Page 101 of Vow to Claim You

And then I look down into the garden, and I see them.

Aric. And Chiara.

My heart plummets.

Did they arrange this?

No. I dismiss it almost as fast as it arrives, because whatever else I don’t understand about Aric Vold, he isn’t a liar. He doesn’t sneak. He doesn’t engineer quiet little meetings in gardens. If he wanted to speak to Chiara, he’d do it in daylight, in the open, and dare the world to comment. This isn’t his doing.

Chance, then. Or hers. It doesn’t matter which.

Because jealousy doesn’t care about any of it. It sits in my chest anyway while I watch my husband say something to the woman he was supposed to marry.

Then Chiara turns and walks away from him toward the villa, and he stays there, alone.

I don’t wait to see more. I duck back inside, slide under the covers, and arrange myself exactly as I was—because whatever just happened down there, I will not be the woman he finds at the window, spying like she has something to be afraid of.

He comes back a while later and settles onto his side.

I can’t fall asleep for what feels like an eternity. My thoughts are spiraling, and the jealousy coils tighter, braiding itself with something worse—longing. Not for Luca. Not for my old life. But for something I’ve never had and have no right to want.

To be chosen.

Not arranged. Not contracted. Not bartered between fathers and societies.

Chosen.

By someone who looked at me and decided, of every soul on this earth, her.

I don’t know what we are now. I don’t know what that kiss made us. I don’t know whether the man beside me wants me or simply wants, and I don’t know which answer frightens me more.

After eternity, exhaustion finally wins.

I wake to light. Too much of it. I fumble for my phone, and the time stops me cold.

Past noon. I never sleep past seven.

“You’re awake.”

I startle upright, the sheet clutched to my chest, and find Aric in the armchair at the foot of the bed. He’s already showered, already dressed, dark hair still faintly damp. One ankle is crossed over his knee, and he’s watching me with those pale Nordic eyes I’ve become dangerously fond of.

“Were you watching me sleep?” I ask, flustered.

“You’ve been doing an alarming impression of the dead since dawn.” His head angles. “I don’t appreciate being forced to speculate.”

“About whether I was dead?”

“Among other things.” It’s so dry, so perfectly flat, that for a full second I can’t tell if it’s a joke.

It is. I think.

But before I can think of a fitting retort (because I’m not fully awake yet), he tips his head toward a large box next to my nightstand that wasn’t there last night. “That came for you.”

“What is it?”

“A dress. For tonight. A few other pieces.” His eyes flick to mine. “I’ll let you get ready.”

He stands from the chair—all six and a half feet of him—and heads for the door with that unhurried, deliberate stride, and I wait for the click before I reach for the bag. The dress comes first. Black, strapless, a sweetheart neckline cut clean across the chest, a slit up one leg that will reveal exactly enough. Then a pearl necklace, so beautiful, so unmistakably my style it’s almost devastating. Open-toe heels at precisely the height I’d have chosen.