Chapter 6 Wrong Ring
I scrubbed my skin until it burned.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Still, I felt dirty.
Not because he touched me—but because I let him. I was supposed to be mourning my husband, not standing under scalding water trying to wash off the memory of his killer’s hands.
I stared at my reflection once I was dressed.
This woman didn’t look like a widow.
I blinked back the tears. I wouldn’t cry. Crying felt like another kind of surrender.
If he tried touching me again, I’d cut off his dick.
The lie settled heavy in my chest.
Because the truth was worse—he hadn’t forced me. I’d given consent. And when my body betrayed me, I’d used Alberto’s name like a weapon just to make it stop. Because that way, it will be less painful.
“Are you done?” Luciano’s familiar voice called from the doorway.
I stiffened. When had he come in?
“I don’t want to wear these heels,” I said, staring at the expensive Versace pair laid out on the bed.
He looked at them, then at his watch. “You’re joking.”
“I don’t like them.” I lied.
“You had hours to decide that.”
“And now I’ve decided,” I snapped.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Arina—”
“You’re a billionaire,” I cut in. “Get me something else.”
His jaw tightened. “If irritating me is your goal, congratulations.”
“Get me another pair, and we’ll go.”
He exhaled slowly. “Just wear them. We’re already late. The press is waiting.”
I frowned. “The press?”
He stared at me like I’d insulted his intelligence.
“Are you always this clueless, or only when it suits you? I’m the city’s golden boy.”
I rolled my eyes. “The heels are ugly.”
“Fine.”
Before I could react, he walked towards me and held my wrists.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Making sure we’re not late.” He tugged me toward the door. “Good luck explaining why you’re barefoot on television.”
“You don’t mind a barefoot soon-to-be wife?”
He glanced back, smirking. “I’ll just tell them you’re crazy.”
I wasn’t about to let the whole city think I was insane.
“Fine. I’ll wear them,” I snapped.
“No,” he said, still dragging me forward. “You look just fine like this.” His eyes flicked down. “I find your feet pretty. We’ll keep them exposed—for my eyes only.”
My eyes widened. “I want to wear my heels,” I said, my voice breaking. “Please.”
He laughed, and I hated myself for the way the sound curled low in my stomach.
Eventually, he let me go. I slipped into the heels while he watched me like a hawk.
“Let’s go,” I grumbled.
“Now you look like Luciano Martinez’s wife,” he said.
I grimaced. “I’m only doing this to honor my husband. I will never be your wife.”
I paused, then added, “How did my husband even know a prick like you?”
“Let’s go,” he said, avoiding the question.
Alberto was a simple, middle-class man. How did he end up connected to a billionaire? None of it made sense.
“I’ll tell you,” Luciano said suddenly, cutting into my thoughts, “if you behave.”
“Deal,” I said.
Just for tonight, I could afford to behave.
I didn’t know what being a celebrity felt like until I stepped out of a luxurious car with the city’s billionaire offering me his hand. I glared at it, tempted to tell him to fuck off—until a camera flashed right in my face, forcing me to squint.
“Luciano Martinez!”
“Mr. Martinez, look this way!”
“Is that her?”
“Who’s the woman with him?”
Luciano leaned towards me. “Keep your head high.”
He whispered.
Before I could respond, he took my hand and guided me out of the car.
The press descended on us instantly. Cameras surrounded us from every angle. I gasped, nerves tightening in my chest as the flashes kept coming.
“Smile,” Luciano murmured, just loud enough for me to hear, lifting his free hand in a casual wave.
“Mr. Martinez, is this your fiancée?” someone asked.
“Is this the mystery woman we’ve been hearing about?”
I shot Luciano a sharp glance. He’s been talking about me? What exactly was he planning?
“I’ll answer all your questions,” he said smoothly, “but for now, allow me to enjoy a pleasant night with my date.”
For a moment, he looked nothing like the man who had killed my husband.
His arm slid around my waist, firm and possessive. I stiffened, but he didn’t notice—or didn’t care. He led me through the crowd, shielding me as we moved toward the entrance of the restaurant.
I resisted the urge to close my eyes as flashes erupted from every direction, the doors of the luxurious restaurant opened before us.
The restaurant was beyond beautiful. Luciano led me to a corner table, far enough to feel intimate but close enough that the press could still see us through the glass. Cameras were still recording. Watching.
I sat rigid in my chair, irritation crawling up my skin.
“Order,” Luciano said quietly. “And behave.”
“I am behaving,” I grumbled.
I clenched my jaw and snatched the menu from the table. Luciano glanced toward the glass walls, clearly aware of the eyes on us.
I ordered. He ordered.
His fingers brushed my wrist.
I looked at him sharply, brows raised.
“Can you at least act like you’re smiling?” he murmured. “You look like you’re being forced.”
“I am being forced,” I snapped.
His lips curved slightly. “Then I guess I won’t tell you how—or why—your husband wanted his killer to marry you.”
My breath hitched.
“Fine,” I seethed, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack my face.
Our food arrived. We ate. We faked conversation.
Then Luciano stopped eating.
He wiped his mouth slowly. My eyes followed the movement before I could stop myself.
He pushed his chair back.
My heart dropped.
“No,” I whispered.
He went down on one knee.
The restaurant seemed to hold its breath.
Luciano pulled out a red velvet box and opened it.
A ring stared back at me—a massive diamond, blinding under the lights. My mind went blank. He wasn’t just forcing me into this. He was doing it in public.
“Will you marry me, baby?” he asked.
His gaze was intense, convincing—almost like love.
I stood abruptly.
My chest tightened as a memory crashed into me—Alberto was on one knee in our apartment, nervous and hopeful, holding a simple ring he’d saved for months.
How dare he try to replace my husband like this?
My hand moved before I could stop myself, I slapped him.
