Page 30 of Twisted Devotion

The warmth in her eyes sharpens, and the sweet look vanishes. The fragile moment between us slips away like it never existed.

“Accessory?” she snaps, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

“Exactly,” I say flatly. “That’s what you’re here for, remember?”

Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t respond immediately. After a moment, she lifts her chin defiantly. “I need my things from my house. I didn’t come prepared.”

I shake my head slowly. “You’re my wife now. I’ll buy you whatever you need.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she says, her voice firm. “Maybe my brother can-”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” I cut in, adding finality to my tone. “You’re my responsibility now. Not Marco’s.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I don’t wait for her to speak. I turn and walk toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a decisive click.

9

ARIA

I’m mortified.

Absolutely and completely mortified.

I touched Nicolas. I touched him like his body was a masterpiece I had just uncovered for the first time, something both beautiful and overwhelming. And I did it while looking like I just walked out of a horror movie.

My hair was tangled, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, and my lipstick… I wanted to disappear when I saw my reflection. The fact that Nicolas didn’t even flinch at my disheveled appearance makes no sense.

He’s been gone for hours, and after burying my face in my pillow for what felt like an eternity, I finally decide it’s time to shower and wash away the humiliation.

The bathroom fills with steam as I step into the shower. The water pours down on my bare skin like a thousand tiny needles. It’s scalding, almost unbearable, but I don’t turn it down. I let the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe even from the past week.

The space smells like him, but I also catch a faint, unfamiliar scent—something citrusy, maybe lemon. Everything about the bathroom screams luxury: the black marble counters, the gold-trimmed faucets, and the sleek, modern fixtures. The shower is massive, with multiple jets spraying water in every direction.

After standing under the steaming water for a few minutes, I turn it off and grab a towel. I consider using his body lotion, but I’ve had enough of Nicolas on me for today. My wet hair drips down my back as I dry off.

I open the cabinet under the sink, looking for a brush, and freeze.

It’s stocked.

The cabinet isn’t just full of random products—it’s meticulously stocked with everything I use: the face cream I apply every night, the shampoo that costs more than some people’s monthly rent, the toner, rose water—and even the body wash I recently started using, which is absurdly expensive.

I pick up a bottle of my favorite perfume and turn it over in my hands. Not that I expected anything less, but it’s authentic. I examine the other products—they are new and untouched.

My first thought is that Marco must have sent them. He knows exactly what I use and would ensure I’m comfortable—even here.

There’s no way Nicolas did this. No way.

An asshole like him doesn’t have a single selfless or considerate bone in his body. All he knows is how to kiss women without their consent and say cruel things to tear them down.

I place the bottle back and try to push the thought away. The idea of him making an effort feels absurd. He doesn’t strike me as the thoughtful type, and the notion of him putting any thought into something like this is laughable.

When I leave the bathroom, I take a moment to take in the surroundings. Yesterday was a whirlwind—too focused on sparring words and locking lips with Nicolas. But now that I look around, I’m struck by how opulent the room is.

It’s massive, more like a luxury suite in a five-star hotel than a simple bedroom. The walls are a deep slate gray, accented with white crown molding that adds sophistication. The bed is enormous, a plush oasis wrapped in black silk sheets and piled high with cushions. I wonder why I didn’t think to use them to create a barricade instead of huddling in the corner all night.

I walk past the bed.

A sitting area near the window catches my eye—a plush gray sofa paired with a low glass coffee table. If I were a writer or an artist, it would be the perfect space to spark creativity.

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