Chapter 2: Seducing My Ghost Husband
Ava's POV
Three weeks into this insane arrangement, and I still had zero clue what Luca Marchetti actually did for a living.
That first week, I'd jolt awake every time he slipped into bed around midnight. The sharp, metallic tang of copper would hit me like a slap—blood, no doubt—and I'd lie there frozen, heart pounding, imagining whose it was. Or worse, how it had soaked right through his clothes.
But by week three? I'd gotten used to it. Isn't that messed up? Turns out, you can adapt to pretty much anything, even sharing a bed with a guy who came home reeking like a fresh crime scene.
"You okay?" I'd mumble into my pillow, the same dumb question every night.
"No." Always that flat, zero-emotion response.
The thing was, I barely saw the guy. Like, at all. He'd dip out before I woke up and roll in when I was already half-asleep. We were basically glorified roommates who happened to crash in the same king-size bed.
By week four, I'd had enough.
If I wanted that twenty-million-dollar payout for popping out one kid, I had to actually earn it. And that meant getting Luca to see me as more than just a warm body hogging half the sheets.
Enter Operation Seduce My Weirdo Husband.
I blew a ridiculous chunk of cash—his cash, courtesy of the black Amex Frank had handed over—on lingerie that was basically floss and fantasy. Red lace that left nothing to the imagination. The kind that screamed "I'm trying way too hard," but desperate times, right?
That night, I left every light on full blast. Posed on top of the covers like a budget Victoria's Secret model and waited.
My heart was hammering so hard I thought I'd puke.
It's just business, I told myself. Purely transactional.
The door creaked open around midnight.
Luca froze in the doorway.
For the first time since our wedding night, I got a good look at him under decent lighting. And holy crap.
The man was gorgeous. Not just hot—dangerous. Dark hair tousled perfectly, a jawline that could cut glass, and these piercing blue eyes that looked almost too intense to be real. His white shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms ripped with muscle that tensed as he gripped the doorframe.
Suddenly, my trashy outfit felt like the stupidest idea ever.
Those blue eyes scanned down my body, slow and deliberate. A flicker of something—hunger?—crossed his face, but it vanished in an instant.
"You okay?" The words tumbled out on autopilot, my nervous habit picking the absolute worst time.
Smooth, Ava. Real smooth.
"No." His voice was flat as ever, giving nothing away.
We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity. I sat up straighter, arching my back a little, trying to channel sexy instead of desperate.
His gaze followed the movement. Lingered on my chest.
Then he cleared his throat and looked away. "I'm gonna shower."
Wait, what?
He disappeared into the bathroom before I could even process it. The sound of running water mocked me through the door.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged in nothing but black boxer briefs, water dripping from his hair. Droplets traced paths down his chiseled chest, over abs that looked like they were sculpted by a god, disappearing into the low-slung waistband.
I stared. Couldn't help it.
He didn't even glance my way as he headed to his side of the bed.
"You should get some sleep," he said, his tone ice-cold. "It's late."
And just like that, he turned his back and closed his eyes.
I lay there, fury bubbling in my gut like acid.
What the hell was wrong with this guy? Was I that repulsive? Gay? Asexual? Did he have some side chick stashed away?
The thought twisted my stomach in knots—and it had nothing to do with the contract and everything to do with my bruised ego.
Fine. Whatever. I rolled over, squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to ignore the humiliation burning through me.
Things shifted after that.
Luca started coming home earlier. And he always showered before bed now—no more copper stench, no more bloodstains.
We started talking. Small stuff at first. How was your day? Fine. Yours? Fine.
But it got easier. More genuine. He'd drop vague hints about work—never the gritty details—and I'd ask if he was wiped out.
"You always ask that," he said one night, a hint of curiosity in his voice. Not judgment.
"Well, you always look beat," I shot back. "Someone's gotta check if you're running on fumes."
He studied me for a long moment. "You don't have to worry about me."
"I know. The contract doesn't cover it." I grinned to lighten the sarcasm. "Call it a bonus."
"Bonus?" His expression softened just a touch.
"Yeah. You get a kid and someone who pretends to care if you drop dead. Two-for-one deal."
He actually laughed. And damn, it transformed his whole face.
That's when I knew I was in deep trouble.
It happened on a random Tuesday.
We'd grabbed dinner together—an actual sit-down at the kitchen island, not me eating alone like usual. We chatted about nothing important, but it felt... nice. Comfortable.
Upstairs, that invisible line down the middle of our bed felt thinner. Fuzzier.
"Ava." His voice was rough, hesitant.
I turned toward him in the dark. "Yeah?"
He reached out slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away. When I didn't, his hand cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
"This okay?"
My breath caught. "Yeah. It's okay."
He paused, eyes searching mine in the dim nightlight glow. "You know, I haven't seen you in that red lace thing since that one night. What happened to it?"
I blinked, thrown off. He remembered? A smug rush hit me. Ha! No guy resists forever.
I smirked, leaning closer, voice a teasing whisper. "Darling, slide your hand down and you'll find out—I've been going commando every night. No panties, nothing. Just waiting for you to notice."
His eyes darkened, a low growl escaping. "Fuck, Ava," he breathed, fingers trailing down my side, slipping under my sleep shirt. He found bare skin, then my clit, circling with perfect pressure. I arched into him, gasping.
"You're soaked already." With a wicked grin, he shoved my shirt up, mouth latching onto my nipples, sucking and flicking until I moaned, fingers tangled in his hair. "God, Luca, yes..."
I flipped us, straddling him, yanking off his shirt and boxers. "Your turn to be naked," I purred, grinding against his hard cock. "Bet you've been holding back too."
"Damn right," he growled, flipping me back, pinning me down. Our mouths crashed in a hungry kiss as he thrust in deep, our bodies syncing—harder, faster, the bed creaking.
I wrapped my legs around him, urging, "Deeper, Luca... fuck, you feel so good." Tension coiled until I shattered around him, clenching hard.
He followed with a guttural groan, pulsing inside me. In that hazy rush, all I could think was: Twenty million just came!
Six weeks after moving into the mansion, I woke up feeling like total garbage.
Nauseous. Dizzy. My boobs hurt like they'd been pummeled.
I stayed in bed, heart racing, mind spinning. Could it be? Already?
Luca was long gone, so I dug through the bathroom cabinet for the pregnancy tests.
Three minutes. The longest damn three minutes of my life.
When I finally checked the stick, two pink lines stared back.
Positive.
"Holy shit," I whispered. Then louder: "Holy SHIT!"
I burst out laughing, probably sounding like a maniac. "I did it! I actually fucking did it!"
Twenty million dollars. Twenty. Million. Dollars.
But even as I celebrated, envisioning that massive bank transfer, a knot tightened in my chest.
Because that nausea wasn't just morning sickness.
It was guilt.
Frank's face barely twitched when I told him.
"I'll get the doctor here right away."
Two hours later, the family doc confirmed it.
"Congrats, Mrs. Marchetti," she said with a warm smile. "Everything looks perfect."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"Ava, dear." Sophia's voice oozed approval—the first time she'd sounded remotely pleased with me. "You've done wonderfully. You'll have the best care, top-notch everything."
"Thank you, Mrs. Marchetti."
"Luca's on his way home now. I've already shared the good news."
My heart clenched. Of course she'd told him.
