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“Yes.”
That niggling feeling I had before returns, making my nerves tingle. I glance at Kimberly, who’s now wearing the same awkward expression as my father, but at least she gives me a kind smile.
“Have a seat, sweetie.” She points to the chair next to Dad.
I make my way over and sit. “What’s this about?”
Dad gives me that look he reserves for serious matters. The last time he looked at me like this was weeks ago when he said he was giving up his search for Layla. He felt that she’d turn up when she was ready, like she always does.
"We've spoken before about your marriage prospects," he begins.
At the mention of marriage all I can think about is Ryan, because I want him to ask me to marry him. I've always known I'd most likely have an arranged marriage because it’s common in our family. So the fact that Ryan and I had never dated didn't feel like a problem, not when we've known each other our whole lives.
"We’ve spoken about it, but not in a long time. Why are we talking about it now?” A lump gathers in my throat as my mind pushes me to pay attention.
Dad said he wanted to talk to me about the guy, and now he’s talking about marriage?
The connection sends something dark crawling into my soul.
“An opportunity has arisen for you to get married," Dad replies. “One I have gladly accepted.”
I keep my gaze on him and try to decipher the words he just spoke, but it feels like a wall has been shoved into my brain and I can’t use it.
"What does that mean exactly?" I stutter, sounding foolish because he’s given me enough information to know what he means.
“It means that in six weeks’ time you’ll become my wife,” comes that distinct menacing voice from last night. Hearing it now—speaking those words—turns my blood to ice.
We all turn to find the house guest leaning against the doorframe, watching us. Watching me.
I’m watching him too, my mind stuck on his declaration like tar on a pavement.
If it were possible for my stomach to plummet through the earth, it would've gone. The drop in my gut, however, feels comparable. The dryness in my lungs makes them feel like they might crumble to dust inside me.
I stand, but I don't know I'm standing until my legs are trembling beneath me like reeds in the wind.
“What?” I breathe out the word as if it's poison.
“You heard me, Bellissima.”
Bellissima. He called me that last night too. It means beautiful in Italian. My relatives use the endearment all the time, but I hate hearing it coming from him.
In the bright morning light, he’s even more overbearing and it's clear from the flicker of interest in his eyes that he's thinking about last night.
Last night feels like nothing to me right now, and I can’t believe I was so worried about that when fate had more cruel things in mind for me with this man.
He’s dressed in full black again, so it seems fitting now that I thought of him as the Grim Reaper. He is. And this…this is what he meant about talking in the morning.
It also makes sense why he touched me the way he did. Because of this. Dad would have known about it too.
Ripping my gaze away from his, I look at Dad. Raw shock and disbelief are tearing me apart, but I’m hoping my father can clear up this mess. Because this can't be. It just can't.
The discomfort in Dad’s expression is prominent but his face remains a stoic mask. “Luna.” He clears his throat. “This is Hunter Le Blanche."
Recognition of that name forms in my mind, tightening my scalp with knowledge. I might not have known the face the name belongs to but, like many others, I know who the Le Blanches are.
Dad has been one of their clients for as long as I can remember. I’m just used to him corresponding with Preston Le Blanche, the head honcho of Le Blanche Global—one of the biggest investors in Mom’s charity.
The Le Blanche name is as well known in New York as the Bransons, or the Graysons, who are as close to them as the sand is to the sea.
