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She swallows hard. “Okay, I’ll do that. And congratulations, Mr. Cassinetti.”
I look up and she withers under my glare.
“I-I mean your engagement.” She gathers her things.Yeah, Portia, get out before I get really pissed.She stands up. “I miss Mila. She’s been a great asset to the team, but now I understand why she left. Congratulations to both of you.” She leaves.
I hit my intercom. “Lydia, get Fatima on the line.”
I don’t know why I went through with it. I keep telling myself she’s as good as any other to be my wife. I need one, after all. There are too many social obligations that come with my status, and I need someone to handle that. But even the cynical bastard in me doesn’t believe the bullshit I’ve been telling myself.
A month ago, I foolishly believed she might want me for me. Wrong. Two days ago, that certainty died on her lips as she blabbered about her financial issues. Jesus.
I don’t even have a problem helping her out. At the end of the day, she’s a better candidate to become Mrs. Cassinetti than any of my other dates.
She’s been upfront about her expectations. With her financial needs. That’s an upgrade from fucking Kimberly who took my heart, pierced it with a poisoned knife and stomped all over it. Seven years later, I’m stronger now. Less naïve.
So why does it feel like I’m making a mistake? She’s grown under my skin, and I wanted her to be more. Weak bastard.
I should have cut my losses in that fucking car. The air was full of her. The lavender that makes me want to hold her in my arms. Not even bend her over and fuck her into oblivion.Holdher in my arms. Make life better for her. Just one look at her distraught face and I turned into a pathetic asshole.
And she didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. I knew it, and still I couldn’t throw her out of my life. I got engaged because I couldn’t imagine someone else having her. She’s mine. She’s always been mine.
Only she isn’t. She refused to talk to me for a month, and when things got tough, she was happy to accept that damn proposal.
I’m too weak to let her go, but I’m too close to falling for her. I can’t do unrequited love. Not again. Kimberly was the first and last woman I let hurt me.
“Fatima is on the line, and your mother called three times.” Lydia’s voice carries over the intercom.
“Let me talk to Fatima, and tell my mother I’m in meetings all day.”
The last thing I need is to deal with Bianca Cassinetti. This morning I had to listen to a cheerful voicemail from Gina. Along with Portia’s congratulations, the celebratory mood of everyone around me churns in my stomach like an undigested meal.
“Good morning, Gio. How can I help you?” Even Fatima sounds too cheerful. What is it with everyone throwing confetti today? It’s not a good morning.
“I need a prenup,” I bark.
“Congratulations.” She sounds anything but sincere, and I like her a bit more for that. “Who is the lucky lady?”
“Mila Ward.” Her name on my lips floats with lightness. It also deprives me of oxygen. What the hell? I can bark and growl, but I can’t snarl the name of the woman who put me in this mood?
“Oh.” Silence follows on the other side of the line. It’s unexpected, and since I don’t understand what the silence is saying, another wave of annoyance swipes through me.
“Do you have anything to say about it?”
Fatima clears her throat. “Not really. I just thought she was...”
So did I. So did I.
“Anyway,” Fatima gets back to her business-like self. “Email me the details and I’ll have a first draft for you tomorrow.”
I hang up and open an email. The cursor blinks, not really inspiring any words. I always thought I’d find an acceptable candidate, outline the conditions and get a partner for life to accompany me to social occasions and be available. Provide an heir.
Why am I now staring at the screen, unable to outline those conditions? Somewhere in my darkened, hardened heart, a tiny spot of softness has bloomed without me realizing. I fucking wanted Mila to be more than a wife of convenience.
I should never have proposed to her. But at least now the cards are on the table, and I know she wants to use me. Maybe that wasn’t her plan all along, but I can’t nurture any romantic notions about that. It’s done, so let’s move on.
I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and send an email to Mila, outlining the key points of our agreement. Then I open the app with all the projects of my holding and start firing emails to my team. There is nothing better than work to get me out of this funk.
By the late afternoon, I’ve drunk three whiskeys, taken over a few projects that were not performing optimally—horrifying the managers—and moved on two acquisitions without the approval of the board.
