Chapter 48

Chapter 48
Sophia's POV
The sharp knock on the passenger window made us both freeze.
Through the glass, I could see a familiar black sedan parked beside us, and my blood turned to ice as I recognized the controlled, measured presence of the man approaching our car.
"Dr. Rosenberg," Vito said, "How convenient to find you here."
"Vito," David replied carefully, his arm still protectively around my shoulders.
Vito's attention shifted to me, and even through his dark sunglasses, I could feel the intensity of his gaze boring into me like a physical weight.
"I think... You should know that you're currently holding my wife."
"Vito, let me explain—" I started, scrambling out of the car to face him.
"Of course. You need to explain what you were doing in another man's arms. But not here. Come home with me. We have all the time in the world to discuss your... comfort arrangements."
David stepped out of his car, placing himself between Vito and me. "She's upset. She needed someone to talk to—"
"Dr. Rosenberg." Vito's voice carried an unmistakable warning. "Please don't insert yourself into our domestic affairs. I'm sure you understand the importance of boundaries."
I could see David weighing his options, torn between his desire to protect me and the very real danger of challenging a man like Vito Romano.
"It's okay, David," I said quickly, not wanting him to suffer because of my situation. "I should go."
When we finally reached the bedroom, the door closed behind us with an ominous click. This was the hotel Isabella had arranged for all the wedding guests. Vito and I were a married couple, and we had a suite.
"Isabella." His voice was deceptively calm as he positioned his wheelchair directly in front of me. "I warned you, as my wife, that you must maintain proper distance from other men."
"David was just comforting me, and you—" I stopped, my frustration finally overriding my fear. "Where were you? Where were you when I needed you? Off playing nursemaid to your precious Maria again?"
Something dangerous flickered across his features. "You're walking into territory you don't want to explore."
"Am I?" The words exploded out of me. "Because as my husband, why is it acceptable for you to live under the same roof as another woman? Why is it that every time she has a crisis, you drop everything—including your wife—to run to her side?"
"Maria is under my protection—"
"And what about me?" I demanded, my voice cracking. "What am I to you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I'm just the legal obligation you married to satisfy your grandfather, while your real devotion belongs to the woman you actually wanted."
His hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair, knuckles white with tension. "My relationship with Maria is none of your concern."
"It is when it affects our marriage!" I shot back. "But I suppose that doesn't matter, does it? Because we both know this is all just a performance anyway."
"Is that what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?" I challenged, my heart breaking even as I spoke. "We married for duty, not love. For family alliances and political convenience. So why don't we just focus on playing our parts correctly? I'll be the perfect Romano wife in public, and in private, we can both pursue whatever we need."
The room went deadly quiet. Vito's expression had gone completely blank, which felt more terrifying than his anger.
"You're very good at performing," he said finally.
"We both are," I replied, lifting my chin defiantly.
That's when he moved.
With lightning speed, his hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, pulling me forward with devastating strength. I stumbled and fell across his lap, gasping as my dress rode up around my thighs.
"Vito, what are you—"
His hands were already moving, pushing up the silk of my dress with deliberate precision. I felt cool air against my skin as he found the edge of my panties and tore them aside with one swift motion.
"If this is all just acting," he murmured, his voice dark and commanding, "then explain this."
Before I could respond, he slid one finger deep inside me, and I cried out at the sudden invasion. My body betrayed me instantly, already slick and ready despite my anger.
"Tell me, Isabella," he continued, adding a second finger and making me arch against him involuntarily, "is your cunt acting too? Or is this the one honest thing between us?"
Oh God. The crude word from his lips, combined with the skilled way he was stroking me, made my mind go blank. I tried to speak, but only a breathless moan escaped.
"Answer me," he commanded, his thumb finding my clit and circling it with maddening pressure. "Is this wet pussy just performing for me?"
"I—" I gasped, my hips moving against his hand despite my mortification. "This isn't... this isn't fair..."
"Fair?" He increased his pace, his fingers curling inside me to hit that perfect spot. "Nothing about this has ever been fair. But your body doesn't lie, does it? Even when your mouth does."
I was spiraling toward climax embarrassingly fast, my body responding to his touch like it had been designed specifically for his hands. The combination of his crude words and expert fingers was destroying every defense I had.
"Look how you're grinding against my hand," he observed with clinical detachment even as he drove me higher. "Look how desperate you are for your husband's touch. Still want to tell me this is just an act?"
"Please..." The word slipped out as a broken whimper.
"Please what? Please stop? Please make you come?" His fingers never paused in their relentless rhythm. "Or please admit that whatever else is performance between us, your body knows exactly who it belongs to?"
The tension was building to an unbearable peak, my entire world narrowing to the sensation of his fingers inside me and his thumb working my clit with devastating precision.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice rough with his own arousal. "Say your body belongs to me."
"I..." I was so close, trembling on the edge of release. "I can't..."
"Then you don't get to come."
His hands stilled completely, leaving me gasping and aching with need. The sudden absence of stimulation was almost painful.
"Your body also performs, doesn't it?" he asked softly, his fingers motionless inside me. "Because if this is all just acting, then you won't mind if I stop right here."
I stared at him through tear-blurred eyes, my body screaming for the release he was denying me. He was holding me on the knife's edge, proving his point with ruthless efficiency.
We both knew I was trapped. Trapped by my own desire, trapped by the way my body responded to him despite everything logical in my brain.
And the most terrifying part?
Part of me didn't want to escape.