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The door opens, and David steps out, reaching to take my hand and help me out after him. The mansion in front of us is huge, lit up from within, with the landscaped trees out front strung with hundreds of fairy lights that make it look as if everything around the house is sparkling. The mansion is entirely cream-colored stone, with huge, wide stone steps leading up to the ebony double doors. I see valets posted at the edge of the steps as we get out of the car and make our way there with the rest of the guests. David has already slipped my arm through his, his posture straight and expression carefully blank, the very picture of a powerful man who wants to be certain no one else can read what he’s thinking.
Once upon a time, in Ibiza, I thought that I understood him a bit—or at least his desires. Now I know better than to imagine I could ever have the upper hand with him—even though I’ve come to understand that David’s family has skeletons in their closet, just as mine does, and that their hold on power isn’t as strong as they would like others to think.
I also know that David would be furious if that were to ever slip.
Is that what happened to her? The woman in the photos? Did she discover that, and pay the price for not keeping quiet about it? Did she challenge them—or him?I feel a chill at the thought, and I tug the fur stole a little closer around me, trying not to think of it—not the woman who supposedly was David’s late brother’s wife, not the bloodstained blouse or the attic in the ominous mansion I now live in. I force myself to focus on the moment, on the floral-scented warmth of the house as we step inside, the sound of music, the chatter of guests in the next room.
“David Carravella.” A tall man who looks to be in his late forties intercepts us, smiling and holding out his hand for David to shake. “A pleasure to see you here. My wife will be delighted to meet your new bride. I heard you’d gotten married and hid her away from all of us.”
“You can’t blame me for wanting to keep her to myself for a little while.” David’s smile is joking, but I can hear the edge in his voice, just as I can hear the same in the other man’s.Does no one in these circles ever truly like each other?I used to wonder the same thing, at these sorts of parties with my parents and brother. They all feel like vultures, constantly circling each other, waiting for someone to fall so they can all flock together to pick the bones clean.
“Of course not.” The man’s gaze sweeps over me, just enough for me to see the appraising way he takes me in before he looks back at David. Someone smart enough, then, not to let David see if he finds me attractive. “Most of the guests are outside—Mrs. DeRosa thought it was a pleasant enough night for a garden party.”
“We should join them, then.” David keeps my arm tucked in his, his hand covering mine as he leads me through the next room and out to the French doors that are flung wide, revealing exactly that. A garden party full of guests already drinking and eating and mingling, caterers with trays of appetizers and drinks moving seamlessly through the crowd, music floating through the air. There are more of those tiny, delicate fairy lights strung through the trees and shrubbery, turning it all into something airy and beautiful, a gorgeous facade for the gossip and machinations happening behind the scenes. I can see heads turning as we walk outside to join the others, curious to see who David married. I imagine there will be gossip about it tomorrow—chatter that I won’t be a part of, since I don’t know any of these women. If I do as David has asked, and join these committees and organizations he has a hand in, I’ll already be a step behind. They’ll all have formed an opinion of me, talked about me, and whether those opinions are good or bad entirely hinges on how tonight goes.
I tuck the stole a little closer around me, and as David releases me to go and talk to a small group of men standing near the bar, I take a deep breath.
I can do this.
It’s not as unpleasant as I thought it might be. The conversation is mostly banal and largely centered around their husbands and children, but it’s a conversation I’m accustomed to making, at least. I stand there with a glass of champagne that I took from a passing tray, taking the occasional small sip to ward off any questions, and act as if I’m fascinated by their lives. As if I can’t wait to beoneof them, to be brought into their circle. And all the while, I listen almost without meaning to for anything that might be of interest to David. Any mention of their husbands’ business, of their opinions about the organization, the charity they’re involved in. And from time to time, as I glance over to see where David is, I see him watching me. Not in a way that looks calculating or irritated, but almost as if he’spleasedwith me. He looks at me in a way that could almost make me think he’s wishing he were spending the evening at my side, instead of whatever conversations he’s having.
It’s not just that, either. It’s the way he touches my hand when he comes to collect me for dinner, his thumb brushing over the back of my knuckles as he tucks it into the crook of his arm as if hewantsto touch me. The way he looks at me throughout dinner in between the small talk and polite conversation, an almost knowing look in his eyes, one that saysthis is boring us both, isn’t it?
It almost feels like a romantic night between husband and wife. I can almost picture a night like this in the future, the two of us going home together afterward—not to the crumbling old mansion we’re in now, but something more like this estate—and looking in on our children to make sure they’re sleeping before slipping back to our room, David’s fingers sliding down my spine as he unzips my dress—
I breathe in softly at the thought, a flush creeping into my cheeks, and when he glances over at me again, I know he sees it. There’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’s picked up on the flutter of desire, that he feels it, too, and it only makes my cheeks pinken even more.
That happiness is the most dangerous of fantasies. The idea that David and I could have that kind of companionship, that kind of domesticity, is the most dangerous hope I could have. It’s not a common thing in our world. It’s not the kind of marriage I was raised to aspire to, even if it’s what I would have wanted. And with a man as seemingly capricious as David—
Believing in that could make me complacent. It could make mehis, in the ways that I’m not yet, not completely. It would make it all the more painful if, one day, he decided he no longer wanted me. If he went cold again.
And yet, when his hand brushes along my thigh under the table, when he takes me out to the dance floor after dinner, and we start to sway to the music, his gaze meets mine with a softness that I haven’t seen in his face since a few rare moments in Ibiza, I could almost believe that it’s possible.
“You’re perfection tonight,” he murmurs as he pulls me close, the sound of the string instruments and the warbling flute wrapping around us. There are other couples doing the same, dancing nearby, but it feels almost as if the room narrows down to us—as if it’s only he and I, there beneath the brightly lit chandeliers. I can smell his spicy cologne and feel the pressure of his hand on my back, his fingers laced through mine as he spins me away and pulls me back in, and I want sobadlyfor it to stay like this. For us to have another night like we did in Boston. ForthisDavid to be my husband, ‘til death do us part.
“I hoped you would think so,” I say softly, my free hand pressed against his chest as we move. “I wanted to make a good impression for you.”
“You certainly did. Mrs. DeRosa stopped me on the way to the bar and said sheinsistedthat you come to the next board meeting. That she couldn’t wait to get to know you better.” A small smirk curls the corner of his mouth, as if he knows exactly how unappealing that idea is to me. “She also mentioned having you over for coffee. Everyone is intrigued with my new bride. A bit of gossip to liven up their days.”
“I tried to make sure it would begoodgossip.” There’s an uneasiness in my stomach at that, but I ignore it. There’s always talk, always gossip, always conversations about other wives behind their backs in the small clutches of friends that women make with each other. My job is to make certain that I do nothing that could reflect poorly on David.
“You’ve done quite the job.” He spins me again, and this time when he pulls me in, I feel his hand slide low on my back, nearly to the curve of my ass, pressing me against him possessively. He leans in, cheek to cheek, his breath warm against my ear. “Maybe I was hasty in regretting my choice.”
Unexpectedly, tears prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink them back quickly, not wanting to let him see me cry—not right now, not when things are going so well. I hadn’t expected to hear him saythat, and as afraid as I am to trust in this, I want to lean in to the sudden kindness that he’s showing me. To believe that maybe hehasrealized that this marriage isn’t as much of a mistake as he believed.
“We shouldn’t stay too late,” he murmurs, as the song slows, and we start to go back to our table. “I’m going to keep you up for a while tonight,cara mia. And you need your rest.” His hand splays on my waist as he says it, fingers brushing the edge of my stomach, and I know what he means. It’s the first time he’s come close to suggesting that perhaps he believes me, that perhaps the babyishis—that he sees me as the woman carrying his heir. That small spark of hope that he set alight flares, and I bite my lip as we sit back down at our table, my pulse fluttering in my throat for reasons that have nothing to do with his promise of taking me to bed later.
“David!” A woman sits down suddenly next to him in a chair left empty, her wrinkled face wreathed in a smile. She’s old enough to be his grandmother, with short white hair carefully styled and wearing a matronly deep blue dress. “I heard all the chatter earlier about your wife. This is your bride?”
“Amalie Carravella.” He smiles, leaning back a little so that I can say hello to the newest guest to exclaim over David’s marriage. “Amalie, this is Marie Montrose. She’s an old friend of the family.”
There’s a slight emphasis on the wordfriend, which tells me that the Montrose family must do some sort of business with David’s. I lean forward a little, smiling. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Montrose.”
“Oh, it’s just Marie.” She waves a hand. “My husband died years ago, so none of thisMrs.nonsense. My sons run everything now. They’ll be along to seeyou, before too long, David, now that you’re back in town. I do hope you plan to stay for a while, rather than spending so much time in Boston.”
“I’m very focused on renovating the mansion now, so I plan to be around more often than not.” David has that blank, pleasant smile on his face that I’ve grown accustomed to seeing, the one he wears when he’s being careful not to show his real emotions. “Tell them to call, and my assistant will set up an appointment. I have a home office now.”
“Perhaps I’ll come by one of these days, too. It would be lovely to see the house being put back together. Your family did love it so, once. You’re a good boy, making sure it’s restored, and not letting it crumble into dust.”
