Hateful Games: (An arranged marriage billionaire romance) (Arranged Games Book 2)

Chapter Fifty-nine

The silent treatment has become like a song and dance between us.

Rosalie thinks it annoys me, but it just amuses me.

Because it challenges me to find new ways to get her to smile at me again, which I’ve earned more in the past two weeks we’ve lived together rather than the entirety of our engagement since she was sixteen.

Those smiles were full of spite, venom, and violent intentions.

Now, they’re soft, shy, and full of sensual heat, filled with mischief.

Entering the bedroom of our suite at the hotel, her cute nose is buried in her laptop as she sits near the couch against the floor-to-ceiling window.

I lean against the doorframe, studying her with my hand running along my jaw.

I know her expression by heart when she’s submerged in her characters’ world. Her dark angelic face is void of lines, almost peaceful. The one I’m staring at currently is her acting to be quite busy with her lips pursed, and her typing—which is always at the speed of a bullet train—is painfully slow.

I meant what I said yesterday.

Rose is it for me. The woman I’m meant to be with. As deeply as I’ve wanted nothing to do with her existence, now I want to possess her as deeply as possible.

No other soul will compare.

And I’ll make sure no other man compares for her either. Until I’ve ruined her for every single one of them.

Tapping my knuckles on the wooden door to catch her attention, I announce, “We’re attending a vintage auction, get dressed.”

“As you can see, I’m very busy.”

“You’re pretending to be busy,” I retort. “Which you can do while being on my arm.”

She snorts. “I’m no one’s arm candy. There are hookers and escorts for that.”

“I was thinking more as my wife.” Dropping my voice, I offer, “I’ll be your arm candy.”

When a flush appears on her skin, I smirk.

Straightening, I bridge the gap and snap her laptop shut, earning an outraged gasp. Leaning down, I slam my lips against hers and slip my tongue in. I swallow her tiny moan, combined with my own groan at her sweet taste.

While she’s distracted, I scoop her into my arms bridal style.

“What are you doing?” she yelps, pulling back.

“Getting you naked.”

“I’m still not fucking you.”

“You didn’t let me finish… I’m dressing you afterward.”

She blinks, defiantly lifting her chin. “I can do that.”

“Yeah, but then I won’t have the pleasure to see you naked.”

“I was in a bikini all day yesterday,” she retorts. “Wasn’t that enough to last you a couple days?”

“No. Few hours, maybe.”

“You’re hopeless.”

Inside the walk-in closet, I put her down on the lush carpet. Opening the cupboard, I stand behind her with my hands on her luscious ass in the painted-on leggings she’s wearing to torture me. “Pick your dress.”

Her head tilts back to gaze at me incredulously. “Wait… you’re not actually dressing me, right?”

“No.” Relief pours from her, and I grin. “But I am watching you.”

“This isn’t a strip show.”

My jaw clenches. “Don’t require a reminder of just how familiar you are with those, Rose.”

Rolling her eyes, she questions, “What is the auction for?”

“Cars.” At my answer, a hilarious smile stretches across her pink and plump lips. I narrow my gaze in warning. “Please keep your arsonist talents to a minimum, at least until I’ve driven them once.”

“So, after that I have your permission?” she quips, so smug. “You know, to brush up on my skills.”

I pinch her ass in punishment, earning a pout, and nod toward her clothes. “Pick, little hellion. We have to leave soon.”

“A little privacy, please?”

“No.”

“Wrong answer, hubby.”

“I’m getting ready too. We’re saving time. Like couples do.”

“I hate your bossiness.”

I arch one eyebrow—my cock hardening when she doesn’t deny us being a couple—and huskily say, “Is that why you beg every time I’m eating your cunt?”

Tongue-tied, she blushes furiously and rummages through her clothes.

Satisfied, I go to my own side and pull out a charcoal gray suit off the hanger. Despite all her protests, she’s the one stealing covert glances as I take off each item of clothing off my body. For her benefit and mine because it distracts her from hurrying up to dress, I take my time putting on my gray shirt and slacks.

My dick rises to half-mast when her lusty gaze locks on the bulge, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

I should put us out of our misery and fuck her right here and now.

But the sweet agony—nothing will be sweeter than her surrender when she’s stripped of all her defenses and resistance about us being inevitable.

So, I hold my urge to do just that and swallow my tongue when I take in her sexy-as-fuck outfit.

I think it’s a jumpsuit she’s wearing that appears to be a minidress with how it’s cinched around her tiny waist. The hem ending just below where her ass and thighs meet with a collar and full puffy sleeves, looking both formal and chic.

My cock painfully twitches, fully hard when my gaze locks on the knee-high black leather boots she slides up her calves.

Making my tight-knit control waver.

I know I’m gaping at her, desperate to throw her legs over my shoulders and taste her pussy. It’s been two fucking days since Vegas.

Absolute nightmare.

Approaching me with a seductive sway of her hips, she boldly grazes her palm over my erection and steps out of reach when I make a grab for her. “Didn’t you say we were getting late, hubby?”

I playfully growl, “You’re a menace, my wife.”

“That’s what you get for disturbing me.”

With that, she struts out of the room and I finish getting dressed. Sliding on my jacket, I grab her phone from the nightstand, which she as usual forgot, and meet her out in the living room.

Wearing her signature maroon lipstick and red curls flowing down her back, she turns to me. “The car has arrived downstairs.”

Nodding, I intertwine our fingers and ride the elevator to the lobby. In the next two minutes, we’re sliding into the back seat of the Bentley. I tell the driver our location and rest my palm on Rosalie’s naked thigh, leaving no room between us.

Her soft voice pulls my focus from the tinted window.

“Where are we going next?”

“Florence,” I reply. I can tell she doesn’t like the answer by the nonchalant reaction. Rubbing my hand up and down her smooth skin, I ask, “Where would you like to go?”

“Milan.” Hopefulness flashes across her dark orbs. Shrugging, she confesses, “I’ve never been and I always wanted to visit.”

She’s lying.

The subtle shift in her eyes while quite not meeting mine. Plus, I took her mom’s suggestion while planning our honeymoon and she had mentioned about how much her daughter loves Italy. Her favorite city—Milan.

So, I don’t understand why she feels the need to lie. Does she think I’ll say no?

I don’t react.

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

She perks up at my answer and mumbles, “Thank you.” The driver announces our arrival before I can interrogate her further. I step outside once the valet opens our door and help Rosalie out.

The luxury vintage car auction is being held at a villa on a private property, surrounded by lush greenery and a scenic view of the blue ocean. The place could easily be mistaken for a land in Tuscany. It’s a silent auction, meaning everyone will be placing their bids and whoever’s is the highest will be the winner.

Collecting vintage cars has been my passion ever since I can remember.

One passed down to me from Dadu—my grandfather.

He used to say work and family are important but a man should have a hobby or a passion he devotes his time to enrich his life. Something to bring joy when times are rocky.

Those words stuck.

“Oh my god! Is that a 1954 Ferrari 500 Mondial Spider?” gasps Rosalie in awe, sprinting toward it.

I’m. Left. Speechless.

My Rose—my sexy bookworm nerd of a wife—knows cars. Vintage sports cars. I’ve died and gone to heaven. Even my best friend Justin knows nothing about them. Often, I dragged him with me when I was younger.

“Isn’t there, like, only thirteen of them?”

I think I’m in love.

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse. Clearing my throat to not sound like a fool, I reach her and put my hands in my pockets. If I touch her, I’ll end up bending and fucking her on the hood of the car she’s gushing over.

Like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar, she runs hers over the shiny metal.

The wonder on her face blinding.

Soon, her attention is caught by another on display a few feet ahead. A 1957 Porsche Spyder. Next is a beautifully restored 1960 Aston Martin. Rather than admiring the automobile pieces, I’m riveted by her reactions and the little details she regales me with, her knowledge quite extensive.

I give a menacing glare to a few men who stare a little too long at her.

“Which one are you thinking of bidding on, Nova?” curiously asks Rosalie.

“I haven’t decided yet.” Pulling her closer by the waist, I ask, “Which one do you like?”

“We’re not buying for me, we’re buying for you.”

“Do you want one?”

“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Just because I know their history, doesn’t mean I’m into them.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I know to admire a beauty when I see one. Besides, I can’t afford them unless I use my father’s money. Which I never will.”

Arching one eyebrow, I demand, “What about your husband’s?”

“I like your sweet and thoughtful gifts much more, Nova,” she confesses with a tender smile. “Besides with the traffic in India, where am I going to drive them?”

Kissing the corner of her mouth, I murmur, “Okay.”

“So how about you look around and I’ll go get a drink?”

“I’ll join you soon.” Before she can leave, I press her phone in her hand. “Unblock me.” When she gives me a bratty grin, I softly say, “In case you sneak off to admire more cars and I can’t find you.”

“You found me in Vegas,” she taunts.

“Rose.”

“Fine. Here, happy?”

“Yes.”

Reluctantly, I let her go and keep my gaze pinned on her until her flaming red hair disappears out of sight. I’m interrupted by a familiar Indian-accented voice and turn to see Mr. Patel. He recently retired after leaving his marketing firm to his oldest son. We’ve run in the same circles.

“Mr. Patel. How are you?” I shake his hand.

“I’m good, son. Fancy seeing you here,” he jovially says. “Was that your wife I saw leaving?”

“Yes. She went to get a drink.”

He smiles knowingly, guessing we’re on our honeymoon. The small talk turns into us going around and connecting over our love for vintage pieces. We put a bid on the ones we like. An hour goes by when I finally excuse myself, with a promise to meet for dinner back home.

My frantic gaze searches for Rosalie. She’s not at the bar. The villa isn’t as crowded with it being a cozy affair with only over fifty or so people invited. Hence, worry sets in when I don’t immediately find her.

I try her cell.

It rings but goes to voicemail.

I know she wouldn’t just escape. We’re in a foreign country but the thought still strikes, dampening my mood. After a few more minutes, I breathe a sigh of relief when I zero in on those leather boots and lean legs. But it is short-lived.

Because standing too close to her is a strange man.

Worse, Rosalie is laughing with him as he whispers to her, leaning closer.

The scum then makes the worst mistake of his life.

Taking her hand in his.

Blinding rage like never before chills my bones and I’m stalking toward them. My vision turns red, even as I outwardly appear calm as a breeze. Rosalie shivers, feeling my body heat as I press behind her, circling her waist possessively.

Silly man still continuing to hold her wrist.

“Excuse me, who are you?”

“The man she calls her husband, whose bed she sleeps in every night, and the one who will slit your throat in the next two seconds if you don’t take your hands off my wife.”

Panicked, his charm drops and he scurries away on shaky legs.

A fuming Rosa whips around and glares. “Do you hear yourself? Stop acting like a deranged psychopath. People are put behind bars for intent to kill, just so you know.”

Blood still boiling like hot lava in my veins, I capture her wrist and drag her to a small alcove, away from prying eyes. I push her against the brick wall.

“He had his hands on you.”

“It was innocent. He wasn’t even flirting.”

I tilt my head and taunt cruelly, “I thought it made your pussy wet when I staked my claim publicly. Isn’t that what you said when you were riding my fingers?”

“That was different.” Her voice is trembling.

“It wasn’t.”

“You can’t threaten every man I talk to,” she sharply dictates.

I search the truth in her eyes and everything clicks. Shoving her arms over her head, I circle her throat. Her eyelashes fluttering, breathing picking up when I press on the sides. It has the desired effect of her squirming in arousal. “If you’re testing me for what I said last night, you’re playing a very dangerous game. Someone innocent will get hurt.”

With that warning, I pull away and bring us back into the milling crowd.

“We’re leaving.”

She tugs her hand free. “I need the restroom.”

Deciding I need to cool off before I go after that man, I stroll toward the bar. While I’m drinking water, I run into a friend of mine who often attends these sorts of events. We’re chatting when a loud noise interrupts everyone.

I assume they’re making some random announcement, but then I hear my name.

“You heard it right, ladies and gentlemen. All five models with rich history and remodeled by leading specialists have been sold to Mr. Nova D’Cruz at the bidding price of fifteen million euros.”

The fuck.

I’m left dumbfounded as guests applaud. Most in envy and competition.

Suddenly, Rosalie appears before me. A smug, deviant, and retaliating goddess.

“I guess I was in the mood to spend my husband’s money, after all.” Flipping her hair back, she turns and says, “I’m ready to leave now, hubby.”

Left in a precarious position with my reputation in line, I meet the auctioneer in the private study and sign the respective papers. The money is wire transferred and we exchange hands. Him smiling like a man who won the lottery.

Livid beyond words at Rosalie’s petty and reckless behavior, I’m silently seething as I briskly walk to the car. My wife is sitting inside, casually scrolling through her phone. I give a clipped order to the driver to take us back.

The ride is quick and tense. So is the elevator ride up to our suite.

Rosalie is humming a tune, swinging the door open and entering.

“What the hell was that, Rose?” I demand furiously, slamming the door to our suite shut, and stalk after my wife.

Rosalie shrugs, walking ahead.

She fucking shrugs. Like she didn’t just spend over ten million euros in an act of defiance. I don’t give a fuck about the money. I would’ve bought them all if she had asked.

However, she did it to piss me off.

Goddamn it, it worked.

We cross the threshold of the bedroom when she finally meets my gaze in the reflection of the dresser mirror.

“Was there a point you were trying to make?”

“Why are you making such a big deal?” she scoffs. “It’s a drop in the bucket for you.”

“I think you wanted to make me mad,” I counter, sauntering closer. “Like I made you. Your silent treatment doesn’t work on me.” When I’m right behind her, I fist her hair and yank, exposing her vulnerable neck. “Nothing you do will make me push you away.”

She licks her lips and whispers, “Don’t be so sure.”

“Every time you rebel, it cements my vow to keep you harder.”