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thirtysomethingloser92 · 2 days ago

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Chapter 1: My Thoughts Will Echo Your Name, Until I See You Again.

Summary: As the overlooked middle child of a powerful family, you’ve always enjoyed your freedom—until a family meeting changes everything. When your parents propose a marriage of convenience between your younger sister and Bill Bevilaqua, a longtime family ally in legal trouble, she looks to you for help. Unable to let her sacrifice her life, you impulsively volunteer to take her place. It’s just paperwork, right? Nothing will really change.

But as you step into Bill’s world, you find yourself drawn to the man—gruff, intelligent, and far more complex than you expected. Despite the age gap and the unconventional circumstances, you begin to fall for him, even as the arrangement pulls you deeper into a dangerous world of secrets, loyalty, and power. What started as a selfless act may just change your life forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, age gap, arranged marriage, swearing, violence, smut, fluff. Pairings: Bill Bevilaqua/Reader. Masterlist

A marriage of convenience.

That’s all it was ever supposed to be. Nothing more than ink on paper, a cold, procedural formality—an arrangement to fix problems that weren’t even yours to begin with. Yet here you were, neck-deep in the bullshit, wondering how the hell your life had veered so far off course.

You still remembered the exact moment it began, as if it were etched into your memory with a blade. The late afternoon sunlight had filtered through the kitchen windows, warm and golden, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor like ghosts of the past. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching the light in a way that made the room feel timeless, almost sacred—like nothing bad could possibly happen there.

But at the center of it all was the table. That damned oak dining table. It had always been there, as much a part of your life as the people sitting around it now. Its surface was scarred and worn, a silent witness to years of triumphs, heartbreaks, and everything in between. Family dinners that stretched late into the night, the clatter of forks and knives mixing with laughter and the occasional biting remark. Heated arguments that sent you retreating to your room, slamming the door behind you while their voices carried on into the early hours. And the stains—red wine that had tipped over during careless toasts, coffee spilled during rushed breakfasts, tiny scratches from restless fingers tracing patterns on its surface.

It wasn’t just a table. It was the heart of your childhood. And now, it was the stage for something much heavier.

Your father spoke first. His voice was steady, low, and commanding, the kind of tone that didn’t allow for interruptions or objections. It was the voice of a man who had built his empire on fear and order, who had clawed his way to the top of a criminal underworld that didn’t forgive weakness. He wasn’t just a businessman—he was the businessman. A kingpin, a man with blood on his hands and power that stretched far beyond the reaches of this house.

He had built his empire brick by brick, deal by deal, corpse by corpse. And he ruled it with an iron fist. People feared him, respected him, whispered his name in dark corners because saying it too loudly might summon him. To you, though, he was just your father. The man who rarely smiled but whose presence filled every room he stepped into.

He didn’t look at you or your older brother as he spoke. His focus was on her.

Your mother sat beside him, her back straight, her lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek, perfect chignon, not a strand out of place. She was every inch the poised matriarch, the queen to your father’s king, the one who kept the house—and, by extension, the family—running. But her knuckles were white where her fingers gripped the edge of her chair, as if letting go would send her tumbling into the chaos she worked so hard to avoid.

Her eyes flicked to you, briefly, but they didn’t linger. You couldn’t tell if it was guilt or determination in her gaze, but whatever it was, it made something heavy settle in your chest.

You sat across from them, flanked by your siblings, but the weight of the conversation wasn’t evenly distributed. No—it landed squarely on her.

Julia.

She sat at the center of the storm, her shoulders pulled back, her chin tilted upward in defiance, even as the tension in her jaw betrayed her unease. Julia wasn’t just the youngest; she was the golden child. The perfect one. The one who could do no wrong.

She had gone to college and actually stayed there, unlike you. She had the perfect grades, the polished manners, the kind of effortless charm that could melt even the iciest hearts. Julia could sweet-talk anyone—whether it was your cantankerous great-uncle who hated everyone, or the bartender who always gave her free drinks when the two of you went out.

She was your father’s pride, your mother’s hope, the shining star they bragged about at family gatherings. She was the future of the family, the one they had pinned all their dreams on. Julia was the one who would carry the family name forward, not just with pride, but with success.

Your father’s voice didn’t waver as he spoke to her, laying out the terms like a business deal. It wasn’t a request—it was a command. And Julia, for all her strength and resolve, was cracking under the weight of it.

Your older brother-Daniel- sat beside her, silent but imposing. He was the heir to the empire, the one being groomed to take over the family business. He had inherited your father’s sharp eyes and unrelenting demeanor, the kind that made people think twice before crossing him. He was the enforcer, the one who kept the streets in line, the one who made sure debts were paid and threats were handled.

He didn’t say a word, but you could feel his presence like a shadow looming over the room. This wasn’t his fight—it was Julia’s.

And then there was you.

The wildcard.

The middle child.

The one who never quite fit into the mold they tried to force you into. Your older brother had the family business locked down, a carbon copy of your father with his sharp suits, sharper gaze, and the unshakable confidence of someone who knew exactly where he belonged. Julia was their shining star, the golden child they paraded in public, the one who made them proud.

And you?

You were just there. Drifting. The one who never seemed to measure up to the impossibly high standards they’d set. You were the one who made mistakes—the one who didn’t finish college, whose ambitions never quite lined up with what they expected. The wild card. Not rebellious enough to be disowned, but just independent enough to live on the edge of their approval.

You learned to enjoy it, though. That freedom. The cracks you slipped through gave you room to breathe, room to exist outside of the suffocating weight of the family name. Sure, it earned you plenty of eye rolls from your father—like the time you showed up to Sunday dinner still nursing a hangover from the night before—but it also meant something else. Unlike your brother, who was chained to the empire, or Julia, who was weighed down by their expectations, you found a precarious balance. You had the respect that came with your last name but none of the suffocating responsibilities.

Until now.

So, when your father started explaining this ‘solution,’ something the two mobs and a few well placed lawyers had come up with over the course of the weekend, and it wasn’t surprising that he wasn’t addressing you. No, you were an afterthought. He was talking to her. Julia. Because of course, she was the one they trusted to fix this. She was the one who always made them proud, the one they believed could handle something this delicate. Someone they knew Bill would be proud to call his wife. Someone who would go along with this quietly without causing a fuss.

Even if it meant sacrificing her future.

Bill Bevilaqua carried weight. The kind of weight that silenced rooms and shifted conversations when it was mentioned. He wasn’t just someone in your father’s world—he was something. A force. A fixture. A man who had been carving out his place in the underworld long before you were even born.

Your father, a man who trusted no one, called him "one of maybe two allies." Sometimes, on rare occasions, he even went so far as to call him a friend. That alone should’ve been enough to make you wary of him. Your father didn’t have friends. Not real ones, anyway. What he had were people he could use, people he could control, or people he could coexist with because the alternative would be mutually assured destruction. And Bill Bevilaqua? He was the last category.

He was old money. The kind of old money that didn’t fade with time, the kind that stretched back decades, maybe even longer. His family’s wealth had been built on a sprawling ranch out in Kansas—miles of endless, golden fields dotted with cattle, barns, and enough land to lose yourself in if you weren’t careful. The ranch was his fortress, a symbol of his legacy, immaculately kept and fiercely protected.

But beneath all the charm of the rancher persona, the polished boots, the tailored flannel shirts, and the drawl that made him seem like just another good ol’ boy from the countryside, Bill was something else entirely.

Bill Bevilaqua was a businessman, but not the kind whose name showed up on Forbes lists. His business ran in the shadows, in the cracks where the law didn’t reach. He controlled transportation routes that carried more than cattle—routes that moved everything from guns to drugs to people, depending on what was in demand. His ranch acted as a hub, a perfect front for the kind of operations that couldn’t survive under too much scrutiny.

And he didn’t just run his operation with money. Bill understood power. He wasn’t loud about it, like some men in your father’s circle. He didn’t need to be. His power was quiet, deliberate, the kind that came from knowing people—really knowing them. Their weaknesses, their fears, their ambitions. He didn’t just crush his enemies; he made them irrelevant. He didn’t just make deals; he made people need him.

Your father respected him. Trusted him, even. The two of them had worked together enough over the years to build an alliance that kept both of their empires intact. Your father handled the city, Bill handled the countryside, and together, they made sure that no one stepped out of line.

But Bill wasn’t just business.

He was family. Not in the way most people understood the word, but in the way the criminal world twisted it into something unrecognizable. Family wasn’t just blood—it was loyalty, leverage, and shared secrets that could ruin lives. Bill had been a constant presence in your life for as long as you could remember, a looming figure who blurred the lines between ally and something closer.

He’d sat at that oak table so many times it was hard to count. Always in the same seat, leaning back just enough to seem relaxed, but never so much that he wasn’t in control. You’d see him there, sipping on one of your mother’s carefully brewed cups of coffee like he belonged, his deep, gravelly laugh rumbling through the room at one of your father’s rare jokes. He had a way of fitting in without ever actually becoming part of the family.

Bill remembered your birthdays, too. He’d show up with gifts that felt just personal enough to make you pause—a rare leather-bound book, a CD you had been eying off, something that showed he’d taken the time to notice what you liked. But nothing too extravagant. Nothing that could be mistaken for a bribe. That was Bill’s way. He always stayed just close enough to be friendly, but never so close that you forgot who he really was.

And now, your father wanted Julia to marry him.

Of course, he didn’t frame it that way. Your father never framed anything for what it truly was. He had a way of dressing up even the ugliest truths in words that made them sound palatable. “It’s just on paper,” he said, his tone calm, almost reassuring. “Bill’s a respectable man. He’ll look after you.”

Respectable. Right.

Bill Bevilaqua was a lot of things, but “respectable” wasn’t one of them—at least not in the way most people defined the word. Sure, he had just enough legitimate businesses to keep the cops from looking too closely, but everyone in this room knew what he really was. A power broker. A man who played dirty when it suited him, who had his hands in everything from smuggling routes to illegal arms deals.

And Julia? She wasn’t just marrying a man. She was marrying into an empire. A cage lined with velvet and gold, but a cage all the same.

Your father, of course, painted it as noble. He talked about family loyalty, about duty, about how this was just how the world worked when you carried your last name. Lines needed to be toed. He spoke as though Julia should feel honored, as though tying herself to Bill wasn’t a transaction, but a privilege.

But you weren’t stupid. None of you were. You’d grown up in this world, where loyalty was a currency, and love was just another leverage point. You’d learned the unspoken rules before you even knew how to ride a bike. This wasn’t about love, respect, or even family. It was about survival. About keeping the peace. About finding something—or someone—to serve as a smokescreen for the almost unhideable.

Properties, mostly. Places to funnel dirty money, to keep the books clean enough to satisfy prying eyes. A ranch here, a business there, something solid to move cash through without raising suspicion. This wasn’t about Julia; it was about the machinery of two empires running without a hitch. It was about patching cracks before they became chasms, about ensuring neither Bill’s empire nor your father’s came crashing down, taking all of you with them. And Julia? Julia wasn’t stupid either.

She sat stiff in her chair, pale as a ghost, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Her wide, terrified eyes darted between your father and mother, searching for some kind of reprieve that wasn’t coming.

You’d seen that fear before.

Sophomore year. The first day of school.

She’d been standing by the lockers, clutching her books to her chest, her face crumpling when she saw you. She’d been too scared to walk into the cafeteria alone, too scared to face the kids who didn’t care about family names or power plays. Kids who only cared about finding the weak link and pulling at it until it snapped.

Back then, you’d fixed it. You’d walked her into the cafeteria without hesitation, straight up to the asshole who’d been tormenting her. You could still remember the way the room had gone silent when you dumped his lunch tray onto the floor, the sloppy mess of spaghetti and milk spreading across the tiles. And when he’d opened his mouth to say something, you’d hit him. Hard. The metal lunch tray cracked against his jaw, the sound ringing out like a gunshot.

Nobody messed with Julia after that.

But this wasn’t high school. You couldn’t hit Bill Bevilaqua with a lunch tray and expect the problem to go away. This wasn’t just about Julia. It was bigger. Messier. The kind of thing that affected all of you, whether you liked it or not.

Julia gave you that same look now. That quiet, desperate look like you had all the answers. Like you could make this disappear. Like you could somehow fix it.

But you couldn’t.

The words stuck in your throat, the weight of your father’s voice pressing down on you like a hand around your neck. He was still talking, calm and authoritative, as if he were discussing the finer points of a business deal. Your mother sat beside him, composed and silent, her hands folded neatly in her lap like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

And your brother? The heir. He sat stone-faced, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the table as if he could will this entire conversation out of existence. He wasn’t going to intervene. He never did.

And you? You wanted to scream. To grab Julia’s hand, drag her out of that house, and tell her she didn’t have to do this. That she deserved better than being sold off like a piece of property to keep the fragile peace between two empires. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because this family had rules—unspoken ones, but rules all the same.

Your father kept talking, his voice calm and measured, like he was outlining one of his business deals instead of orchestrating the life of his youngest daughter. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in that way he always did when he wanted to look in control. The way he spoke, you’d think this was just another line item on a spreadsheet. Another merger. Another calculated move to keep the family afloat. No emotion. Just logic.

“We’ve had lawyers check everything over,” he said evenly, as though that made any of this remotely acceptable. “This is the best and safest way to move forward. Bill knows how to handle himself. He’ll take care of you.”

Take care of her. Like she was some fragile, breakable thing being handed off for safekeeping. But the truth was, this wasn’t about her. It had nothing to do with Julia’s needs or future or happiness. It was about the family. The business. The empire.

Your mother chimed in occasionally, her voice softer, her words carefully chosen like she was trying to put a bandage on something gushing blood. “Bill’s a good man,” she said, her hands folded tightly in her lap, though her knuckles were white from the tension. “He’s always treated the family with respect. He’s... dependable.”

She glanced at your father, as if seeking approval, before adding, “It’s not the worst thing, sweetheart. You’ll be secure. Safe.”

Secure. Safe. Words meant to comfort, but they didn’t mean shit. Not when you looked at Julia.

She sat there, frozen, her hands twisting and wringing together in her lap until her fingers were red. Her wide, tear-glossed eyes darted between your parents, searching desperately for an escape route that wasn’t there.

She wasn’t just scared. She was crumbling.

You could see it in the way her shoulders hunched forward, in the way her lips pressed together, trembling as she fought to keep it together. Julia, the golden child—the one who always got it right, the one who never cracked under pressure—was falling apart right in front of you.

And all the while, your father kept talking. Calm. Detached. Like her future wasn’t being packaged up and handed over to a man twice her age. A man she barely knew.

Your mother didn’t stop him. She just sat there, playing the role of the dutiful wife, her eyes occasionally flicking to Julia with something that looked like pity. But pity wasn’t enough.

Because Julia didn’t want this. She couldn’t do this.

And that’s when it hit you.

She couldn’t do this—but you could.

The idea came out of nowhere, so sudden and sharp it felt like an electric jolt. For a moment, you tried to shove it down, tell yourself it was insane. It was insane. But the longer you stared at her—the family’s perfect daughter, the one they’d pinned all their hopes on—the more it made sense.

Julia wasn’t built for this. She wasn’t built to be bartered away to a man she didn’t love, a man who saw her as nothing more than a pretty face and a convenient alliance. But you? You’d been handling shit like this your whole life.

You weren’t the golden child. You weren’t the heir. You were the wildcard. The one who didn’t follow the rules, who didn’t fit into their perfect little molds. The one who could handle the weight of being thrown into the fire because you’d already lived there.

Still, the thought made your stomach churn. Could you really do this? Could you step into the role they were trying to force on Julia? Could you tie yourself to a man like Bill Bevilaqua, knowing what it meant, knowing what it would cost?

But then Julia’s eyes landed on you.

Wide. Pleading. Silent.

Like she was begging you to fix this. To do what you’d always done—stand up for her. Protect her. Save her.

You remembered sophomore year, when she was too scared to walk into the cafeteria by herself. You’d fixed it then. You’d walked her right into the middle of the chaos and silenced her tormentor with one swing of a lunch tray. You didn’t hesitate then, and you couldn’t hesitate now.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand shot up, cutting through the tense, suffocating air like a knife.

“Fuck it, I’ll do it,” you said, your voice loud and steady, even though your heart was hammering in your chest.

The room went silent.

Your father’s words stopped mid-sentence, his sharp eyes snapping toward you like a predator spotting movement. Your mother froze, her lips parting in a small gasp, her carefully composed mask cracking for just a moment.

And Julia?

Her wide eyes locked onto yours, her lips trembling as she stared at you in disbelief. Relief and guilt warred on her face, and for a second, you thought she might cry.

Your brother, who’d been silent the entire time, finally stirred. His jaw tightened, the muscle flickering beneath his skin as he glanced between you and your father. His hands, which had been resting idly on the table, curled into loose fists. But he didn’t say a word. He never said a word.

He was the heir. The enforcer. The dutiful son who knew when to speak and when to stay quiet. And right now, he was staying quiet.

“You?” your father said, his voice low and measured, though for the first time that evening, there was a flicker of something in his tone—surprise, maybe. Or disbelief.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest like this was no big deal. Like you hadn’t just thrown a grenade into the middle of the room. Like you weren’t already regretting the words the second they left your mouth.

“I mean,” you said, forcing a grin you didn’t feel, “as Oma always says, if I’m not married by now, I never will be. Might as well get some use out of me, right?”

Your attempt at humor fell flat. The room didn’t laugh. Nobody even cracked a smile.

You shrugged, leaning into the act anyway. “It’s only on paper, isn’t it? I’m not gonna have to, like... actually, you know, do the whole married thing, am I? Live with him, screw him, play the doting wife? Just to be clear.”

Your father’s jaw twitched, and for the first time in a long time, you saw something crack through his stoic demeanor. Discomfort.

He cleared his throat, his voice dropping as if that would somehow soften the blow. “I don’t think this is something you should be a part of.”

You tilted your head, your forced grin slipping into something sharper. “What? And forcing your youngest daughter—the one you’ve been parading around like a goddamn trophy her whole life—into it is the right way to go?” You gestured toward Julia, who was still frozen in her chair, her eyes darting between you and your father as if she couldn’t believe what was happening. “This isn’t a favor, Dad. It’s a death sentence.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table like a man stepping into the ring. His voice turned cold, clipped. “I don’t think it’s appropriate. You’re not—”

He stopped, the words catching in his throat, but you knew exactly what he was about to say.

You arched a brow, your voice sharp and pointed. “Go on. Say it. It’s nothing I haven’t heard from you before.”

The room tensed, the air growing heavier with every passing second. Your mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze flicking toward your father like she was silently pleading with him to de-escalate. Your brother’s fists tightened, his knuckles going white as he stared at the table.

But your father didn’t back down.

“You’re not fit for this,” he finally said, his voice low but cutting. “You don’t have the temperament. The discipline. You don’t think things through, and you don’t understand the weight of what you’re offering. This isn’t a joke.”

“Oh, I get it,” you said, your voice rising as the heat of his words lit something inside you. “I’m not like him.” You jerked your head toward your brother, who still hadn’t said a damn thing. “I’m not the golden boy. I’m not the perfect heir. I don’t walk around in a tailored suit and act like the family’s future is my birthright. But guess what, Dad? I’m here. I’m offering. And if you think for one second that Julia should go through with this when you’ve got me—someone who doesn’t give a shit about what people think, someone who can handle the heat—you’re insane.”

Your father’s eyes darkened, his expression tightening as he leaned even closer. “You don’t get to make that decision for this family.”

“And she does?” you shot back, pointing toward Julia, who flinched at the sudden attention. “Look at her, Dad. She’s falling apart. She can’t do this. You know that. Mom knows that. I know it. Everyone in this room knows it. But you’re still sitting there, trying to convince yourself that selling her out is the best option because God forbid you admit you’ve got another one. One that doesn’t fit into your perfect little plans.”

Your father inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring as his jaw tightened. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. That cold, calculating way he always did when he was trying to figure out someone’s angle.

“You haven’t taken anything seriously a day in your life,” he said, his voice low and clipped, every word meant to cut deep. “You spend your weekends drinking. You work that damn job”—his lip curled slightly, like the thought of what you did for a living disgusted him—“living in that house, barely scraping by. And now you want to marry a man like Bevilaqua? You? You can’t even keep a goldfish alive!”

It stung, but you didn’t flinch. Not this time.

“In my defense,” you said, leaning back in your chair and nodding toward your brother without missing a beat, “that fucking thing died because this asshole didn’t feed it while I was gone.”

Your brother, who had been a statue of forced indifference the entire conversation, let out a low chuckle. It wasn’t much, just a smirk breaking through his stoic mask, but it was enough to push the tension in the room sideways for a split second.

Your father’s face hardened further as he shot your brother a warning glance. “This isn’t a joke,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the moment.

He turned back to you, his dark eyes boring into yours, his tone dropping lower. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

You leaned forward now, resting your elbows on the table, meeting his gaze without an ounce of hesitation. “Contrary to popular belief, yes. I’m not actually an idiot, and sometimes that throws people off.”

Julia’s wide, tear-streaked eyes flicked to you, her lips trembling as she tried to keep her composure. You didn’t look at her for long—if you let yourself focus on her, you might lose your nerve. Instead, you turned your attention back to your father, letting your words come out steady and deliberate.

“I can handle this whole thing,” you said, your voice firm, no room for doubt. “I can handle this life. You’ve seen it. Hell, I go debt collecting for you, and I do the job damn well. I can stand toe to toe with most of the assholes you deal with without flinching.”

Your father’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was weighing your words, testing them, looking for cracks. You didn’t give him any.

“Julia?” you continued, glancing at your sister again. “She actually has something going for her. She can get out. She’s going places. She deserves better than this.”

Your gaze flicked to your mother now, who had been silent and tense the entire time, her lips pressed into a thin line as her hands rested, tightly folded, on the table. “Don’t make her do this,” you said, your voice softening slightly, but still firm. “I can handle it.”

The room was heavy with silence.

Your father’s eyes stayed locked on yours, cold and unyielding, but his fingers drummed once against the arm of his chair—a rare tell. He was thinking. Maybe even reconsidering.

Your mother glanced at Julia, then to you, her lips parting slightly like she wanted to say something, but no words came out. She just stared, her eyes filled with a quiet kind of sadness.

Your brother shifted in his seat, his smirk long gone now, his face unreadable again as he leaned back, crossing his arms. He wasn’t going to speak up. He never did. But there was something in the way he looked at you—something that almost felt like respect.

Julia’s hands were still wringing together in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling. She looked like she wanted to protest, to say something, but she didn’t. She just stared at you with those wide, pleading eyes, like you’d just thrown her a lifeline she wasn’t sure she deserved.

Your father finally broke the silence, his voice low and even, but colder than before. “You think you can handle this?”

“I know I can,” you shot back, holding his gaze.

“This isn’t just about you,” he said. “This is about the family. About what’s at stake. You think this is some game? Some problem you can charm or fight your way out of?”

“I know exactly what this is,” you said, your voice sharp now, cutting through his doubt. “I know what’s at stake. And I know I’m the best option you’ve got. You can say whatever you want about me, but you know I can get my hands dirty. You know I can deal with him, with his life. Julia can’t. You know that.”

He didn’t respond right away. He just stared at you, his jaw tight, his eyes cold and calculating.

Finally, your father leaned back in his chair, his movements slow and deliberate, as though he were giving you one final chance to take it all back. He exhaled heavily, the kind of sigh that carried more weight than words, before speaking again.

“You’d better think long and hard about what you’re offering,” he said, his voice low and laced with warning, each word deliberate and sharp. “Because once this starts, there’s no way out. None.”

His eyes locked on yours, cold and unyielding, daring you to waver.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t hesitate.

“I’ve already thought about it,” you replied, your voice steady even as the air in the room seemed to thicken. “And I’m not changing my mind.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed, his sharp gaze boring into you like he was searching for a crack, a weakness, any sign that you weren’t serious. He was testing you, the way he tested everyone, looking for an angle to exploit.

But you didn’t blink.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive, until finally, he said nothing. He just stared at you, his jaw set tight, his fingers drumming once against the arm of his chair before going still.

Your mother, who had been holding onto her composure like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart, glanced from him to you. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes filled with a mixture of worry and something softer—pity, maybe, or regret. You could tell she wanted to speak, to say something, but the words never came. She just sat there, silent, her hands folded tightly in her lap as though they were the only part of her she could control.

Julia’s breath hitched audibly, a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the quiet. She was still trembling, her hands clasped together in her lap so tightly her knuckles were bone-white. Her wide, tear-filled eyes locked on you, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and relief. She looked at you like you were her lifeline, the only thing keeping her from drowning.

And maybe you were.

“I mean,” you said finally, shrugging one shoulder in an attempt to break the suffocating tension, “what’s the worst that could happen, right? It’s just a marriage of convenience. Only on paper.”

The words came out flippant, casual, like this wasn’t the most reckless, insane decision of your life.

Your brother snorted, the sound loud and derisive in the otherwise silent room. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking slightly under his weight, and crossed his arms over his chest. A bemused expression flickered across his face, his lips twitching into that familiar smirk.

“Famous last words,” he muttered, shaking his head as if he were watching someone dive headfirst into a fire for no good reason.

You forced a grin, the kind you’d mastered over the years—the one that said nothing could touch you, that you were invincible, even when you weren’t. “Wait until this comes up at family Christmas,” you quipped, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

They hung in the air for a moment, absurd against the suffocating seriousness of the situation.

But it worked, at least a little. Your brother rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he leaned further back in his chair. Julia, for the first time in what felt like hours, let a small, hesitant smile flicker across her face. It was faint, fragile, but it was there.

And that was enough.

Enough to remind you why you’d done it. Why you’d raised your hand and thrown yourself onto this grenade.

But inside? Inside, you felt like you were free-falling.

Your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins like fire as you tried to keep your breathing steady. It felt like you’d stepped off a cliff, and now all you could do was wait—wait to see if there was water below, or jagged rocks waiting to break you apart.

The weight of the room pressed down on you, suffocating and relentless. The heavy gazes of your family bore into you, each one carrying its own judgment, its own expectations. The unspoken tension that had been choking you since this conversation began now felt unbearable.

Still, you didn’t let it show.

You kept up the façade, forcing yourself to sit there like this was no big deal, like you weren’t on the verge of something monumental. Something that could destroy you.

Your father’s face remained unreadable, but you saw the faintest flicker of something new in his eyes—something he rarely showed you. Maybe it was surprise. Maybe it was even respect, though you doubted it. More likely, it was calculation.

Your mother’s hands tightened in her lap, her lips pressed into a frown as she glanced at Julia, then back at you. She looked like she wanted to stop this, to say something to change the course of what was happening, but she didn’t. She just sat there, silent and tense, like a woman watching a train wreck she couldn’t stop.

And Julia?

Julia was still staring at you, her lips parting slightly, her breath shaky. She looked like she wanted to protest, to tell you not to do this, but nothing came out. She just sat there, her wide eyes fixed on you with an expression so raw, so filled with relief and guilt, it nearly broke you.

But you didn’t let it.

You didn’t let yourself feel the weight of what you’d just done—not fully, not yet. You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t feeling brave. You weren’t feeling selfless or heroic. What you were feeling was trapped.

Cornered by the situation, by your family, by the suffocating expectations that had been crushing you your entire life. You’d thrown yourself onto the grenade because somebody had to, and you knew it wasn’t going to be Julia. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve to be bartered away for the sake of the family’s empire.

But you?

You could handle it. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Two days later, you found yourself in Bill Bevilaqua’s office, sitting across from the man who was about to become your husband.

The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the lingering smell of leather, whiskey, and cigar smoke. It seeped into everything—the furniture, the walls, even the faint hum of silence that seemed to settle in the corners of the room. You’d been here before, plenty of times, but it felt different now. The familiarity of it didn’t soothe you the way it used to.

Because this wasn’t just Bill Bevilaqua, the family friend who’d always been around. The man whose name came up in your father’s late-night phone calls, the one who owned the sprawling ranch your father and brother couldn’t stop talking about.

He wasn’t just Bill anymore.

He was Bill, the man you were about to tie yourself to for god knows how long. Even if it was just on paper, it didn’t change the fact that this was real. That this was happening.

The office itself matched the man—a blend of rugged practicality and quiet intimidation. The kind of place that didn’t need to announce its power. It just was. Dark wooden furniture dominated the space, the desk in front of you so massive it made you feel small. The surface was scattered with neatly stacked papers, a gold pen lying perfectly parallel to the edge of a leather-bound notebook. A glass of whiskey sat near the desk’s edge, what little remained catching the faint light from the desk lamp.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with hardbacks that looked more decorative than read. Framed black-and-white photographs hung between the shelves. Most of them were of the ranch—endless fields, sturdy fences, and sunsets that looked like paintings. There were a few of a younger Bill too, his jaw sharper, his hair darker, standing next to horses or men who probably worked for him.

And yet, for all the life captured in those photos, the office felt... still. Like it was holding its breath. Like he was holding his breath.

Bill sat across from you, leaning back in his chair, a cigar balanced between his fingers. He wasn’t dressed up for this meeting—no suit, no tie. Just a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that looked like they’d been carved out of stone from decades of hard labor. His hazel-brown eyes studied you carefully, the sharpness in them cutting through the haze of cigar smoke.

He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t unkind. But he was calculating.

Like he was trying to figure out if you were about to become a problem he’d have to solve.

“You know what’s expected?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

It wasn’t a question so much as a confirmation. A check-in. The kind of tone that belonged to a man who didn’t have to raise his voice to make his authority known. He didn’t need to. His presence alone carried the weight of it.

You nodded, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct told you to look away. You weren’t about to back down now. “Just on paper, right?”

He didn’t look away, didn’t blink. “Just on paper,” he confirmed, his tone even. “Sometimes I might need your signature, but that’s it.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. The movement was subtle, but it shifted the energy in the room. The air between you grew heavier, more solid, like the weight of the situation was settling in for good.

“I just want to make sure this is your decision,” he said after a long pause, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That you’re not being pushed into it or anything.”

The question caught you off guard. For a moment, it cut through the haze of tension, making you pause. There was something in the way he asked it—something that made you think he actually cared.

Not in a romantic way, not in a kind way, but in a way that felt... deliberate. Like he was giving you an out, even though he didn’t have to.

But then the words tumbled out of your mouth, sharp and defensive, before you could stop them. “Out of all the years you’ve known me, do you really think I’d be the type of person to agree to something if I’m not prepared to follow through on it?”

His lips twitched, just barely. It wasn’t quite a smile, but the corners of his mouth curved like he was suppressing one. Like he found your response amusing, even if he wouldn’t admit it. But the expression didn’t reach his eyes—they stayed locked on you, unreadable.

He leaned back again, the leather of his chair creaking softly beneath him as he took his time bringing the cigar to his lips. The tip glowed faintly in the dim light, a brief ember of orange against the muted shadows of the room. The smoke curled lazily around his face as he exhaled, the scent mixing with the ever-present tang of whiskey and leather that seemed to define this space.

“You know,” he began, his voice low and casual, though there was an edge of curiosity beneath it, “when your father called me and told me there’d been a change of plan, I didn’t expect to see you sitting across from me.”

His words hung in the air, not accusatory, but probing. Testing.

You leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, trying to look as relaxed as you could manage. “I like keeping people on their toes,” you replied, your tone light, almost flippant. “Keeps things interesting.”

You glanced around the room, feigning nonchalance, though the weight of his gaze never left you. “Plus, Julia’s not really going to be around much as of next month, so this was just the simple solution.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the calculation in his expression never faltering. He tapped ash from his cigar into the crystal ashtray on the desk, his movements deliberate and unhurried. “She’s going to New York, isn’t she?” he asked, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Art school.”

You nodded, leaning forward slightly, your hands clasped loosely in your lap. “Yep. She’s worked her ass off for it. Dad didn’t think it was appropriate for her to be tied into this while she had that waiting for her.”

The lie slipped from your mouth easily enough, but the moment it did, you felt the weight of it settle in the space between you.

Bill didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you, his hazel-brown eyes steady and sharp, cutting through the thin veneer of your words like he could see right through you. Like he knew.

And god, he probably did.

There was something in the way he held your gaze, something quiet but heavy, that made it clear he wasn’t buying a word of it. He didn’t call you out on the lie, didn’t press you for the truth, but his silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

The longer he stared at you, the harder it became to sit still. His scrutiny wasn’t harsh or judgmental, but it was knowing. Like he’d already pieced together exactly what had happened two days ago. Like he knew you’d been the one to raise your hand, to volunteer for this ridiculous charade, because the alternative wasn’t something you could live with.

And yet, he didn’t push.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, his cigar still balanced between his fingers. The movement was subtle, but it shifted the energy in the room, made it feel smaller, tighter.

“Your father didn’t think it was appropriate,” he repeated slowly, his tone neutral but weighted, like he was turning the phrase over in his mind. “So you threw your hat in.”

It wasn’t a question.

You shrugged, forcing a small, tight-lipped smile. “Like I said, simple solution.”

His lips twitched slightly, but it wasn’t a smile. It was something closer to amusement, tinged with just a hint of disbelief. He took another slow drag from his cigar, exhaling the smoke in a steady stream as he leaned back again.

“Simple,” he echoed, his voice quiet now, almost like he was speaking to himself.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing down on you with an almost physical weight. The room seemed darker somehow, the dim light from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls.

You shifted in your seat again, your legs uncrossing and then recrossing in a motion that felt less like comfort and more like a nervous reflex. The chair beneath you was sturdy but unyielding, the leather cool against the back of your thighs, and you couldn’t shake the sensation that the temperature in the room had just dropped a few degrees.

The silence between you stretched thinner with every passing second, heavy and oppressive, like the weight of his gaze alone was enough to fill the space.

Finally, you broke it, your voice cutting through the stillness with a sharpness that surprised even you. “Look,” you said, leaning forward slightly, your elbows brushing the edge of his massive desk. “I know this isn’t exactly what you signed up for, considering I’m an absolute clusterfuck that you probably don’t want your name tied to, but this is what it is.”

The words tumbled out faster than you intended, edged with a defensive bite that wasn’t entirely fair but felt necessary. You let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking your head as you dropped your gaze for a brief moment to the desk in front of you. The thick notebook, the neat stacks of papers, the gold pen—all of it felt so precise, so controlled, in direct contrast to the storm swirling inside you.

You looked back up at him, forcing your voice into something that sounded steadier, sharper. “Besides, it’s not like this is going to change anything for you. You said it yourself—it’s just on paper. A couple of signatures here and there, and we go on with our lives.”

You leaned back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest now in an attempt to steel yourself. The knot tightening in your stomach was persistent, coiling tighter with every word, but you didn’t let it show. At least, you tried not to.

Your voice was even, almost too casual, but the pace of your words betrayed you. They came out just a little too fast, like you were trying to outrun the weight of what you were saying. Like if you spoke quickly enough, you could convince him. Or maybe just yourself.

Across from you, Bill didn’t move.

He stayed perfectly still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his posture commanding, like he could sit there all night and still have the upper hand. The faint glow of the desk lamp caught the edge of his jawline, the light casting long shadows across the sharp angles of his face. His hazel-brown eyes stayed locked on you, unblinking, unreadable.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t cut you off. Just listened, the cigar still balanced between his fingers, his thumb brushing the edge as he sat back in his chair.

It was the way he looked at you that unsettled you the most.

He wasn’t looking at you with pity or judgment—not the way you expected, not the way you were used to. No, Bill Bevilaqua had a way of looking at people that made them feel like they were under a microscope. Like he was peeling back every layer, cutting through every word, every defense, until there was nothing left but the truth.

And that made this harder.

Because the truth was, you didn’t feel steady. You didn’t feel sharp. You felt like you were free-falling, grasping for something solid to hold onto, and the only thing you could find was this deal. This absurd, impossible deal.

Bill let out a slow exhale, the cigar smoke curling lazily into the air, dissipating in faint wisps that seemed to linger just long enough to draw out the silence between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, steady. Controlled. “You think this doesn’t change anything for me?”

It wasn’t an accusation, not entirely. But there was something in his tone—something quiet, almost imperceptible—that made you sit up a little straighter.

You opened your mouth to respond, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“This isn’t just on paper,” he said, his words deliberate, cutting through the room like a knife. “It’s my name. My business. My reputation. And now, it’s tied to yours.”

He leaned forward, just enough to close the space between you, resting his forearms on the desk. The movement was subtle, but it shifted the energy in the room, made it feel smaller. More personal.

“You think you can just sign a piece of paper, call it a day, and go back to living your life like nothing’s changed?” he asked, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s not how this works. Not for you. Not for me. And not for your family.”

The knot in your stomach tightened further, twisting into something sharp and heavy that made it harder to breathe.

You swallowed hard, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you tried to find the right words. But what could you say? That you hadn’t thought this through? That you’d thrown yourself into this mess because you couldn’t stand the alternative? That you were already in too deep to back out now?

Instead, you forced a smirk, the kind of expression that felt just as hollow as the laugh that slipped out of your mouth. “Well,” you said, your voice lighter now, almost flippant. “Good thing I’m good at adapting.”

Bill didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even crack a smile.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. His hazel-brown eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and unyielding, like he was weighing every word that left your mouth. Finally, he spoke, his tone slow and deliberate, carrying that quiet authority he didn’t need to force.

“I’ve known you almost your whole life,” he began, his words steady, but there was a slight edge to them. “I’ve sat here, more times than I can count, listening to your father drone on about what kind of bullshit you’ve gotten yourself into that week.”

You raised an eyebrow, shrugging one shoulder as you leaned back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest. “It was never even that bad,” you said, the corners of your mouth pulling up into a smirk. “Most of it was exaggerated anyway.”

Bill shot you a look—one that froze the smirk on your face.

“You copped two felonies in Jersey,” he said flatly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade.

You blinked, startled for a moment, before forcing yourself to recover. “Okay, so no lavish overseas trips,” you replied, shrugging again like it didn’t matter. “Small price to pay. The guy was a dickhead anyway.”

Bill didn’t even attempt to humor you. His expression didn’t shift, didn’t soften—if anything, it hardened. He leaned back in his chair now, the leather creaking under his weight, and gestured faintly with the cigar still balanced between his fingers.

“You’re tied to my name now,” he said, his voice low but firm, each word deliberate. “Meaning that what you do—what you say—will reflect on me. It doesn’t matter if this is just a legality. It doesn’t matter that this is all for show. You’ll still be my wife. Legally. Publicly.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, the weight of them settling in your chest like a stone.

You straightened slightly in your chair, your jaw tightening as you met his gaze head-on. “And that’s exactly why Julia was the prime candidate for this little arrangement, right?” you said, your tone sharp now, the defensiveness creeping into your voice. “Because she knows how to toe the line. How to keep her head down. How to make Daddy proud, right?”

Your words came out quick, pointed, like you were jabbing at an old wound you already knew how to reopen. You raised an eyebrow, leaning forward again as you let the words spill out. “Look, I get it. I’m not your first choice for this. Hell, I’m probably not even your second or third. I wouldn’t pick me either.”

Bill didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable as he watched you. But you could feel the tension in the room spike, the silence between you taut and charged, like a wire stretched too thin.

You pressed on anyway, refusing to let up. “But I’m what you’ve got,” you said, your voice hardening as you gestured toward yourself with a sharp flick of your hand. “So take it or leave it. Because the alternative?” You leaned back in your chair again, crossing your legs and tilting your head slightly, your smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “The alternative is Julia. And we both know she’d crumble under this. She’s not built for it. She’s got her whole life ahead of her.”

The words came out harsher than you meant them to, but you didn’t backtrack. You didn’t soften them. You couldn’t.

Bill exhaled slowly, the smoke from his cigar curling into the air between you, the faint glow of the amber tip casting the faintest light across his face. He was silent for a moment, his gaze steady, unwavering.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“You think you’re doing her a favor,” he said, his voice calm but with an edge now, like he was cutting through your defenses with surgical precision. “You think stepping into this mess was some kind of noble sacrifice.” He shook his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “But you’re not just tying yourself to me. You’re tying yourself to my world. To everything that comes with it.”

He leaned forward again, his forearms resting on the desk, his eyes narrowing slightly as his voice dropped lower. “So, before you go throwing around terms like ‘take it or leave it,’ I suggest you think long and hard about what you’re signing up for. Because this isn’t just some deal you can walk away from when it gets messy.”

His words hit harder than you expected, cutting through the bravado you’d been clinging to since this conversation started.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out at first. You felt the knot in your stomach tighten, twisting into something sharper, something heavier.

Finally, you shook your head, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again, even though it felt like he was peeling back every layer you’d built around yourself. “And that’s why I’m here,” you said, your voice quieter now, but just as firm. “Because I can handle it. Because I know exactly what I’m signing up for.”

Bill’s lips twitched slightly, like he wanted to say something but decided against it. Instead, he leaned back in his chair again, the cigar still balanced between his fingers as he studied you. The silence between you stretched again, but this time it felt different. It wasn’t the tense, probing quiet of someone trying to figure you out. Bill wasn’t testing you anymore. He wasn’t trying to decide if you were bluffing.

He already knew you weren’t.

But knowing didn’t make any of it easier.

It didn’t feel real—not really—until the day of the wedding. If you could even call it a wedding.

There was no dress, no flowers, no aisle. No vows spoken in front of family and friends. No champagne toast or laughter echoing through some overpriced venue. Just the same office, the same desk, the same faint smell of leather and cigar smoke clinging stubbornly to the air like it had soaked into the walls.

The celebrant, an older man with a tired face and an equally tired voice, sat at the edge of the room. He read off the legalities in a monotone, detached way—like this was just another Tuesday for him, another box to check before lunch.

Your brother leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at you, didn’t offer you even a hint of reassurance. Your parents sat stiffly in the corner, their faces carved from stone. They were watching, their silence louder than anything they could have said. Two of your fathers’ men leant next to your brother while another two of Bill’s men sat on the large couch.

And then, there was Bill.

He stood beside you, his hands clasped in front of him, his presence as steady and immovable as ever. He wasn’t dressed up—just a clean button-down shirt and slacks, his usual understated practicality. No tie. No fanfare. He didn’t look at you much, but when he did, there was no judgment in his gaze. Just that same quiet intensity you’d come to expect from him.

A pen was placed in your hand, interrupting the hollow cadence of the celebrant’s voice. For a moment, you just stared down at the papers in front of you.

The words blurred together—cold, clinical, and lifeless. Legal jargon. Terms and conditions. A contract dressed up as a commitment.

Your name was printed neatly on the line, waiting to be signed.

You hesitated.

The weight of the moment pressed down on you like lead, heavy and suffocating. The pen felt foreign in your hand, too heavy, like it might snap under the pressure of your grip.

You thought of Julia. Of your father’s voice that night, heavy with expectation, with consequence. Of the alternative.

And then, you did it.

The scratch of the pen against paper was louder than it should have been in the suffocating silence.

You signed your name.

The celebrant shifted slightly, passing the pen to Bill. You didn’t look at him, but you could hear the faint rustle of fabric as he stepped forward. His signature was neat, deliberate, the sound of the pen moving over the paper steady and unhurried.

When the celebrant finally declared you married, the words barely registered. They felt hollow, distant. Like they’d been said to someone else, to two people who weren’t standing in this room. To two people who actually wanted this.

And that was it.

No applause. No congratulations. Just silence.

You glanced up briefly, catching the faintest flicker of something unspoken in your mother’s eyes before she looked away. Your brother’s gaze was still fixed on the far wall, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. And Bill? He just stood there, steady as ever, his hands back at his sides, like this was just another deal signed and sealed.

It was over before it even began.

Your apartment was quiet when you got home that afternoon. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful or calming, but the kind that pressed down on you, heavy and suffocating, making the air feel too thick to breathe.

You kicked off your shoes at the door with more force than necessary, the dull thud of them hitting the floor echoing through the stillness. It didn’t help. Nothing did. The weight in your chest didn’t ease, the strange knot of emotions you couldn’t quite name only tightening as you stood there, staring blankly at the mess you’d made.

Shrugging out of the jacket you’d thrown on that morning, you let it slip from your shoulders and drop into a heap on the floor. You didn’t bother to pick it up. Why would you? Nothing about today felt neat or put together—so why should you?

Your bag followed, tumbling down beside the shoes with a dull, lifeless thud. You stood there for a moment, frozen in the doorway, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin. Your apartment felt foreign somehow, like you didn’t belong in it anymore. Like you didn’t fit in it anymore.

And then there was the ring.

The gold wedding band sat heavy in your pocket, its weight impossible to ignore. You pulled it out, the cool metal smooth against your fingertips as you rolled it back and forth between them.

You walked into the kitchen as if on autopilot, the soft hum of the fridge the only sound breaking the silence. Your bare feet felt cold against the tile floor, but you didn’t care. Your focus was on the ring—the stupid, shiny thing that felt far too final for what it was supposed to be.

It was too new. Too polished. Too perfect.

You stared at it, holding it up to the light, watching as the sunlight filtering through the kitchen window caught on its surface, scattering tiny flecks of gold across the counter. It looked delicate, simple—but it didn’t feel that way.

No, it felt heavy. Suffocating.

For the first time since you’d scrawled your name on that piece of paper, the reality of what you’d done began to sink in. It wasn’t just a transaction anymore. It wasn’t just practicality. It wasn’t just a way to solve someone else’s problem.

You were someone’s wife now.

Bill Bevilaqua’s wife.

The thought twisted something deep in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. You couldn’t tell if it was dread, disbelief, or something else entirely. Maybe it was all of those things, tangled together in a way you couldn’t begin to unravel.

What were you supposed to do now?

Were you supposed to wear the ring? Declare yourself to the world as Mrs. Bevilaqua? Were you supposed to start acting like a married woman, whatever that even meant? Was there some unspoken set of rules you were supposed to follow now that you’d crossed this line?

But honestly? You didn’t know.

And right now, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Instead, you walked over to the microwave, your hand tightening around the band as you hesitated. Then, with a soft clink, you set it down on top of the cold metal surface and walked away.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t bring yourself to put it on. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Marrying Bill wasn’t supposed to change anything.

It was a marriage of convenience—that’s what they’d called it, what they’d reassured you it would be. Just a way to get around some legal loophole. A solution to a problem that wasn’t even yours to begin with. A transaction, plain and simple.

No feelings. No complications. Nothing messy.

You weren’t supposed to feel any different afterward. You weren’t supposed to question it. You weren’t supposed to walk into your apartment and feel this strange, suffocating weight pressing against your chest.

It was just a piece of paper.

That’s what you told yourself, over and over again. Just a name change. Just a legal formality. Nothing about your life was supposed to feel altered.

But the truth was, it did.

From the moment you walked out of that office, a part of you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d stepped into someone else’s world. Like you’d crossed a threshold you couldn’t uncross, stepped into a version of your life that didn’t belong to you.

It wasn’t supposed to feel that way.

This wasn’t meant to be a marriage—not in the way people think of marriage. It wasn’t meant to carry any weight, any expectation beyond the bare minimum. No shared dreams. No whispered conversations in the dead of night. No messy entanglements.

It was supposed to be clean. Simple. Just a name on a piece of paper, a signature to make it official, and then you’d both go on living your separate lives.

And for a while, you told yourself that was exactly what it was.

But hindsight, as you’d come to learn, was a beautiful, cruel thing.

It had a way of creeping up on you, quiet and unassuming, until it slammed into you with the kind of force that left you breathless. It didn’t matter how much you tried to rationalize or compartmentalize—hindsight peeled back every excuse, every neatly constructed wall, and left you staring at the mess you’d tried so hard to ignore.

Because the truth was, things like this never stayed clean.

No matter how much you told yourself it was simple, no matter how many times you reminded yourself that this was just a transaction, feelings had a way of creeping in. They always did. They slipped through the cracks when you weren’t paying attention, burrowed into places you thought were safely guarded, and rooted themselves there before you even realized what was happening.

And that’s what scared you the most.

Because this? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A marriage of convenience wasn’t supposed to make your chest tighten or your thoughts spiral. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to become this.

And you sure as hell weren’t supposed to feel anything for him.

But somehow, against every ounce of logic and self-preservation you had left, you did.

It hit you in the strangest of moments, in the kind of quiet, unassuming way that hindsight always seemed to prefer.

You were standing there, half-listening to your brother drone on about Dwight Manfredi, his voice little more than background noise as your gaze drifted toward the horizon. And then you saw him.

Bill.

Riding up on one of his horses like he’d stepped out of some damn Western, his posture straight, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow under the late afternoon sun. His presence was the kind that demanded attention without asking for it, the kind that filled a space just by existing in it.

And you realized it.

You’d managed to fall in love with the asshole.

The thought hit you like a punch to the gut, sharp and sudden, leaving you reeling.

You hated yourself for it.

Because this wasn’t part of the deal. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to care about him. You weren’t supposed to notice the way his voice softened when he spoke to the ranch hands, or the way he always seemed to know when you needed space without you having to ask. You weren’t supposed to look at him and feel that stupid, unfamiliar ache in your chest, the one that made your breath hitch and your heart pound.

But it had happened.

And now, all you could think about was how the hell you’d let yourself get here.

How you’d let something that was supposed to be simple—clean, transactional—turn into the absolute clusterfuck your life had become.

How you’d let yourself see him as more than the man you’d signed a piece of paper with.

Because now, every time you looked at him, you saw the quiet strength he never flaunted, the steadiness that grounded you in ways you never thought you’d need. You saw the way he carried himself, calm and deliberate, no matter how messy or chaotic the world around him became. You saw the way he looked at you sometimes, his hazel eyes steady and unflinching, like he could see right through to the parts of you that you tried so hard to hide.

And it terrified you.

Because you knew, deep down, that this wasn’t supposed to work.

That whatever you were feeling, whatever this had become, was nothing more than a cruel joke played by your own heart.

This was supposed to be clean. Simple. Just a marriage on paper. Nothing messy. Nothing real.

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t simple. And it sure as hell wasn’t just on paper anymore.

It was messy and complicated and terrifying.

And the worst part?

You didn’t know how to stop it.

You didn’t know how to untangle yourself from him, from this. You didn’t know how to go back to the version of yourself who could look at him and feel nothing.

So you stood there, watching him ride up on that damn horse, his face unreadable as always, and all you could think about was how much you hated yourself for letting this happen.

And how much you hated him for making it so easy.

#Tulsa King #bill bevilaqua #Bill Bevilaqua x Reader #Bill Bevilaqua x you #Bill Bevilaqua x y/n #Frank Grillo #fanfiction #Ao3 #Masterlist

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