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“What?” I snapped.
“Forgetting something?”
“What did I forget now, Mr Hotshot?”
A frown creased his forehead. “Mia cara, what did I tell you last night? That shirt needs to go.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Not like I can wear it now, can I, since you ruined it. I’ll remove it when I go in the shower.”
He got up and walked over to me, standing so close that his breath warmed my skin. “Now,” he said, holding out his hand.
My mouth popped open.
Was this sarcasm?
But the prolonged silence and his outstretched hand said otherwise. It was not even noon, and the man was getting on my last nerve.
What had I been thinking when I had agreed to this?
He made me mad. Mad enough to do crazy things I never would do.
“Whatever signor wants.”
I let go of my shirt slowly and let it drop to the floor, showing off my naked body. Let him look. I sauntered into the bathroom. Let him look and see what he can never have.
Most girls dreamed of their wedding day at some point in their lives. Who they will marry, but especially about what they will wear. It was no different with me. When I was with Adam, I had imagined that one day we would get married. I had dreamed of what I would wear. I wanted to wear a saree to pay homage to my heritage. To respect my dad. I had dreamed of finding something that my mum could work on with me. A combination of both my parents’ love in that one piece I would wear.
Instead, Adam never proposed, and I was marrying a cocky bastard. So, I found myself going through my existing wardrobe. What did one replace a saree with? Nothing. But going nude wasn’t an option when the few minutes of the show I had given had sucked out all my courage for a lifetime. But the urge to make him want remained.
I finally decided on a nude-coloured dress I had worn for a wedding last year. Who would have thought that this year I would wear it for my own? It had a beautiful wide collar with three-quarter sleeves and a pencil skirt with two side slits that enabled me to walk. I combined it with a pair of nude pumps and a pair of chunky, gold earrings, something of my mum's I had brought back with me after the funeral. It had been a gift from my dad on their wedding day, which explained the intricate Indian design. I watched the woman in the reflection of the mirror. I wasn’t vain, but I looked good. A smugness overtook me as I twirled. The wide collar in the dress left my collarbone exposed, showing just the right amount of skin. The rest of the dress hugged me in the right places, enough to faintly taunt a man.
This was it. I was getting married.
Taking a deep breath, I walked out of the room to bump into a very enthusiastic Rosa with a crying Cora in her arms.
“Oh, baby, why are you crying?” I tried to take Cora in my arms.
“No, no, signorina. Il tuo vestito.” Rosa pointed wildly at my dress. I got she didn’t want my dress to get dirty, but it broke my heart to see my munchkin like that. Besides, it wasn’t like it was a real wedding.
“Go, signorina. Antonio wait.”
But of course, no one keeps him waiting.
I was actually getting married.
The courage I had gained dwindled into wobbling nerves as I made my way downstairs.
The warm prickle rising up my body told me he was watching me descending the stairs. The exposed parts of my skin felt too warm, my dress too tight, my breasts too heavy. When I managed to reach the last step without tripping down and making a fool of myself, he was there with his hand on the rail. Our hands collided; our gazes locked. His eyes bored into mine.
Courage bolted out of the room. His eyes glistened, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Did he like what he saw? Was he nervous? Or was he just thinking about some file back in his office?
Give me a hint.
“About time. Come,” he said gruffly, extending his hand and guiding me to the waiting car.
Silly me, thinking he might comfort me. Why would he when this was not an actual marriage? I bowed my head as I folded myself neatly into the car.
My mind was all over the place, while my body sat imprisoned in a fast BMW.
