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“Serious as a goddamn heart attack,” she responds dryly.
“So you’re saying I should marry him just so that I don’t, what? Hurt his feelings?”
“No,” she replies. “I’m saying that he is marrying you out of great personal cost, both to himself and to our family. Do you know how many rich princesses, how many daughters of connected families, that my papà had on the list of his potential brides? But instead, he chose you. He’s paid millions for you, and now sacrificed a couple ribs and a kidney, too.” Her eyes brighten unexpectedly in the darkness, her voice turning emphatic. “He cares more about you than I’ve ever seen him care about fucking anything, Deirdre. Do you know how insane that is? How rare?”
“No, I don’t!” I cry. “I’ve known him for less than two months!”
“Well, I’ve known him for my whole fucking life,” Valentina shoots back, “And let me tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, that man fucking lov-”
“We’re almost there,” Curse interrupts from the front seat. Valentina shoots the back of his seat a glare that looks like it should melt leather. She closes her eyes briefly, rubbing her forehead, before turning back to me. She seems calmer now.
“Sorry. I get very protective of the people I love,” she says. She smiles. “It’s a Titone trait you’re obviously intimately familiar with. Look. Marrying Elio will keep you safe. Darragh’s backed off now. This engagement is the only reason you can step foot outside the house and go to school. Or go to this dress appointment at all. And… Elio… He cares about you. And the wild thing is, I think you care about him too.”
I flinch but force myself to continue meeting her gaze.
“I saw you two,” she says quietly. “When I came in his bedroom just now, before we left. He wasn’t holding onto you, trapping you, pulling you anywhere, or forcing you to be with him. He was just lying there on the bed, all fucking broken. And you were kneeling over him. You were cupping his face. So close to him, and holding him so fucking gently. Like you were going to kiss him. Like… Like you’re falling for him.”
“I know,” I whisper, not even bothering to hide from what she’s just said because it’s true.
And that’s part of the problem.
“What is it you’re afraid of?” Valentina asks, and my throat aches with a hundred possible answers.
I’m afraid of being trapped. I’m afraid that I’m too weak and soft and easily guilted into things. I’m afraid that I’m too prickly, too ungrateful, that maybe I’m a fucking bitch.
I’m afraid of losing him. I’m afraid of all the pain he’s taken on for me. I’m afraid that I pull away from him as a way to protect myself, protect us both, and not because it’s what I want.
Because what I want… What I really, truly want…
Well, maybe I’m afraid of that too.
Valentina and I regard each other, everything else fading away at the edges. The silence is so thick between us that it becomes tangible, like it’s wrapped us in velvet.
Curse’s voice cuts through it like a knife, making both of us in the backseat jump.
“We’re here.”
Chapter 23
Deirdre
Donata’s shop and studio is a temple devoted to the worship of sartorial luxury. Every detail in here is perfectly placed to enhance the glittering atmosphere. From the pale, unobtrusive, yet warm colour of the hardwood floors, to the creamy walls, to the lighting that cascades in cones of champagne gold over mannequins draped in silk and satin and lace.
It's a boutique shop, not very large, and I can tell already that the clientele must be very exclusive. And very, very rich. With my chapped lips, messy braid, and just-come-from-class outfit of jeans and a sweater, I feel uncomfortably out of place.
Valentina isn’t, though. She breezes in like she owns the place, her eyelids sparkling and her long lashes casting thick shadows on her cheeks. Her glossy lips part in a beaming smile as she waves at someone coming towards us from the back of the room.
“Donata! Hi! Sorry we’re late!”
I don’t know why I expected Donata to be older, like a twin of grouchy Rosa, but she isn’t. She can’t be more than thirty, and she’s stunningly beautiful. Large, dark eyes with subtle winged eyeliner stare out from beneath perfectly shaped black eyebrows. Her hair isn’t black, though, but rather bleached near-white. The black eyebrows and platinum hair combination should be jarring, but somehow she pulls it off flawlessly, tying the whole look together with crimson lipstick on a wide, full mouth. Her hourglass figure is hugged by a knee-length, cowl-neck sweater dress in a buttery shade of beige that compliments her golden complexion.
“Not at all,” Donata says smoothly, embracing Valentina and kissing her on each cheek.
Then she turns her appraising eyes to me.
“And this must be our bride-to-be.”
I flush under Donata’s gaze, and without realizing it I’ve already started fiddling with my ring again. She smiles, then suddenly leans forward, kissing both my cheeks like she did to Valentina. Or, rather, she brushes her cheek against each of mine, probably to avoid smearing her lipstick. Her perfume is lovely, not floral but almost spicy. It reminds me of the scent of tea, and that puts me a little more at ease.
