Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO
Chapter 93: I Love Your Chaos

Chapter 93: I Love Your Chaos

NATHAN JANG

I should have known our honeymoon wouldn’t be all candlelit dinners and peaceful walks through Tuscan vineyards.

No, because I married Vanessa Belmont—now Vanessa Belmont Jang, a fact she still grins about every time she says it—and where Vanessa goes, chaos follows like an overeager puppy.

Case in point: the two jewel thieves currently fleeing our hotel balcony after my wife gave them her necklace like she was tipping a particularly talented street performer.

I turned to her, ready to deliver the kind of stern, rational lecture that would make any sane person reconsider their life choices. Vanessa, of course, preemptively jammed her finger against my lips.

"Before you start lecturing me about enabling criminals," she said, "just remember that time in Barcelona when you gave that pickpocket kid 50 euros because he ’had honest eyes.’"

My mouth twitched. Damn her. Damn her perfect memory and her ability to weaponize my own questionable decisions against me.

"That was different," I said.

"How?"

"He wasn’t holding a knife to your throat five minutes earlier."

She waved this off like it was a minor detail, like Oh, that? Just a Tuesday."Besides, did you see her grip? She’s left-handed. No way she could’ve stabbed me effectively."

I stared at her. "That’s not—" I cut myself off, running a hand through my hair. "You’re impossible."

Vanessa grinned and plucked a chocolate from the wreckage of our nightstand. "And yet you married me."

She had me there.

The sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway made us both tense. Instinct kicked in—I stepped in front of Vanessa, because old habits die hard, even when the woman in question once attacked a mugger with a high heel and a sarcastic remark.

The door burst open, revealing the hotel manager—a mustached man whose expression cycled through shock, horror, and "Please don’t sue us" in the span of two seconds. "Signore! What has happened here?"

I opened my mouth to explain—or, more accurately, to lie in a way that wouldn’t get us arrested—but Vanessa smoothly stepped forward. "We had a little disagreement about interior design." She gestured to the shattered remains of an exceptionally ugly vase. "Turns out, modern brutalism isn’t our style."

The manager blinked. "But... the balcony doors—"

"Stunning view," Vanessa said cheerfully. "Really wanted to appreciate it up close."

I made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. My wife, the human tornado of plausible deniability.

Ten minutes and several increasingly absurd explanations later (including Vanessa’s "enthusiastic newlywed moment" comment, which made the manager turn an impressive shade of red), we finally got rid of them. The second the door closed, I collapsed onto the bed with a groan.

"Remind me why I thought international travel with you was a good idea?"

Vanessa flopped down beside me, her dress officially beyond salvation. "Because deep down, beneath all that heroic stoicism, you love my chaos."

I turned my head to look at her. She was grinning, her hair a mess, her eyes bright with adrenaline and amusement. And damn it all, she was right.

"I do," I admitted. "Against my better judgment. But I was looking forward to the tiramisu."

Vanessa gasped in mock horror. "You’re right. This is unforgivable." She snatched up the room service menu. "We’re ordering three. No—five. And that expensive champagne they tried to upsell us at check-in."

I laughed. "Five tiramisus?"

"I nearly died today," she said solemnly.

"You threw a vase at someone."

"Emotional trauma counts." She batted her eyelashes at me as she picked up the phone. "Besides, it’s our honeymoon. We’re supposed to indulge."

As she placed the most ridiculous room service order of our lives, I pulled her back against my chest, resting my chin on her head. The adrenaline was fading, leaving that warm, floaty exhaustion in its wake.

Outside, the stars were coming out over the Tuscan hills. Inside, we waited for our ridiculous feast, tangled together in the wreckage of our would-be robbery.

The sapphire necklace—the whole reason for this mess—still hung around Vanessa’s throat, catching the light with every breath.

Life with her would never be simple. But as she curled against me, her laughter vibrating against my chest, I couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way.

The champagne arrived first, carried by a flustered bellboy who nearly tripped over the broken vase. I tipped him generously—partly out of guilt, partly because Vanessa gave me that look—and the second the door closed, she snatched the bottle and popped the cork with a practiced twist. Bubbles fizzed over her fingers, and I caught her wrist, bringing her hand to my lips to lick the champagne away.

Her breath hitched. "Since when are you the reckless one?"

"Since I married you," I said, pouring us both glasses. "To chaos."

She clinked her glass against mine. "And to the poor hotel staff who’ll never believe our stories."

Before I could reply, another knock announced the arrival of our obscene tower of tiramisu. The waiter wheeled in a cart laden with desserts, looking equal parts amused and bewildered. I thanked him with my best "Nothing suspicious here" smile, while Vanessa immediately swiped a fingerful of cocoa-dusted cream the second he left.

I caught her wrist again, tugging her forward until she was straddling my lap, the silk of her ruined dress sliding against my thighs. My hand settled at the small of her back, warm and possessive.

"You’re covered in sugar," I observed, brushing a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth.

I kissed her—slow, deep, her mouth rich with the taste of espresso and chocolate. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

When we finally broke apart, breathless, I rested my forehead against hers. "We should probably talk about what happened tonight."

She groaned, dropping her head onto my shoulder. "Ugh, fine. But only if you feed me tiramisu while you lecture me."

I chuckled but obliged, lifting a forkful to her lips. She took the bite, humming in satisfaction, and I watched her with that quiet, unguarded affection I reserved only for her.

"You scared me today," I admitted.

She stilled, then cupped my face. "I know. But I’m okay. We’re okay."

I exhaled, leaning into her touch. "You’re going to give me gray hairs before I’m forty."

She grinned. "Lucky for you, you’d look devastatingly handsome with gray hair."

I rolled my eyes, but the tension in my shoulders eased. My thumb traced idle circles on her hip. "You’re lucky I love you."

"The luckiest," she agreed, stealing another kiss.

Outside, the night deepened. The room was still a disaster—glass on the floor, the bed half-destroyed—but none of that mattered. Not when Vanessa’s hands were in my hair, not when she murmured my name against my skin like it was something precious.

Life with her was unpredictable. Dangerous, even. But as I held her close, champagne on our tongues and laughter in the air, I knew I’d choose this chaos.

I’d choose her.

Every single time.