag and oversized sunglasses.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I want to,” he interrupts. “You’re mine. You should look like it.”
After hours of shopping, he makes a call, speaking in rapid Italian. Minutes later, two sharply dressed men arrive at the mall’s private parking garage. They nod respectfully at Sebastian, and he hands them the bags. They’re bodyguards, clearly. They load the shopping into a black SUV and drive off without a word.
We then head to a rooftop restaurant nestled at the top of a luxury hotel. The golden hues of sunset spill across the sky as we arrive. The maître d' greets Sebastian with immediate reverence.
“Mr. Manchini, welcome. And congratulations on your wedding,” he says with a smile, bowing slightly at me. “Your table is ready.”
We’re led to a private corner with a panoramic view of the city—amber lights twinkling below, a soft breeze carrying the scent of basil and olive oil from the open kitchen.
I’m handed a leather-bound menu with gilded lettering. “I want something Italian,” I murmur, scanning the pages.
“Good choice,” Sebastian says, already ordering for himself—handmade truffle ravioli and a glass of aged whiskey.
“For starters, I’ll have sushi,” I tell the waiter. “And a Negroni.”
As we wait, the soft clinking of silverware and quiet jazz float around us. My sushi arrives first—delicate rolls arranged like artwork on a slate board, with avocado, tuna, and spicy mayo. I take a bite and sigh.
“This is heaven.”
Sebastian sips his whiskey slowly, watching me. “You have a habit of making food look sensual,” he teases.
“Maybe you’re just always in that mood,” I say with a smirk.
Dinner arrives—my creamy risotto bursting with mushrooms and parmesan, his ravioli looking like something out of a food magazine. We eat slowly, savoring the moment, the candlelight dancing between us.
Just as I’m finishing the last bite, a procession of waiters appears, led by the restaurant owner himself, holding a small but elegant cake with white frosting and golden lettering that says: “Congratulations Mr. & Mrs. Manchini.”
I laugh softly in surprise.
Sebastian stands up and gestures for me to cut it. “Go on, wifey.”
I slice a small piece and feed it to him, and he does the same. The frosting is rich and smooth, the cake fluffy with layers of vanilla and cream. Applause comes from the staff nearby.
“Not bad for our second day married,” I whisper.
Sebastian raises his glass. “To the beginning.”
And for a moment, under the twilight sky, the pressure, the whispers, the past—all of it fades.
After dinner, we return to the penthouse. The city below is glowing with lights, but inside the car, there’s a quiet tension, the kind that comes when the night feels too perfect to last.
As soon as we step into the sleek, marble-floored foyer of the penthouse, Sebastian’s phone buzzes sharply. He pulls it out, checks the screen, and his expression changes instantly—sharpening, darkening.
“It’s the Godfather,” he mutters under his breath, already stepping toward the study. “I have to go.”
There’s no time for questions. He grabs his coat and keys without another word and disappears out the door, the click of it closing echoing through the empty space he leaves behind.
Silence wraps around me like a heavy cloak.
I walk slowly to the bathroom, the warm lights casting soft shadows on the cream tiles. I turn on the faucet, letting the water run hot, then sink into the bathtub. Steam rises around me as I lean back, closing my eyes.
Memories rise uninvited.
Michigan. The day I turned eighteen. My mother had just died in a car accident—a tragedy that still clings to my ribs like a bruise. That birthday should have meant freedom, but instead it was the beginning of my imprisonment. Living with my father became unbearable—cold, distant, void of love. Then came Violet Carrow. He married her like it was a business deal. And with her, came him—her son.
The one who sold me off like property to a mafia man I barely knew.
Sebastian.
It still feels like I’m floating through someone else’s life. Like I’m a passenger watching my own story unfold without control.
I stay in the bath until the water cools, then wrap myself in a towel and head to the bedroom. The city lights flicker outside the tall windows, casting soft glows on the sheets. I sit at the desk and open my laptop, trying to drown the thoughts with something concrete—my business assignment.
Time slips by.
By the time I close my books, it’s past midnight. The penthouse is still empty.
Sebastian hasn’t come back.
Without waiting, I slip into bed. No goodnights. No calls.