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“Because every time I talk to you, it somehow ends up in an argument. You’re incapable of being civil.”
My jaw drops opens. “I-I’m incapable of being civil? Me?” I ask on a short, bitter laugh. “You’re the one acting like a weirdo after I asked a simple question about last night.”
“It’s none of your business,” he says under his breath.
My eyes narrow. “Contrary to what you may believe, functional couples make a point of getting involved in their significant other’s life. That’s how relationships work.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not a functional couple and this isn’t a real relationship,” Christian says, getting to his feet. He fixes the button of his suit jacket.
“So you’re keeping me in this house and the only other person that’s allowed to actually talk to me refuses to talk to me?” I ask bitterly.
“Yes, Daniella. That’s your life now, and it would be in both our best interests if you just got used to it,” he says, before walking out of the room.
My chest burns with indignation and I’m filled with the sudden urge to stab someone. My hands shake. I haven’t cried once since finding out about this marriage and I’m not about to start now. But I’m scared that if I don’t find an outlet for all the feelings raging inside of me, I’ll go crazy.
And the worst part? I’m sure Christian wouldn’t care. He seems to fit right at home with damaged things. Probably because he’s just as damaged.
“Should I clear the table, miss?” one of the maids asks, stepping forward.
A wry laugh escapes me. “Do whatever you want.”
I get to my feet and head to my room. Christian and I couldn’t even survive an entire meal together. How are we going to survive the rest of our lives?
* * *
“Hey, honey,”Zoey greets, sitting down beside me and giving me a hug. “You good?”
Even as she asks, her eyes drift toward the two imposing men standing behind our booth and drawing way too much unnecessary attention. I stare at my green-eyed friend, trying to convey just how miserable I am with one look.
“Of course I’m not good, Zoe,” I say dryly.
She sighs softly. “I know, sweetie. I can’t believe your parents are just letting this happen. Can’t your dad negotiate some other terms of the arrangement that wouldn’t end with you marrying him?”
Unlike Sky, Zoey understands my world a little better. Her parents are diplomats from England that live in the U.S. She’s British with strawberry-blonde hair, green eyes, and a heart of gold. She’s also one of my best friends. I met her and Sky during our first year of college when we were assigned to the same room. The friendship blossomed from there.
“That might have worked if we were talking about normal people here, Zoe. But we’re not. These aren’t just some aristocrats or people with old family money, it’s the mafia. They’re ruled by codes of violence and ruthlessness. They won’t listen to reason.”
Even as I say that, a part of me knows it’s not exactly true. Despite how infuriating he can be, Christian hasn’t been in any way violent or rude to me. In fact, he’s been a perfect gentleman: calm, composed—reasonable might be pushing it, but he’s not a total ruffian.
“So you don’t have a choice?”
I shake my head. “In a couple of months, you’ll be calling me, Mrs. D’Angelo. Wife to the Don.”
“It has a nice ring to it,” Zoey says with a smile.
I glare at her. “Not funny.”
Sky finally makes an appearance twenty minutes later. I swear she makes a point of showing up late everywhere she goes. She’s always claiming that punctuality is a spectrum that varies from person to person. I’m always claiming it’s bullshit.
She takes a seat opposite us on the booth, slipping off her sunglasses and black jacket.
“Geez, Dany, if your husband-to-be was going to assign bodyguards to you, couldn’t they have at least been nice to look at?” Sky asks.
I laugh while Zoey panics, looking behind us at the large imposing men standing as still as statues.
“I’m pretty sure they heard that!” Zoey whisper-shouts.
“While a part of me agrees with you,” I say to Sky, “be nice to Zack and Brody.”
