Chapter 7
I stared at the dark screen, utterly speechless.
The Ritz Hotel’s restaurant was opulent, with crystal chandeliers casting soft light and the air filled with the scent of expensive perfume. Standing in the lobby, I felt out of place until a familiar figure approached–Luca Ferrari, one of Marco’s assistants.
“Miss Aria, please follow me,” he said with a polite nod.
“Thanks,” I replied dryly, though inwardly I grumbled, We’re legally married, so why does this feel like some secret rendezvous?
As I entered Suite 1818, another bodyguard, Giulio Bruno, was there. He gave me a slight nod before stepping aside, standing like a silent statue. I swallowed hard, trying to look composed.
“Aria.” Março stood, taking my coat and pulling out a chair for me. His movements were smooth and natural, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
I stole a glance at the two assistants, my heart racing, but then Marco said, “They know about us.”
I nodded, and as soon as I sat down, the assistants tactfully exited the room. The moment the door clicked shut, the space fell silent, leaving just the sound of Marco’s, and my breathing.
Marco personally handed me a steaming bowl of Italian minestrone, saying softly, “Over the years, I’ve managed some family businesses, so I always have a few people around.”
“Mm.” I took the bowl, sipping cautiously. The rich tomato flavor bloomed on my tongue, involuntarily easing my tension. We ate in quiet, the atmosphere subtle and heavy with unspoken words, though my mind felt like a hundred tiny cat claws were scratching at it.
Halfway through the meal, Marco set down his fork, staring straight at me. “Don’t forget to eat from now on.”
“I’ll remember,” I nodded absentmindedly, my head aiready full of afternoon work plans.
“Let’s have lunch together from now on.” His tone was commanding, leaving no room for argument.
“Mr. Vittorio…” I frowned, about to protest, but he cut me off with a cold smirk, his CEO aura bearing down on me. “That’s an order.”
I pursed my lips, ready to snap back, but my eyes accidentally drifted toward the inner part of the suite–where there was a luxurious king–sized bed! My cheeks flared red, my heart pounding like a drum, and I quickly ducked my head to pretend I was sipping soup.
“What are you looking at? Marco clearly noticed where my gaze had gone. He leaned in close, whispering in my ear, “Want to take a nap here,
mia cara?*
My face burned hot enough to fry an egg, and I bolted up, scrambling for an excuse. “Uh… I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. I should go!”
As I left the suite, I could still feel that burning gaze on my back, like it was trying to bore a hole through me. It wasn’t until I was in a taxi that I finally let out a long breath.
Meanwhile, back in Suite 1818, Marco stared at the doorway, his expression deep and unreadable, as if hiding some secret. A middle–aged female chef entered, respectfully asking if the food was to his liking.
“It’s fine,” Marco nodded faintly, then instructed, “From now on, always prepare two spicy Tuscan dishes, but keep the heat moderate.” The chef nodded knowingly and left. She knew Mr. Vittorio never ate spicy food–this request must be for his wife.
Luca Ferrari came in shortly after, Marco’s gaze flicked to the bed in the inner room, and he said in a low voice, “Replace this bed with the same
