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My pounding heartbeats paced in time with the phone’s ringing.
Zeno made me wait four rings before he picked up. His deep voice, laced with a hint of self-indulgence, said, “Hello, mon ange.”
“You fucking asshole,” I bit out, closing my eyes as I inhaled. Fresh air did nothing to calm me down.
Zeno waited three seconds before returning my greeting.
“I take it you spoke to your mother. Have you picked a wedding date, my dear future wife?”
Future wife.
It rolled off his tongue with strong intimacy and familiarity.
“There will be no wedding,” I growled, slapping my hand against the balustrade. “You played me, tricked me for your own use, and you think I’d want to fucking marry you? I don’t evenknowyou, you bastard!”
“Contrary to your beliefs, I had no idea who you were the first night we met. Did I use it to my advantage after I found out? I’d be an idiot not to. Imagine my surprise when Mayor Hill’s daughter literally fell into my lap,” he taunted. “Well, fell on my dick is more like it, but you get the gist of it.”
My fingernails created half-moon marks in my palm. I had never felt this form of helplessness in my life. Not even when I was diagnosed with a benign tumour in my teenage years.
“I hate you,” I spat with every ounce of the emotion I could muster.
Zeno didn’t say anything.
I’d like to think he was contemplating what a piece of shit he was.
Until he chuckled low.
It felt forced.
“Good. It’ll make the sex even better on our wedding night. I look forward to fucking—”
“I will not be fucking you on our wedding night because I will not be marrying you, Zeno!” I bellowed. “I hope you know there’s a special place in hell for men like you. Lose my number and don’t try to contact me ever again.”
I hung up.
As I vibrated with the remnants of my anger, a memory filtered through my mind, fresh and recent, from the Halloween festival. Wisdom from the fortune teller played in my head over and over again like the ending of a bad movie.
Someone tall, dark, and handsome. He’s…rough aroundthe edges. A man of many trades. He possesses lotsof power.
I laughed.
Loud and in complete disbelief.
Then I had a bitch fit where I threw my phone over the balcony with a strangled noise, which carried into the night air and caught in the rustling leaves.
Behind me, I heard clipped footsteps.
I pivoted around, chest heaving.
Alberto’s crestfallen face became visible through the red haze clouding my vision. He held a plate of my favourite cookies in his hands. “Oh no, Miss Darla,” he used the same chiding tone from when I was a little girl. “We’ll need to get you a replacement soon.”
CHAPTER 11
Marry Me, Mon Ange
Darla
Le Petit Moulin was one of the finest bakeries in Montardor and one of our favourite places to hang out on the weekends.
