Accidentally Yours Chapter 55

****Lola****

Lola felt the heavy weight of Enzo’s arm draped across her waist, the heat of him anchoring her even before she opened her eyes. She caught the subtle shift in his breathing—awake, but not moving yet.

“Marco’s already on his way,” he said, voice still gravel-deep from sleep. “I’ll head down in a few days. Stay long enough to make sure everything’s locked in the way I want it.”

There it was—the shield raising, forged from the need to keep Enzo safe and a dangerous warmth I can’t bring myself to name.

Her stomach did a weird little twist at that—equal parts pride and the quiet reminder that she’d just willingly joined a chess match where the pieces bled when they fell.

Lola let her fingers trace lazy, invisible shapes on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under her palm.

“And I’m supposed to behave while you’re gone?”

His mouth curved against her hair. “You’re supposed to be here when I get back.”

That hit somewhere deep. She didn’t say I will. She didn’t have to. The truth was already lodged under her ribs—she wasn’t going anywhere. Not unless he wanted her to.

**One week later**

A good week.

A normal week—if either of them even knew what that meant.

Enzo was everywhere—meetings, calls, handling business she didn’t ask about—but somehow still here. Like he’d decided distance was a thing he could just… refuse.

Until this morning.

His suitcase sat by the door, all sleek leather and silent implications. He didn’t rush; he just kept looking at her like he was trying to memorize her face, the way her hair spilled over her shoulder, the way she was curled up in the chair with her coffee.

It should’ve felt overdramatic. It didn’t.

Because she could feel it—that quiet shift. The one you only notice when it’s too late to stop it.

This week was over.

The next one?

It was about to be a hell of a lot more complicated.

By mid-morning, he was gone. Just like he said—business to handle, people to see, ports to keep breathing. Marco was already across the ocean, fortifying their hold, and Enzo would be gone for at least a week.

That left her with time.

Too much time.

She filled it with work—prepping flash sheets, organizing her kit for the upcoming two-day expo in L.A.—and the occasional text exchange with Enzo that left her half-smiling, half-feral, wanting him back faster than was reasonable.

She hadn’t meant to wander into her photo gallery that night. She was just looking for a picture—something to make him swear in Italian when he opened it on the other side of the ocean.

Instead, she found a door she didn’t even know was there.

The first few shots were harmless enough—wide desert skies, dust storms curling across the horizon, a selfie from before the tequila and blackout, cinnamon lipstick perfect, glitter dusting her collarbones. She remembered taking that one.

But then came the chaos.

A blurry close-up of her holding a turkey leg like it was a priceless artifact.

A shot of Enzo mid-laugh, head tipped back, light catching the sharp line of his jaw.

A selfie of the two of them in ridiculous sunglasses, her tongue out, his hand gripping her hip like they’d already claimed each other.

A shaky video where she was clearly narrating some kind of “documentary” about “the effects of space-time on human attraction,” slurring about how gravity was pulling her that way—and just before the clip cut, the camera panned enough to catch Enzo in frame, smirking like he knew exactly what she meant.

Then it shifted.

A still of them in the middle of the crowd—her arms looped around his neck, his mouth against her temple like a promise.

A clip of some raver in sequins and an LED crown “marrying” them, the crowd howling approval. Her laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes, him steady at her side, sliding that blinking heart ring onto her finger.

And then a final photo—just the two of them, holding up that same ring, his gaze locked on her like nothing else existed.

They’d been blacked out.

She didn’t remember any of it.

But looking at those pictures, she believed every single second.

It was proof.

Proof of what they’d found that night—before the lavender ropes and broken lava lamp.

Proof that it had always been this.

Her chest ached in that warm, terrifying way she refused to name.

She sat there for a long moment, thumb hovering, before deciding to slowly leak them to Enzo over the next few days of him being gone.

One at a time.

No captions.

No explanations.

Just proof.

****Enzo****

Enzo’s days blurred into a rotation of rebuilding, reinforcing, and reminding people who held the reins now. Marco and his girl were already settling in, making the port their own while he moved through meetings with foremen, suppliers, and the kind of men who didn’t respect paper until it was backed with muscle.

It was tedious work, but it was necessary. Every handshake was another brick in the wall Lola had helped him envision. Every deal closed was another lock on the gates.

On the first morning, his phone buzzed between meetings. A photo.

Not just any photo—one of those photos.

Her, sprawled out in his bed, the angle making it look like his mouth was between her thighs. The kind of image that made his pulse spike instantly.

***Jesus Christ, baby…***

He didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t have a reaction—he had about twelve of them—but because he wanted to drag out the suspense. Let her wonder. She deserved to know what it felt like to be wound up and left hanging.

The next day, another photo.

This time she was in nothing but that ridiculous Cinnamon the Stripper outfit, smirking like she’d been caught doing something she absolutely meant to be caught doing.

***She’s going to kill me one of these days.***

Day three brought something entirely different—a selfie from Burning Man. Her hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes so full of life it almost hurt to look at.

By day four, the game changed.

She sent a short video—grainy, shaky, but unmistakable. Her voice in the background, narrating some nonsense about the “effects of space-time and why gravity was pulling her in a certain way,” and then a glimpse of him—looking at her like there wasn’t a single other thing in the world worth noticing. Then the feed cut.

***What the fuck… She has footage from that night?***

***A month.***

***It had been almost a month since Burning Man. And she was only now seeing these? Only now sending them?***

Part of him wanted to demand she send it all, every second, every shot. Another part wanted her to keep playing this slow torture, dragging him along like he’d done to her a dozen times before.

***When I get back, I’m going to make her pay for this. Inch by inch, hour by hour, until she’s begging to confess every secret she’s ever kept from me.***

On the fifth day, she sent the one that stopped him cold—a blurry, chaotic clip of them in front of some neon-lit altar, a raver in a glittering horned mask holding a plastic champagne flute like a chalice.

He pressed play.

Music, laughter, his own voice—slurred but certain. Her hand in his. The officiant in antlers and glowsticks calling them “cosmically bound, forever and ever, no take-backs.”

He slid the ring onto her finger like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it. And she looked up at him like she’d been waiting too.

What the hell did we do that night?

He didn’t have the answer. Maybe he didn’t even want it.

***All I know is she’s mine—and that’s the only truth I need.***

Enzo: "So… we’ve been married this entire time."

Lola: "Oh no. Did I forget to pack my wifely duties in your suitcase? 😏"

Enzo: "Don’t start. I’m already thinking about dragging you down here just to remind you what they are."

Lola: "Mm. Tempting. But I’ve got an expo tomorrow. You’ll have to suffer without me."

Enzo: "You think I’m not already suffering? You’re out there, walking around like that’s not my ring on your finger."

Lola: "Pretty sure it’s my finger in the ring, husband."

Enzo: "You’re lucky I’m across the ocean right now.

…Send me a picture of the setup tomorrow."

Lola: "Just the setup?"

Enzo: "No. You, in whatever you’re wearing.

And don’t pretend you don’t know what I like."

Lola: "Guess you’ll have to wait and see."

Enzo: "You’re going to kill me before I make it home, aren’t you?"

Lola: "Probably."