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“What? About my body?” I clarify.
He nods, and the sun hits his face just right so that I can see his eyes through his sunglasses. There is a softness to them, but I don’t let that fool me. There is nothing soft or caring about this man. He’s most likely playing the same game I was married off to do, attempting to beat me at it. Nico is smart enough to test if I know what my father had us married for, seeing if I’ll crack.
“No. I have never been ashamed of my body, Nico. I’m a fat woman, and that isn’t something I will ever be shy about.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“Did I say I wasn’t?” Why is that always something people follow up with when you bring up your weight?“But you’re still beautiful.”I never doubted that. But we aren’t talking about beauty. We’re talking about weight.
“No.”
“Society has steered so many people wrong. Anyway, no, I don’t believe what she says, Nico.” I don’t care to get into the politics of how society has ruined the minds of people and their perception of women like me. He can look it up if he wants to know. I’m not his guide to what or what not to say to a fat woman. I claim that word, and I’m proud of it. I stopped listening to my parents and the world a long, long time ago.
“Good. Tell me about your grandmother.” What in the actual fuck is happening? Are we supposed to act like this morning didn’t happen and that he didn’t threaten to kill me? Or how he chillingly told me he would hunt me down if I ever left? Not to mention the stunt he pulled last night, locking me in the cabin. This man is the definition of a sociopath. Nico isn’t even from this planet. He is from hell itself. The gates opened wide and spit him out, and he took on the world with bitterness that even the underworld rejected him.
“Um, her name was Marjorie.” I start out simple and gauge his reaction.
“Beautiful name. You two get along well?”
“We did. When she died…” I pause. Sharing information with him about the one stable relationship I’ve ever had doesn’t interest me one bit, so I keep it vague. “I was really torn up about it. She was a great person. Taught me a lot.”
We stop by a store; it’s an art gallery, and it piques my interest. Catching on, he opens the door and gestures for me to go in. I do and turn to wait for him. He tells his guards to wait outside the door.
“Welcome! I’m Rhea. I run the gallery. Would either of you like some champagne while you browse?”
I would love nothing more than to get shitfaced so I can already forget today, and it's not even noon yet. I’m thankful we cut the conversation about my grandmother short. I really don't want to give him parts of me that I wish to keep private and safe.
“Um… yes, please. Nico?” I turn while he finishes talking to his men.
“Yes?”
“Rhea owns the gallery and wants to know if you want some champagne,” I tell him.
He closes the door and steps up behind me. I turn back and watch Rhea take in the full appearance of Nico, seeing her release a hushed gasp as her cheeks turn red.
Yes, he is beautiful. I get it. Which makes this ten times more infuriating. Couldn't the man I married be hideous, like an actual beast? Instead, I get a handsome husband who is ridiculously good in bed, but that doesn't take away his arrogance or his lack of redeeming qualities.
He is 6’3”, muscular, his hair is a deep black, and his eyes a stunning green that darken with his moods. His jawline is like something out of a fairy tale. A ping of possessiveness hits me as I watch her practically eye-fuck my husband.
Stop that, I curse myself, remembering just what he did and what he said less than a couple hours ago.
“No, I will have water. Thank you,” he replies.
I start to walk while she stumbles over her words, very much wanting to remove myself from the scene playing out in front of me. I’m sure I’ll get used to women gawking at him.
The art is stunning. It ranges from abstract to scenes of Greece. Stealthy, without me noticing, Nico is back at my side. I look at the third painting, and my eyes widen. The picture is of a woman’s body. She has dips and skin that folds over above her hip, her stomach rounded. Even the details of the stretch marks and the cellulite are highlighted. The painting is half of the woman in great detail, and the other side is the opposite half of a colorful butterfly. I want so badly to touch it; however I refrain. What’s more, I want to cry.
I feel the parallels between the muse in the picture and me. A woman trapped in a world where she is broken down to nothing but her bare self, while the inside of her wants to break free and fly away to be her authentic self.
“Your champagne and water,” Rhea announces when she returns. I take the glass, but I keep my eyes on the painting, eyeing every intricate detail.“You like this one?” she queries.
“It's beautiful. I have never seen anything like this before. How much?”
“We will take it,” Nico hurriedly inserts before Rhea can even tell us the price.
“It's very expensive. It’s—”
“I have enough money to buy everything here more times over than you could imagine. My wife would like the image.”
