The ocean looked like melted sapphires.
Waves crashed against the cliffs below our private villa, sunlight shimmering off the water like a mirror built by gods. From my spot on the lounger, I could see forever. Or at least far enough to forget the world we left behind.
I stretched, lazy and golden under the Italian sun, the silk wrap slipping off one shoulder. Dominic was somewhere behind me inside, making a call — probably threatening someone with a smile.
But for once, I wasn't thinking about business. Or secrets. Or power.
I was thinking about time.
One year.
That's all we agreed to.
Twelve months of legally binding matrimony.
Twelve months to pretend we were perfect for cameras, for contracts, for legacies.
I had promised myself I wouldn't feel anything real.
And yet here I was, on a cliffside balcony, wearing his last name on my skin like it had always belonged to me.
And the crazy part?
I didn't want to take it off.
I heard the door slide open and felt his presence before he said anything.
Dominic stepped behind me, brushing my hair off my shoulder as he leaned down and kissed the spot just beneath my ear.
"You look like sin in sunlight," he murmured.
I smirked. "And you sound like trouble with a credit card."
He laughed, the sound low and wicked. "Come on. I want to show you something."
We walked down to the shoreline, hand in hand.
He'd arranged for the entire cove to be cleared out. No press. No staff. Just him, me, and the sound of waves licking the sand.
At the water's edge sat a vintage black motorcycle.
And beside it? A bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in a metal bucket.
I turned slowly.
"You rented a bike?"
"I bought the bike," he said, tossing me a helmet. "Thought we could ride down the coast, stop where we want, do whatever the hell we feel like."
I grinned. "Didn't think you knew how to do fun, Blackwell."
"I'm learning," he said, watching me like I was the lesson.
We rode for hours.
Hair tangled. Wind wild. My arms wrapped tight around his waist, pressed to his back as the engine roared down narrow cliff roads and locals turned to stare.
Some recognized us.
Some took pictures.
But we didn't stop.
He didn't let go of me once.
We finally pulled over near a hidden beach, empty and golden beneath the setting sun. I kicked off my heels and stepped into the surf, letting the salt water kiss my calves. Behind me, Dominic lit a cigar, watching like he didn't know what to do with a wife who could steal his breath without trying.
"You're quiet," he said.
"Thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Always," I shot back, smiling.
Then I turned, walking slowly back toward him, dripping water, eyes locked on his.
"You remember the contract?" I asked.
He tilted his head, suspicious. "The one you made me sign with blood and threats?"
"Mmhm. The one with the twelve-month countdown."
A shadow flickered in his gaze.
"Still planning your exit?"
I stopped in front of him, slid my hands under his shirt, fingers grazing warm skin.
"I was," I said softly. "But I don't think I'm going anywhere."
His breath caught — just slightly — before his hands gripped my hips.
"You sure?" he asked, voice husky.
I leaned in, whispering at the shell of his ear.
"I think the only thing I'm breaking is the contract.
He kissed me like the world was ending.
Like he'd waited years to hear that one sentence.
He pushed me back against the bike, hands roaming, mouth hot and urgent against mine. My dress rode up, my thighs wrapped around him, and he kissed down my throat like he needed to brand every inch of me.
"You're mine now," he rasped.
"Already was," I whispered, tugging his hair.
"And when the year's over?" he growled. "Still mine?"
"I'll put it in writing if you need proof."
He lifted me then, arms strong, lips crushing mine.
"Fuck the contract," he said.
"Thought you'd never say it."
Later, lying in a hammock under a sky full of stars, I rested my head on his chest and felt the slow, steady beat of his heart.
And for the first time since we signed that deal…
I didn't feel owned.
I felt chosen.
And I wasn't leaving.
Not in twelve months.
Not ever.