Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“Matteo, who’s your date?”
“Can we get a name for our article?”
“This way, sweetheart. Let us capture every angle of your beautiful face.”
They adore Azra. They snap her photo while shouting for her to give them the money shot they’ll splash across every glossy magazine’s front page tomorrow morning, which will only add another million names to my hit list.
A handful of the paparazzi are smarter than they look.
“Isn’t that Azra Şahin?”
“I thought she was engaged to Antonio Adami?”
I glare at the two reporters who caused Azra to stiffen before guiding her toward reporters with cameras that are much bulkier than the ones at the start of the gauntlet.
Azra answers a series of questions while I hover in the background.
The attention isn’t on me, and for once, I don’t hate it.
I didn’t realize how exhausting putting on an act could be until I had to perform the role of my life.
Pretending I didn’t become an addict after only one hit was an Oscar-worthy production.
I behaved.
In the walk-in closet, with my head buried between the most stellar pair of legs I’ve ever seen, I actually behaved.
Who would have thought? I didn’t think I had a gentlemanly bone in my body. Yet, against all expectations, I’m walking a red carpet with my zipper imprinted on my cock rather than it being coated in the scent of the delicious cunt soaked into my cropped beard.
Forgetting the no-penetration clause of our contract would have been the fastest way out of my dilemma, but I couldn’t disrespect Azra like that.
I’ll never admit this out loud, but my brothers are right.
I’m wholly fucked.
Inside the gala, the atmosphere shifts from playful to obligatory. Sultry lighting bounces off gold accents, and chandeliers drip crystals like frozen rain. The room is full of people in tailored suits and glittering gowns who want to pretend they’re not desperate for their wealth to reward them a power they’ll never hold.
The crowd reacts the moment they notice my entrance.
They always do.
Men straighten their ties, women adjust their postures, and heads turn.
As I guide Azra toward the bar, my fingers brushing the bare skin on the small of her back, people approach with smiles too wide and voices too eager.
“Matteo! Good to see you.”
“How is your father? Well, I hope.”
“We’re honored by your attendance. Truly.”
They circle like sharks dressed in the finest silks. I barely hear their greetings because every time a woman leans in too close or laughs too loudly at something I didn’t say, Azra notices.
Oh, she notices.
She’s teeming with jealousy, and I’m grateful as fuck.
It makes me hopeful that I’m not a complete fucking idiot.
Azra’s narrowed eyes track every admirer, silently marking her targets. She isn’t aiming her daggers at me now. They’re aimed at any woman who dares to pay me an ounce of attention, and somehow, that makes things worse.
It’s not just me noticing her unexpected yet highly craved jealousy.
Across the room and wearing more concealer than any female attendee, Antonio stiffens every time Azra’s expression darkens. His jaw isn’t as loose and carefree as it was when Azra declared I hadn’t sealed the deal yet. His posture is rigid, as he contemplates storming over and demanding answers.
Not on my watch, fuckface.
Although this is the exact response I need to prove to my brothers that I’m not a chimpanzee who performs tricks for peanuts, I worked hard to make Azra’s face this red and heated, so I’ll be the only one to benefit from it.
After signaling to the bartender for a whiskey, I curl my arm around Azra’s waist and pull her into me. Her body fits perfectly against mine, as if God made her for me.
If anyone ever tells you that you can’t be pretty and smart, remind them of this moment. Azra is both beautiful and intelligent. As the vein in her neck thuds out a healthy tune, she attempts to crank her neck back to see why I’m acting like a neurotic jerk.
I say attempts because her neck barely moves a smidge before a muttered threat freezes both her head and her heart. “If you give him any impression whatsoever that I’m not the cause of your flushed face and wide pupils, you’ll have nothing left to marry but a casket.”
Some of my anger slips away when she whispers, “A casket is too good for him.” I arch a brow, shocked but in love with the snark in her tone. “What? I can’t be the first person to have wished for their ex to decompose in a vermin-infested pit under the hungry eyes of a group of vultures.”
“A kettle.”
Azra’s confused face is cute as fuck. “Huh?”
“Vultures circling, soaring, or flying together is called a kettle. When they’re sitting together, they’re a committee or a volt, and when they’re feeding, they’re a wake.”
“A wake at a wake. Seems fitting,” she murmurs, and my dick hardens to stone. Her eyes bounce between mine for three heart-thumping seconds. “Does your smirk mean you’re not opposed to us organizing an open burial?”