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For all I know, my whole suite is rigged with microphones and cameras to watch my every move.
It’s like I’ve been caught in a never-ending nightmare. I can’t see any way to wake up and get back to reality.
I sit on the base of the shower, letting the hot water rush over my shoulders and back.
“I’m Bree,” I whisper, over and over. “Bree Walker. Even if I was born Bianca, I’m not her anymore. And I don’t want to marry a murderer.”
* * *
At seven thirtyon the dot, a knock on the door of my suite signals it is time for whatever Rio has planned next for me. My heart rate kicks into overdrive.
After studying the almost endless array of clothing options in the massive walk-in wardrobe—in fact, I can’t even call it a wardrobe; it’s a whole room—I choose a simple ivory-colored shift dress and some nude pumps.
He probably wants me dressed like some kind of vamp whore, but for someone more used to jeans and T-shirts, this is as dressy as I can bring myself to achieve for a man I loathe.
I dab some makeup over my cheek—the swelling has receded, but the bruising has surfaced more—and leave my hair loose, letting it swirl over my shoulders and down my back. It may help to screen some of my emotions if I can’t contain myself during dinner.
Francine raises a brow and purses her lips when she sees me, but says nothing. She escorts me down the stairs and across the foyer area into a large dining space without a word being spoken between us. Clearly, I haven’t passed muster with my choice of dress for the evening.
Too bad, Auntie.
Rio is already waiting in the room, standing by a marble-topped sideboard and pouring himself a drink. He looks like he’s come straight from the office, in charcoal-colored suit trousers and a white dress shirt, though he is minus a tie and jacket.
There’s a weariness to the line of his shoulders that I haven’t noticed before, and yet when he turns and studies me, the weariness instantly disappears.
He studies me from head to toe and back again, but I can’t read anything on his face other than his usual impassivity.
“Drink?” he says eventually, raising the decanter in his hand.
The liquid inside is ruby-red, and I assume it must be red wine, perhaps left out to breathe by some loyal staff member.
“Sure.” I shrug, wondering how this evening will play out.
Will it be civilized on the surface, with a pretense that we are an ordinary betrothed couple besotted with one another and eager to plan our nuptials?
“Sit,” Rio says, handing me a glass of wine and pointing to one of the set places at the table. “We will talk terms over dinner.”
I guess civility is overrated in his world.
I want to remain standing, just to spite him, but what would be the point? I take a seat where he indicates, at one of two places set at a dining table that must seat possibly twenty people when it’s full.
“So, this is your family’s estate?” At his nod, I add, “Where is your family, then? I haven’t seen anyone today except your aunt and security guys.”
He moves to his place, directly opposite me, and takes his time sitting down. “I have two younger brothers, both of whom are away on family business at present. My sister is in her final year of boarding school and will be joining us when she graduates. She will live here until I secure her a suitable marriage. My aunt and her son Tommaso live here, too, though Tommaso is also away visiting family in Italy.
“That is all the family I have or need, Bianca. My role is to lead the business, and ensure its survival in this cutthroat world in which we live.”
There is so much wrong in that short explanation that I’m not sure how to respond. His poor sister. An arranged marriage? I don’t want to goad him too far, but there’s a glaring omission in his explanation.
“And your parents?” I ask. “Where are…?”
He spears me with that terrifying look I’ve secretly dubbed his almost-dead expression, and I check out from finishing the sentence.
“Sorry,” I say, ducking my head to take a quick sip of wine.
The alcohol does nothing to steady my nerves.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, we sit in awkward silence until a server enters the room and dishes up our first course. It’s soup, but I have no idea what kind other than to note that it is green. I’m too tense to identify the taste. The prospect of eating dinner across from this man is becoming more difficult by the second.
