“You’re shaking.” His voice was low and almost gentle.
Almost.
But there was a hardness that made me tremble. “Are you scared, Erica?”
Of course he knows my first name. . .
I swallowed.
My mouth was suddenly dry.
Was I scared?
No.
I was terrified.
And not just of him, but of the marriage and everything he represented—the life I was being forced into, the horrors I would endure.
I swallowed again. “Well. . .yes. . .I’m scared.”
The line of his jaw twitched. “Why?”
“Well. . .I spent months preparing for the premier of my new ballet, and then suddenly I was told that I would be getting married.”
His eyebrows furrowed in anger as he narrowed his eyes. “You had no idea?”
I shivered. “No.”
Clearly pissed, he turned his view to my stepfather. “Explain yourself.”
My stepfather, who until this moment had maintained a stoic facade, was now visibly sweating. “This was not to be an insultto you or to catch her off guard. I believed it would be best for the family and Bella. This way she could live her life in independence—”
“No. You thought she would run off.”
My stepfather took out a red handkerchief from his pocket and dapped at the sweat on his head. “Perhaps.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.” Gianni curved his lips into a wicked smile. “Iwould have found her.”
Uh. . .okay.
Gianni turned his menacing gaze back to me. “And what do you think of this arrangement, Erica?”
I hesitated a little bit and then spoke, “I don’t want to get married.”
The guests reacted with a collective gasp. Then, their whispers swirled around the room like a physical presence.
Even Vito looked taken aback by my audacity, and my stepfather went pale as a sheet.
Gianni's eyes bore into me, unblinking, and his face was unreadable.
Silence filled the room.
I could almost hear my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Gianni spoke, “Everyone go to the other side of the room!”
What?
