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And as much as I hate to admit it, because he’s not wrong, I do need him in that way, it’s been nice.
A change.
We never had this, always so desperate for each other’s bodies. We never had time to just be together without that. To talk, to touch, to kiss.
“I like it too, fiorella,” he whispers, always knowing what I’m saying, always able to read between the lines.
And then he walks off before I can respond, waving to some random person in the room, or maybe no one at all, as always, leaving me wanting more.
* * *
Less than twenty minutes later, though, I’m standing with Marco when I look around the room and see it.
Angela, standing in front of Dante, a hand to his chest, clearly waiting for him to kiss her.
He doesn’t even look at her, simply moving back a step and leaving her hanging, forced to make it look like it wasn’t the rejection it was. It’s a consolation, him denying her and stepping back, but still.
She’s still there.
She’s still his.
And while I understand the need for her presence, I’m done with her putting her grubby little hands on what’s mine.
I take a step in that direction and feel Marco try to put a hand on my wrist.
It slips from his grasp as I keep walking.
“Delilah—” he tries, but he can’t really stop me—it would cause a scene, after all.
I would cause a scene.
So I keep walking, pasting a huge, friendly smile to my face as I stop in front of them.
“Excuse me, so sorry, Angie, but I just got a super important call and I need to inform Dante of something.” Her eyes move to mine, daggers bouncing off my armor.
I didn’t even bother to make my voice sound kind or apologetic.
I fucking hate this woman.
“You don’t even have a phone in your hands,” Angela says, looking me over.
“Okay, and?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“How did you get a call?” The look is catty, like she wants to hit me, and honestly?
I wish she fucking would.
I’m dying for an excuse to tug on those shitty extensions.
“Junior, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she says, and a part of me blossoms at the fact she calls him that, a moniker he absolutely despises. “We’re at an event.” I smile, mouth closed, lips pursed, nose scrunched.
“To be fair, the event is to celebrate me. Engaged, remember?” I say, lifting my hand even though my thumb spins the thin gold band on my right ring finger.
Dante doesn’t miss it, of course, his own hand moving to the chain around his neck where his ring lies beneath his own medal.
But instead of smiling at Dante, I look at her hand that’s wrapped around my husband’s arm, the ring finger empty. My eyes linger there, then I look at her her face, a catty smile on my lips.
At least it’s obvious she knows what I mean, knows I have something she doesn’t.
