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The next few weeks were suffocating.
Alessandro kept her close—almost too close. He insisted she wear his ring at all times. He had her escorted everywhere when he wasn't by her side, and when he was, he touched her constantly. A hand on her lower back. A finger under her chin. A palm pressed to the small of her spine like a silent claim.
At public events, he smiled like the perfect husband, but behind the scenes, he was always watching her. Possessive. Obsessive.
Elena tried to carve out space for herself, but he never let her get too far.
"You're mine now," he reminded her every time she pushed. "That's the only truth that matters."
"You don't even like me," she snapped once, in a moment of anger.
His eyes darkened. "Wrong. I like you too much. That's the problem."
He kissed her hard that night. Held her like she might disappear. And when he laid her down in silk sheets and whispered her name like a curse, something in her cracked open.
She hated the way her body responded to him.
But she hated even more how much she wanted to respond.
Alessandro didn't speak of love. He spoke of ownership.
But Elena began to wonder what was buried beneath that control—what broke him, what made him need to hold so tight.
And why, despite everything, her heart started to ache for a man who might not even have one.