Book 1
Previously named as mafias chubby bride
[𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐃 ✔️] (rewriting)
Exuvia;
❝Shedding the past, being reborn into something new, even if painful.❞
He's a dangerous mafia boss.
She's a sweet, calm artist with a tender heart.
In a worl...
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★・・・・・・★
A S H L E Y
His stare was deep—unwavering. He stood beside me, silent, yet his presence was loud in every possible way. Towering over me with his deadly grace, he didn’t say a word, but the intensity of his aura made my skin prickle. He was intimidating, yes, but there was something else… something magnetic.
I tried to smile up at him, awkward and unsure. But then, his gaze dropped.
To my lips.
Just for a second—barely a second—but it was enough to steal the air from my lungs. His expression didn’t change much, but in that fleeting moment, something flickered. Something dark, something dangerously alluring. His eyes were heavy—like they saw more than I wanted to show.
And suddenly, the room wasn’t just loud with chatter and laughter. It was loud with tension between us.
A silence that touched places words couldn’t.
"You’re quite still in this party. Why?" he asks, his voice dipping low as his fingers unexpectedly take my hand. My breath catches, and I stare at him, flummoxed, the crowd around us blurring out for a moment.
"Huh?" I whisper, confused, but his gaze doesn’t falter. It stays locked on mine, unreadable and deep, before he casually slips my hand through his arm—hooking it around his sturdy, intimidatingly firm bicep.
"It’s your welcome party," he says, his tone smoother now, yet still carrying that commanding edge. "You have to greet the guests. Introduce yourself. Before my mother and father come." He pulls me slightly closer with that, and I feel myself lean into his warmth, unsure if I moved or he did.
My cheeks flush instantly. The soft pink blush I applied can’t compete with the heat rushing under my skin now. I’m not sure if it's embarrassment or... something else entirely. The distance between us—or the lack of it—isn't helping either.
His cologne seeps into my breath—spiced, dark, and addictive. Every step I take beside him feels like I’m being watched, but not by the guests. By him. His eyes occasionally flicker toward me like he's memorizing every flutter of my lashes, every awkward swallow.
Why is this man so composed... and why am I unraveling with every second?
"Do I have to?" I whisper, biting down on my lip—more out of habit than nervousness. Meeting guests had always meant one thing: standing under a spotlight of judgment, weighed and measured like I was a piece of something to be owned.
"You do," he says. But not like I expected. Not as a command I’d have no choice but to obey. It’s soft—almost like a suggestion, a breath that holds no pressure, just... truth.
