I Grabbed a Cold, Dangerous Billionaire at My Ex’s Engagement Gala and Begged Him to Pretend to Be My Boyfriend—I Had No Idea He Was the Most Feared Tycoon in the Country, and by Midnight, He Refused to Let Me Go

Two weeks later, the warm Mediterranean breeze rolled across the sun-drenched
terrace of the Villa Romano, perched high on the cliffside of Positano on the
Amalfi Coast.

The azure waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkled like crushed sapphires beneath
the afternoon sun. Below the cliff, Enzo’s two-hundred-foot private superyacht,
The Natalie, bobbed gently at anchor in the private cove.

I sat on a white cushioned lounge chair wearing a flowing linen sundress and
oversized sunglasses, sipping a glass of freshly squeezed blood orange juice,
watching the gentle waves roll against the rocky shore.

The nightmare of Julian Cross, the corporate debt, the board room coups, and the
high-society gossip had vanished completely, replaced by an endless,
breathtaking peace.

The French doors of the villa swung open, and Enzo walked out onto the stone
terrace wearing casual white linen trousers, barefoot, his hair tousled by the
sea wind, holding a silver platter with fresh figs, prosciutto, and local
buffalo mozzarella.

He set the platter on the low table, walked over to my chair, and leaned down,
pressing a warm, lazy kiss to my lips.

"Good morning, my beautiful wife," he murmured against my mouth.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Romano," I corrected with a playful grin, running my
fingers through his dark curls. "You let me sleep for eleven hours."

"You deserved every second of it," Enzo said, sitting on the edge of my lounge
chair, pulling my feet into his lap and gently massaging my ankles. "For five
years, you worked yourself to exhaustion for people who didn't appreciate you.
For the next fifty years, your only job is to let me spoil you."

I laughed softly, leaning forward and wrapping my arms around his neck, resting
my forehead against his.