Page 234 of Hateful Games

“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.

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