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That feeling persists as we enter the church, walking to the altar where the priest is waiting for us. My mother is holding the leather folio with the contract in it, and I feel my stomach knot and flip over, that well of nausea threatening as we approach. I feel trapped, hemmed in, like an animal in a cage. I want to scream, panic, run away—anything to get out of this, but there’s no escaping.
I stare at the altar, my chest contracting as I try to breathe. The last time I was here was for my father’s funeral. Closed-casket, since his body wasn’t in a state to be viewed. The feeling in the church was different then, a sense of anger and frustration permeating the air from the gathered mourners and guests.
There could be no retribution for my father’s death. No retaliation against the Mancini family. That was the word from Sicily, the order that Don Fontana gave. His judgment could have ruined either of the families involved—but he chose ours. He decided my father was at fault. He took my brother. And now all that’s left to salvage our family name is to dothis, to marry David, and try to repair what was broken.
“Do you have the ring with you?” my mother asks crisply, and I look first at her and then at David, startled out of my thoughts. I hadn’t expected him to give me a ring—it feels almost like a mockery of all of this. No one has asked me what I want, and regardless of whether there’s a piece of jewelry on my finger or not, I’m going to be forced to be his. When he slips a black velvet box out of his pocket, I almost want to laugh.
Please don’t go down on one knee,I think desperately as he steps towards me. If he does, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself from bursting into hysterical laughter.
Fortunately, he simply opens the box. And there, glittering against the dark velvet inside of it, is the most beautiful engagement ring I’ve ever seen. The most startling part isn’t the size, though—at least five carats for the center stone alone—or how expensive it must be, but that it’s not the most traditional ring. Instead of a white diamond, the center stone is a deep grey, just this side of black, with two trillion-cut white diamonds on either side of it, set on a plain platinum band.
“It’s—” I swallow hard, staring down at the ring, my traitorous heart thumping in my chest.
“You’re not a very traditional girl,” David says quietly. “I thought you might prefer something less traditional, as well.”
I look up at him in utter confusion, speechless for the first time, as he slips it out of the box and onto my finger. I don’t understand him, not even a little bit. He’s all hot, blazing passion one moment and then cold indifference, careless about my feelings one moment, and then thoughtful the next. His emotional whiplash formed into a person, and the thought of spending the rest of my life with him makes my head spin.
We might kill each other,I think as he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, the grey and white diamonds sparkling in the low light of the church, and I swallow back the lump in my throat. I want it to mean something, but it doesn’t. Itcan’t, because I don’t want this, and I don’t truly think he does, either.
Numbly, I repeat the words the priest tells us to, taking the fountain pen I’m handed and signing my name to the contract. David does the same, and then, as the priest confirms our engagement, he takes my hand and steps closer, his fingers touching my chin as he leans in to kiss me.
It’s nothing like his kisses in Ibiza, or the searing way he kissed me up against the wall this afternoon. His mouth ghosts over mine, the barest brush of lips, and my body tightens as I remember with a sudden, inappropriate flood of desire all the ways he’s kissed me before. All the places on my body that his mouth has touched, all the sounds I’ve made because of it.
When he steps back, I instantly want to feel his mouth on mine again. I hate it—hate that he has that kind of control over me, that he can make mewantlike that. I press my lips together, stepping away from him, the ring suddenly feeling like a shackle on my hand, weighing me down.
“I’m going back to Boston tonight,” David tells my mother curtly. “I’ll be back to collect her in two weeks, to go back to Boston for the wedding.”
He doesn’t look at me again. He doesn’t speak to me as he turns away, striding down the aisle and out of the church. And I realize, with a dawning horror, that this means I’ll be moving to New England in two weeks.
Sudden tears spring to my eyes. I’ve never been there before, but I have an idea in my head that it’ll be cold and bleak and isolated, and my chest clenches with panic.You’re not moving to fucking Alaska, I tell myself as I follow my mother out to the car, trying to reason with myself, but it doesn’t help. It’s not even the prospect of leaving my mother and my family home—that part doesn’t seem so bad—but all of my friends are here. My only ties to a normal life are here. It’s all going to be ripped away from me, and I’ll be alone with a husband who I barely know, and certainly don’t trust.
I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to finish school.
The weight of it all sinks down on my shoulders as I slip into the car, and I look down at the ring on my finger, still glimmering in the dim light. It’s beautiful, but I’d do anything for it to disappear.
Once, I wanted the week with David to stretch out for longer, to have more time with him.
Now, I desperately wish I’d never see him again.
13
AMALIE
Iget my answer about school the next day, when my mother abruptly tells me over breakfast that I’ve been withdrawn from my program.
“What?” I stare at her, dropping my grapefruit spoon against the china plate with aclinkhard enough that it sounds as if it might have chipped the porcelain. “You can’t—”
“What’s the point of continuing?” My mother shrugs, elegantly scooping up a bit of cottage cheese and diced peaches on a teaspoon. “You’re going to New England in two weeks. Why bother wasting time in class when you can be getting ready for your wedding, and the move? There’s shopping to do—you’ll need some new clothes. I’ve been careful with money since your father’s death, but I can’t send you off to the Carravellas without—”
She keeps droning on about clothes and shoes and jewelry, about what I might need for a wedding rehearsal, and I hear absolutely none of it. I’m still stuck on the part where she told me that she withdrew me from my classes, and I slap my hand down on the table without thinking, startling her out of her rambling.
“Amalie.” She glares at me. “If there was ever a time for you to start learning how to behave like a lady, it’s now—”
“Howwere you allowed to just withdraw me? Without my consent? How is that possible?” I swallow hard, trying to force back the tears springing to my eyes—tears that are more of anger than anything else. I’d had ideas that I might be able to study remotely, that I could switch to online classes—anything to finish the degree that will be theonlything I’d have that was entirely mine—and now that’s been taken away from me, too.
“I’m your mother,” she says stiffly, picking her spoon back up. “All I needed was to sign a few papers. You’re still my dependent, whatever you might like to think, Amalie. And beyond that, there is stillsomerespect attached to the Leone name, even if it’s more for our money than anything else. Trust me when I say there’s nothing you can do about it. And as far as your little friend—” My mother pokes the spoon in my direction, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve taken your phone and laptop. You won’t be contacting her or seeing her again. You have two weeks to change your ways of thinking, Amalie, and come to terms with your new situation. Seeing that friend of yours won’t help that. It’s time you focus on the future that you were born for, and not these idiotic, modern ideas of independence that you have. Claire March has nothing to do with our world, and she has no place in your new life.”
I stare at my mother, entirely speechless. I can feel everything crashing down around me, and the tears well up completely before I can stop them, dripping over my eyelashes and down my cheeks.
