Page 39 of Made for Sinners

“Your… wife?” Alex repeated, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Yes,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “She has a flair for the dramatic. Likes to make a statement.”

“I see,” Alex said, though it was obvious he didn’t. “So you’re confirming these charges?”

“Put them all through,” I said simply. “Every last one.”

“All $7.8 million?” His voice rose slightly, like he was waiting for me to change my mind.

“Yes,” I said smoothly. “If my wife wants to test my limits, she’ll find there aren’t any. Put it all through.”

There was a pause, and then: “Understood, sir. We’ll process the transactions immediately.”

“Good,” I said, hanging up and setting the phone down on the desk.

For a moment, I just stared out the window, the absurdity of the situation washing over me. Seven-point-eight million dollars. Geneva, Paris, Milan, Monaco. Crystal-encrusted espresso machines and bespoke toilet seats. She wasn’t just pushing buttons—she was mashing them.

And the ridiculous thing? I wasn’t even mad.

This wasn’t rebellion. This wasn’t about the money. This was her testing me, pushing boundaries, trying to see where the linewas. But what she didn’t realize—what she hadn’t figured out yet—was that there was no line. Not for her.

She could spend seven million or seventy. She could throw my money into the wind and light it on fire, and it wouldn’t matter. None of it would. All this did was make her mine in a way no ridiculous purchase ever could.

Because every dollar she spent, every outrageous charge, every absurd inquiry tied her to me a little tighter. She could play her games, test my patience, try to provoke me all she wanted. At the end of the day, she’d still be mine.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

13

EMILIA

The morning after the ceremony, reality pressed down on me, heavy and suffocating. The penthouse was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that felt intentional, like the walls themselves were waiting for me to break.

I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

I threw off the silk sheets, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with a sharp slap. The ring on my finger felt heavier than it had last night, a tangible reminder of the chains I’d willingly—begrudgingly—slipped into.

Dante had made himself scarce after our tense arrival, disappearing into his office like the world owed him its undivided attention. Fine by me. The less I saw of him, the better.

I hated how aware I was of his absence. How the oppressive stillness of the house seemed to expand, filling every corner, every shadow, with the weight of everything we weren’t saying to each other.

He hadn’t slept in bed with me last night.

I shouldn’t have cared. I told myself it was better this way, that the distance between us was what I wanted—what Ineeded.But the empty side of the bed betrayed me, its cold, untouched sheets whispering truths I didn’t want to hear.

I’d stayed awake far longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a tangled mess of anger, regret, and something darker—something I didn’t want to admit to myself. Every creak of the house, every faint sound, had me straining to hear if he was coming. But he never did.

But I wasn’t stupid.

I knew this wasn’t over.

I shook my head, trying to push the thoughts away. He didn’t deserve this much space in my mind. Not after everything.

But even now, I couldn’t stop replaying the look in his eyes before he turned and walked away. Cold. Guarded. Like he’d built a wall so high and unyielding that even I couldn’t claw my way through it anymore.

Not that I wanted to.

I clenched my jaw, annoyed at myself for even thinking about it. Dante could disappear into his office for all I cared. Let him brood. Let him stew in whatever storm he’d conjured for himself.

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