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There are even sculptures of us together, body against body, lips against lips, and it still isn’t enough. It’s like I’m trying to bring her to life so I can truly have her.
It’s insane.
I’m insane.
And if I marry someone else, how will I be able to get out my pent-up lust, wants, and needs for Mable? That is what this room is for. It’s my escape. Drawing, painting, sculpting, it’s the time I have to create with her.
Every second I spend with my new wife, I’ll want to be in my studio, painting and creating images of the woman who owns my soul.
I imagined that when I became a husband, I’d be devoted and loyal, but pulling Mable out of that car changed my entire future.
I can’t be loyal to another woman. I won’t want her, not like this, not obsessively. I find myself never wanting to leave this room. Being surrounded by her is all I want, or maybe the guilt has been eating me alive after so much time. All I want to do is take care of her.
Would she forgive me if she knew the truth?
I get lost imagining our lives together, the children we would have, the way I’d fuck her against every surface of this mansion where she’d scream my name, and it would echo down all the halls.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my fantasies. “What?” I snap, frustrated that I can never seem to be alone with Mable.
“If you’re late to your own party, I’ll give the title to your brother anyway. Victoria, the Rossiti girl, is here with her parents. I like them. You’ll meet her tonight.”
“I don’t understand the meaning of this. I don’t need to be married to take over the business,” I sneer, wishing I could use my authority to make my father heel, but I can’t.
He’s a patriarch. He’s highly respected in this world. His word is the only word that matters because he spent thirty years building the Benedetti name.
“You can’t. You need balance. You’ll need the softness and intelligence of a woman. You won’t be able to make decisions without her.”
“That requires trust, and I don’t trust Victoria.”
“Trust is earned. It isn’t automatic. You won’t embarrass me.” He hangs up on me again, and I squeeze my phone in frustration until the plastic creaks.
I snort. “Right, I’d embarrass you,” I mumble, thinking that if it were my brother in charge he wouldn’t even show up to this party.
Stealing one last look at the colorful painting of Mable, I unzip the overalls and step out of them; my tux is pristine under the paint-covered fabric. I hang them on a hook, knowing I’ll be back in here tomorrow.
There’s no way I’m leaving the party tonight with another woman.
Have I looked for Mable? No.
I’ve had to restrain myself because if I ever found her, I would take her away from everything she’s ever known, and I’ve already done that once. I already took everything she cared about. How could I do that again?
I open the heavy wooden door, the black iron hinges squeak with old age, and classical music floats up the stairs from the ballroom. My hand falls on the sculpture next to the door, a hand-carved replica of Mable’s face. My thumb presses against her lower lip, and as I step out the door, my fingers slowly fall from her face.
Shutting the secrecy and the madness behind me, I leave part of myself there as I stroll down the stone steps. My hand slides down the rail, and the violins become louder, grating my ears. Impatience begins to grow. The murmur of a hundred conversations echoes down the hall from the ballroom.
The last thing I want is to put on a fake smile and pretend I give a fuck about any of these people. All they want is to show off their beautiful daughters in hopes they will be tied to the Benedetti family. We’re wealth and power. We’re everything people want and often never get. If one of their daughters marries into the family, they will be taken care of forever.
Who wouldn’t want that?
I walk in through the French doors; the oversized brick fireplace in the back of the room is lit up, flames licking the bottom of the chimney. The conversation stops as every man, wife, and daughter turns to look at me. It takes everything inside me not to curl my lip in frustration.
I hate desperation, and in this room it’s nearly suffocating.
“Mr. Benedetti,” the caterer greets me, holding a silver platter of flutes topped off with champagne and slices of strawberry.
“Thank you.” I snag one from the stem and take a sip just as my father slithers his way through the crowd.
“Nice of you to join us, Dri,” he says, the Rossitis flanking either side of him.
