My Mate Requested a Polygamous Pact

Serafina

“Matteo, please.” My voice cracks like I’m some desperate teenager instead of a grown woman in a designer gown. “Just… look at me. Really look at me.”

He doesn’t even glance up from adjusting his platinum cufflinks—the ones I bought him for our first anniversary. His dark hair is perfectly styled, not a strand out of place, because God forbid Matteo Verrelli looks anything less than immaculate. Sharp jaw, those cold gray eyes that used to make my stomach flip, now they just make me nauseous. He’s all sharp angles and expensive suits, like he was carved from marble by some twisted artist who forgot to add a soul.

“I’m busy, Serafina.” His voice is flat, dismissive. Like I’m the help asking for a raise.

“When aren’t you busy?” I’m standing in our bedroom—correction, his bedroom that I happen to sleep in—wearing this ridiculous emerald silk dress that cost more than most people’s cars. The color brings out my dark eyes, makes my olive skin glow. At least, that’s what I used to think. Now I feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s life.

“I love you.” The words tumble out like a confession, desperate and pathetic. “I know this marriage started as… business, but I love you. I have for two years now, and I just need to know if there’s any part of you that could—”

“No.”

One word. Two letters. Complete annihilation.

“No.” He straightens his tie, checks his Rolex. “We have an arrangement, Serafina. Don’t complicate it with… feelings.”

Feelings. Like love is some inconvenient side effect I caught from drinking the wrong water.

The family dinner that night is a masterclass in psychological warfare. Viviana sits at the head of the table like a queen presiding over an execution, her perfectly coiffed silver hair catching the candlelight. She’s been sharpening her claws on me for three years, and tonight she’s going for the throat.

Viviana Verrelli—born Viviana Rossi, daughter of a minor tobacco baron—clawed her way into this family forty years ago by being prettier and more ruthless than anyone else. She’s spent decades perfecting the art of destroying other women while maintaining her saintly facade. Started with Matteo’s father’s first wife, who mysteriously developed a “drinking problem” and died in a car accident. Then moved on to systematically eliminating every female threat to her position. I’m just the latest in a long line of casualties.

“Serafina, cara,” she begins, voice dripping with fake sweetness, “perhaps you should see Dr. Martinelli again. About your… fertility issues.”

The words hit like a slap. “I don’t have fertility issues.”

“Then why,” Bianca chimes in, twirling her pasta like she’s discussing the weather, “haven’t you given us an heir? Three years is plenty of time, don’t you think?”

Bianca Verrelli—twenty-eight, Matteo’s younger sister, and living proof that privilege can create monsters. She’s got everything handed to her on a silver platter but still needs to destroy other people for sport. Looks like she stepped off a Milan runway—all sharp cheekbones and predatory grace, dark hair swept into a perfect chignon. She moves like she owns every room she enters, which technically she does since Daddy owns half of northern Italy.

Her specialty is psychological warfare disguised as sisterly concern. She’s the one who “accidentally” invited Matteo’s ex-girlfriend to our wedding anniversary dinner. The one who “forgot” to tell me about the dress code at family events, leaving me underdressed and humiliated. The one who spreads rumors about my “instability” to anyone who’ll listen.

“Maybe she’s not trying hard enough,” Bianca rumbles from her chair, not even looking up from her wine. “In our family, wives always understood their duties.”

My face burns. “I understand my duties perfectly.”

“Do you?” Viviana’s smile could freeze hell. “Because from where I sit, you’ve been quite the disappointment. No children, no connections of value, no skills beyond looking pretty at parties.”

“I graduated summa cum laude from—”

“From a state school,” Bianca interrupts with a laugh. “How… quaint.”

Matteo says nothing. Just cuts his veal like we’re discussing the weather instead of dissecting my worth as a human being.

“Perhaps,” Viviana continues, “it’s time to reconsider this arrangement. The Costello girl from Naples is quite lovely, and her father owns—”

“Enough.” Matteo’s voice cuts through the tension. “Serafina and I will handle our marriage privately.”

My heart does this stupid little flutter of hope. Maybe he does care. Maybe—

“Actually,” he continues, setting down his knife, “I’d like to have dinner with you tomorrow night. Just us. We need to talk.”

I spend the entire next day in a pathetic state of hope. Maybe this is it. Maybe he’s finally going to fight for us. I get my hair done, buy a new dress—red silk that hugs every curve—and actually let myself believe that three years of marriage might mean something.

The restaurant is perfect. Intimate. Candlelit. The kind of place where proposals happen and marriages get saved.

“You look beautiful,” Matteo says when I arrive, and for a moment, I see the man I fell in love with.

“Thank you.” I slide into the booth, heart hammering. “This is nice. It’s been so long since we—”

“Serafina, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

The words hit me like ice water. “What?”

That’s when she appears. Tall, blonde, absolutely stunning in that effortless way that screams Russian aristocracy. She’s wearing a simple black dress that probably costs more than my car, and she moves like she owns the world.

“This is Anastasia Ruffo,” Matteo says, standing to kiss her cheek. “Anastasia, my wife, Serafina.”

Wife. He says it like it’s a job title he’s about to eliminate.

“Pleasure,” Anastasia purrs in accented English, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Matteo has told me so much about you.”

I stare at her hand like it’s a snake. “Has he?”

“Please, sit.” Matteo gestures to the chair across from me. “We have a lot to discuss.”

“I thought this was dinner for two,” I manage.