Never Underestimate The Good Husband

The Condition

“But there’s one condition, though…”

Chiara’s smile disappeared.

She leaned forward slightly. “What condition?”

I held her gaze.

For some reason, the question felt heavier than it should have.

“You said this marriage lasts one year.”

“Yes.”

“And after that year, either of us can walk away.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s the agreement.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“But?”

“But while we’re married, we’re actually married.”

She stared at me.

I continued before she could interrupt.

“I don’t want us pretending whenever someone is watching and acting like strangers when we’re alone. If we’re going to do this, we do it properly.”

“What exactly does ‘properly’ mean?”

“It means we share a home. We share a bedroom. We eat together. We go out together. We attend events together. We take care of each other.”

I paused.

“And whatever else married couples do is fair game.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

“Victor…”

“You’re asking me to become your husband.”

“I know.”

“Then I don’t want to be your fake husband.”

She stared at me for several seconds.

I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

Then she leaned back and folded her arms.

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

“Don’t go falling in love with me.”

The words came out teasingly, but something about her expression made my chest tighten.

I smiled.

“I hope I do.”

Her smile disappeared.

For a second, neither of us moved.

The restaurant suddenly seemed quieter.

Neither of us said anything.

Somewhere during the conversation, our hands had found each other across the table.

I hadn’t even noticed.

Her fingers were resting against mine, and my thumb was brushing lightly over the back of her hand.

We both looked down at the same time.

Then back at each other.

Neither of us moved.

Three seconds.

Four.

Five.

Then reality returned.

We pulled our hands away almost simultaneously.

Chiara cleared her throat.

“Anyway…”

“Yeah.”

“My parents.”

I nodded.

“You mentioned them.”

“They’re going to be a problem.”

“How bad?”

She gave me a look.

“You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“My mother has already chosen three possible husbands for me.”

“Three?”

“She likes options.”

“And your father?”

“Worse.”

“How?”

“He’ll probably ask about your financial situation before he asks your name.”

I laughed.

“That should be interesting.”

“It won’t be.”

She reached for her glass.

“They’ll be visiting soon. Which means if we’re doing this, they need to see us together before they start asking questions.”

“How soon?”

“Very.”

“How soon is very?”

“Possibly this week.”

I groaned.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

She smiled.

“So you’ll need to come to my place.”

“Your place?”

“Yes.”

“And we’re telling them?”

“We’re telling them we’re getting married.”

I stared at her.

“Just like that?”

“Would you prefer a PowerPoint presentation?”

I laughed.

“No.”

“Good.”

She looked at me seriously.

“And I want us to have at least two weeks together before they arrive.”

“Two weeks?”

“We need to know each other.”

“We’ve already spent time together.”

“Not enough.”

She tilted her head.

“If we’re going to convince my parents, we need to know what we’re pretending to be.”

I smiled.

“What if we don’t have to pretend?”

Her expression softened.

“That would make things much more complicated.”

“Maybe.”

She looked away.

“We’ll see.”

⸻

By the time we left the restaurant, the arrangement had somehow become real.

There was a plan.

I would move into Chiara’s home.

We would tell her parents about the marriage.

We would spend the next two weeks getting to know each other.

Then we’d deal with whatever came next.

Simple.

Except I had a feeling nothing about Chiara would ever be simple.

The next morning, I stood outside her house with two suitcases.

She opened the door.

Her eyes dropped to the luggage.

“You actually came.”

“You told me to.”

“I didn’t expect you to bring your entire life.”

“It’s not my entire life.”

She glanced behind me.

“That’s only two suitcases?”

“And a backpack.”

She laughed.

“Come in.”

I stepped inside.

Her house was exactly what I’d expected.

Elegant.

Expensive.

Perfectly organized.

There wasn’t a single thing out of place.

“You’re judging my house,” she said.

“No.”

“You’re thinking it’s too perfect.”

“I was thinking you probably alphabetize your books.”

She looked offended.

“I don’t.”

I walked toward the living room.

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“Do you color-code them?”

She stared at me.

“Maybe.”

I laughed.

She shook her head.

“Come on. I’ll show you your room.”

She led me upstairs and opened a guest room.

“This is yours.”

I looked inside.

Large bed.

Private bathroom.

Closet.

Everything I could possibly need.

“Perfect.”

“Good.”

She turned to leave.

“Chiara.”

She looked back.

“I can’t stay here.”

Her eyebrows drew together.

“Why?”

I looked at the room.

“Because we’re getting married.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect your parents to believe we’re a real couple.”

“Yes.”

“Then why am I sleeping in the guest room?”

She crossed her arms.

“Because I wasn’t aware married couples were required to share a bedroom before they were married.”

“They aren’t.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

I stepped out of the room.

“My problem is that if your parents suddenly visit and discover your fiancé has been sleeping in a separate room, don’t you think they’ll become suspicious?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“My parents aren’t coming upstairs at three in the morning to inspect where we slept.”

“Maybe not.”

“Victor.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

She shook her head.

“You’re sleeping here.”

I looked toward the room.

“No.”

Her mouth fell open.

“No?”

“I’ll sleep in your room.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We’re getting married.”

“Not yet.”

“But we’re a couple.”

“A pretend couple.”

“Your parents don’t know that.”

She stared at me.

I took a step toward her.

She didn’t move.

“Unless…”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Unless what?”

I took another step.

“Unless you’re scared.”

“Of what?”

Another step.

“Of sleeping beside me.”

She scoffed.

“Please.”

I smiled.

“Unless you’re scared you’ll easily fall in love with me.”

Her expression changed.

Only slightly.

But I noticed.

I moved closer.

Close enough that the teasing suddenly felt different.

Her breath caught.

“Victor…”

“What?”

“You’re standing very close.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I know.”

I reached for her waist, my hand settling gently against it.

She went still.

I wasn’t rough.

I wasn’t forcing anything.

Just a quiet touch that made the air between us suddenly feel heavier.

Her eyes remained locked on mine.

And for one brief moment, everything else disappeared.

The divorce.

Tasha.

The business.

The agreement.

The one-year deadline.

None of it mattered.

Chiara’s thoughts seemed to race behind her eyes.

She hated how aware she suddenly was of his hand at her waist.

Hated how close he was.

Hated how easily her body seemed to betray the calm expression she’d worked so hard to maintain.

She swallowed.

“You’re playing with fire.”

I smiled faintly.

“I’ve been told that before.”

“You should listen sometimes.”

“Maybe.”

Neither of us moved.

Then her hand came up and rested against my chest.

Not pushing me away.

Just staying there.

Her eyes dropped briefly to my lips before returning to mine.

That tiny movement told me more than words could.

I leaned closer.

Then stopped.

“Still want me in the guest room?”

She stared at me.

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She exhaled.

“Fine.”

“Fine what?”

“You can stay in my room.”

I smiled.

“Thank you.”

“But there are rules.”

“Of course.”

“No taking over the bed.”

“I won’t.”

“No stealing my blankets.”

“I make no promises.”

She rolled her eyes.

“And no assuming anything just because we’re sharing a room.”

I nodded.

“Understood.”

She stepped away, finally breaking the tension.

“Good.”

I picked up my suitcase.

“Where should I put this?”

She pointed down the hallway.

“Inside my room.”

I smiled.

“Gladly.”

As I walked away, I heard her mutter under her breath.

“This was a terrible idea.”

I stopped.

“Already regretting it?”

“No.”

She looked at me.

“That’s what scares me.”

And for the first time since meeting her, neither of us laughed.