Pietro Benetti.
Everything about him suggested danger. The scowl. The intensity. The possessive streak he did very little to hide. On the surface, he was exactly the kind of man I knew better than to trust.
Except men like that were not usually the ones who did the most damage. The truly dangerous ones tended to come smiling. Charming. Easy. They made you feel chosen before they made you feel small, and by the time you realized what they were doing, they had already taught you to doubt your own version of events.
I dropped onto the bed and stared at the wall, my earlier excitement fading under the weight of that thought. A few minutes ago I was nervous in the ordinary, fluttery way. Now the feeling sat lower and heavier.
I closed my eyes as I felt the familiar burn of tears behind my eyelids.
Even three thousand miles away, Adam still had a way of ruining things.
I looked toward the pile of books on my desk and reconsidered my evening for what had to be the fiftieth time. IfI was honest, I began reconsidering it the moment I agreed and Pietro scribbled his number in the corner of my notebook in that blunt, sure way of his, like it had never crossed his mind that I might not use it.
We were supposed to meet at seven. I still had two hours. In that time, I managed to turn my wardrobe inside out, reject half my clothes, and change so many times that the rejected dresses now formed their own small, judgmental mountain across my chair.
The one I had on was fine. More than fine, probably. Soft blue, fitted at the waist, low enough at the neckline to feel a little daring without making me tug at it every ten seconds. Objectively, it looked good.
That did not stop me from seeing only flaws. The way it skimmed my hips. The softness of my stomach. The parts of me that had once received admiration and then, later, criticism sharp enough to carve themselves into memory.
I stood and walked to the mirror again, arms folding tightly over myself before I made myself stop.
This was ridiculous. It was one dinner. One public place. One man I barely knew. So why did it feel like I was standing on the edge of something much bigger? Pietro felt different. Different enough that my stomach still filled with butterflies even with all the doubt creeping in alongside them. I turned away from the mirror before it could finish its work on me.
I had a chapter of my thesis arguing that the most corrosive power wasn't the kind that announced itself. It didn't come in loud. It came in quietly, through the side door, wearing the face of devotion. It made you feel chosen. Made you feel lucky. Made the moment you finally tried to name it feel unreasonable, dramatic, prove you were always the problem.
Adam had been very good at that.
I had spent a long time being very good at believing him.
But I was Emily Hart now, not Emily Gallagher, and I was standing in a Boston apartment I found myself and paid for myself with a stipend I earned, and I was going to dinner with a man I had chosen, and I was going to wear this dress because it was a good dress and I looked good in it and those two facts did not require anyone else's permission.
I smoothed my hands down the front of it once, deliberate and final.
Then I went to fix my lipstick.
A knock landed against the half-open door before I could spiral any further.
“Emily?”
I turned too quickly. “Yeah?”
Nora leaned against the frame, took one look at the state of my room, and smiled with immediate understanding. “Well. This looks serious.”
“It’s not serious,” I replied a little too quickly, brushing my dress.
Her gaze drifted over the discarded clothes, then to the dress I was wearing, then back to my face. “Sure.”
I sat back down on the bed with a sigh. “I’m thinking of cancelling.”
Nora’s brows lifted. “Cancelling last minute? That’s unlike you.”
“It’s nothing important.”
“Based on the chaos in this room, I’m going to go ahead and disagree.” She leaned against the doorframe and folded her arms. “So who’s the lucky guy? Or girl. I’m not judging.”
“Why did you stop by?” I asked, before she could say anything too perceptive. “Do you need help grading? It’s fine, honestly. I can reschedule.”
Please say yes, I thought, looking at her with what had to be a fairly desperate expression.
