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It should terrify me. Everything about this man should. But the feeling in my stomach when I remember his hands on either side of my chair and his mouth hovering above mine has nothing to do with fear.
“When it comes to my world, Sofia,” he says, his voice icy, “you are nothing but a child. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that we’re the same. We’re not.”
And then, before I can say another word, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.
* * *
I’m backin my room before I remember about the dinner that I ordered. It’s probably still on the dinner table, getting colder by the minute, but I can’t bring myself to go back out—especially with the possibility that I might run into Luca.
Even as unfamiliar as the bedroom is, I wish I could just hide away in here until the wedding.What was I thinking, trying to get to know him, as if he’s anything other than a heartless criminal who takes what he wants and gives nothing back?I’d thought that if I could draw some kind of humanity out of him, get some insight into who he is, that maybe we could come to some kind of understanding. But instead, I was just left feeling overwhelmed again, small and helpless in the face of his wealth and power and raw masculinity.
But I’m not helpless.If I have to put on a show every time I have to appear in public on my “husband’s” arm, if I have to give vague answers to hide how little I really know about him, fine. Once I’ve settled into my own apartment, I can do my best to forget about him, just like he said. We can forget about each other. The ridiculous jealousy I feel, the way my knees turn to water and my blood heats every time he’s near me, all of that will fade away.
I just can’t pretend that there’s anything special about me, that the way he seems to focus on trying to seduce me every time we’re near each other is anything other than what he does to every woman. The difference is that I won’t be fooled by it.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I stiffen, hesitating. If it’s Luca, the last thing I want is to talk to him again. But all I hear is a metallicclank, and then the sound of footsteps walking off down the hall.
After a moment’s debate with myself, I get up and walk to the door, gingerly opening it. To my surprise, I see a covered silver tray outside on the floor, like something a hotel might leave for room service, and no one waiting outside.
Quickly, I pick it up and shut the door again. When I set it down on the bed and take off the cover, I see my portion of the meal I’d ordered—a lamb chop and garlic potatoes on an etched white china dish, and a salad in a crystal bowl with a miniature silver pitcher filled with vinaigrette.
For a moment, I just stare at it.Did Luca drop this off for me?The thought of Luca going to the dining room, parceling out my portion of dinner and serving it up in this ridiculously elegant—if completely on brand—way seems entirely out of character. It must have been some member of the staff that he almost certainly has—except I haven’t actuallyseenany staff. No housekeeper, or cook, or maid.
They’re probably just very good at staying out of sight.It’s impossible that Luca did this for me. It doesn’t fit with anything I’ve seen from him. It would imply that he actually cares, that he has a heart, which he’s already gone to great lengths to show me isn’t true.
But as I pick at the food, my appetite completely gone, I can’t help but wonder if there’s another side to this man that I’m about to marry—that I hardly even know.
Sofia
Iwake up the next morning overwhelmed by sadness, my chest aching and on the verge of tears. I’d dreamed that I was back in my old apartment, sitting in the living room with Anastasia watching trashy reality tv while we drank wine and ate popcorn. Instead, when I open my eyes I’m in this new, strange bed, in this huge and impersonal room, and I miss my old home and old life so much that all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry.
Instead I resolutely get up, and walk over to the dresser to fish out a pair of jeans and one of the light, sleeveless tops that I picked out. As I slip my feet into a pair of buttery-soft leather flats, I glance over at the row of velvet boxes on the nightstand, all containing my new jewelry.
Am I supposed to put on diamond earrings to go down to breakfast?Everything about this life that Luca lives is so unfamiliar. I walk over to the window and push back the curtains—the ones in the guest room are normal drapes over a more normal sized, if still large window—and hold up my left hand to the light. The huge diamond sparkles in the sunlight, and I frown, realizing that I hadn’t thought to take it off last night before I went to bed.
I don’t want to examine that too closely. I tell myself that it was just an oversight, that I was too confused by the appearance of dinner in my room to think about it, or that I didn’t want to slip up and forget to put it back on this morning. Anything other than the possibility that I might already be getting used to the weight of it on my hand, that I might actuallylikewearing it. That I might think it’s beautiful.
Turning away from the window, I grab the pair of silver hoops that I’d picked out yesterday, and pull my hair into a bun atop my head. I have no doubt that the stylist Luca mentioned is probably going to show up today, so there’s no point in trying to do much else with it.
I head down the staircase, trying not to think about how just two nights ago, I tried to make a break for freedom down these steps, how it ended with Luca pinning me up against his front door, making me feel things that I’ve never felt in my entire life.If this were a movie, I know exactly how that would have ended.It would have ended with that stupidly short dress up around my hips, and Luca claiming his prize as the first man to ever be inside of me, while I gasped and moaned and begged for more, completely giving myself over to him.
But this isn’t a movie. It’s not a story of any kind, it’s mylife. A life that has been, without my knowledge, promised and bartered away years ago. And if I give in to Luca, I’ll lose the last thing that I have power over.
It’s true that a night with him would be something beyond anything I’ve ever dreamed, that it would be worlds away from what I’d always expected my first time would be—clumsy, probably a little painful, and almost certainly not living up to the hype. Even Ana, once she’d figured out that I’d never slept with anyone, had warned me not to expect too much from the first time. “It gets better later on,” had been her exact words, if I remember correctly.
But with Luca, it wouldn’t be clumsy. It might not even be painful. And it woulddefinitelyexceed anything I’d heard about—regarding the first time, or probably any other time.
It would also be only once. Loveless. Passion without substance. Pleasure without any meaning.
If I’d been someone who had had plenty of casual sex before, if I weren’t so naïve and innocent when it came to what went on between two people in the bedroom, maybe I could have enjoyed what Luca could offer me, and then written it off as an experience. Taken from him as much as he would take from me, and then shut myself off.
But that isn’t the case, and now it never will be. Luca would take something from me that he can’t give me any equivalent of. Pleasure isn’t enough to make up for allowing him so close to me, allowing him to take something that, even if it never held any deep meaning for me before, suddenly feels like the last thing of my own that I’m allowed to possess.
I’m so deep in thought that I don’t notice at first as I walk into the kitchen that Luca is sitting at the table. He’s behind a newspaper, and as soon as he hears my footsteps he lays it down, his handsome face looking more peaceful in the early morning light.
In fact he almost looks—normal. As normal as a man who is sitting at his ridiculously expensive kitchen table in a suit can, anyway. But he’s holding a newspaper, and has a cup of coffee in front of him—black as his soul, of course—and there’s a plate of eggs and sausage in front of him, as of yet untouched.
“Sausage is bad for your heart,” I tell him as I head to the fridge, trying to seem as unaffected as possible by finding him in the kitchen. It ishishouse, after all—I can’t imagine this place ever feeling like home to me. But I hadn’t thought that he’d be in here at ten o’clock in the morning—in fact, I was fairly sure he’d probably never set foot in this particular room at all.
