Chapter 3
Three
Elena – Four Years Later – Age Twenty-Three – Present Day
Beep, beep, beep.
Beep, beep, beep.
I squeeze my eyes tight, hoping to ignore the sound. I just want a few more minutes of sleep before it goes off again.
Sleep takes over again as the beeping stops and I sigh, snuggling deeper into the duvet.
Just five more minutes….
Beep, beep, beep.
Dammit. I groan, slowly turning to grab my phone and shut the noise off, before I turn again, wishing I had more time to sleep. Closing my eyes for a few more seconds, I run my left hand over the bed only to touch the cold sheets.
I sigh, turning my head. I slowly open my eyes to see the empty space.
Four years of marriage, and yet, he’s never here in the mornings. The only time I see Romeo is late in the evenings when I’ll wait for him with dinner made by my hands, not that he knows it, or when I’m forced to be his arm candy at events, and yes, forced, and even then, it’s only for the ten-minute car ride, and normally he’s on his phone.
I'm not too fond of the events, especially because my sister is always there, and she always has his attention, while I spend the night alone, showing everyone who he prefers.
Four years, and she’s all he can see, while I’m stuck in the shadows, struggling to breathe.
Swallowing hard, I get up, trying to ignore the disappointment. I make the bed, and head to the bathroom to do my morning routine before work.
Last year, I graduated with my bachelor’s, and then was hired at Mayfair Private School, ten minutes from where I live on Oyster Close. My class is with ten-year-olds, and I love it. It’s such a critical age to prepare them for the next stage.
Smiling a little at the thought of my class, I turn the shower on before putting my hair up, and climbing in, trying to ignore the hurt, knowing that when I go downstairs, my husband won’t be there—he never is.
Half an hour later, I’m walking downstairs, ready for my day, when there’s a knock at the door. I check the time and furrow my brows, seeing it’s only seven in the morning, when the door opens. My brother-in-law Antonio walks in, his blue/green eyes sparkling when he sees me.
“Well, isn’t it my favorite sister-in-law looking absolutely gorgeous this morning,” he states happily.
I snort and open my mouth to reply snarky, because I am his only sister-in-law, when a voice behind me growls, “ Fratello , stop flirting with my wife.”
I freeze in shock, my eyes wide, causing Antonio to give me a funny look, but I ignore him and turn around, only to see my husband standing behind me with his arms crossed over his muscular chest.
His white button-down shirt stretches, hugging his arms, while his face looks serious.
Damn, why does he always look good enough to eat?
“You’re home…” I state the obvious in confusion.
Romeo smirks, his eyes coming my way. They make contact with mine before they move down my body, noticing my dark blue, wrap-around, long-sleeve dress, and my short, black, open-toe heels.
I want to fidget, not used to his attention in the mornings, when his eyes come back to mine full of heat, and he rasps, “It’s seven in the morning, farfalla ; where else would I be?”
Surely he’s not serious?
Anger flares as I raise a brow and can’t help the snarky reply, “The office, where you normally are right about now.” At least that’s where I think he is in the mornings, but with the way he is with my sister, a part of me, a small part, thinks he’s with her.
Sometimes, when he puts his hands on me, his lips on my body, I cringe, and disgust overrides me, and my mind takes over. I wonder if he’s slept with her that morning. It’s hard, because if I say no to intimacy, he’ll spend an hour working my body up, teasing me, knowing I’d give in and, afterward, I’ll always feel dirty.
God, I’m so weak. I feel like I’m one of those heroines in the books I read, who always give in to the hero like an idiot.
And yet, that’s me, an idiot.
“That right there, fratello , is a sign you’re working too much,” Antonio says as he places his arm over my shoulder, making me look at him. He gives me a wink before looking back at his brother.
I guess he doesn’t know how our marriage is…
Irritation builds inside, and I mutter, “Just like the last four years of our marriage,” underneath my breath, not able to keep it in as bitterness overtakes me. Antonio chuckles.
Romeo shakes his head subtly at his brother, not realizing I’ve caught him. He ignores my jab and utters, “Antonio, get your arm off my wife.” He looks at me. “Breakfast before work now.”
I blink. Wait…he wants to have breakfast with me? Seriously, after not being here for four years?
Even after our wedding, he was gone before I woke—sore, I might add—and nowhere to be seen, even while all our family waited for us. He didn’t even take me to his home; he had Leonardo do it, and funny enough, my sister was also gone that morning, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
I look at him, furrowing my brows, expecting him to shout, “Psych!” but he doesn’t. He raises a brow at me, and I blink again. Did someone hit him on the head or something? I usually have to talk his ear off to get him to even speak to me.
This…this is not normal.
I’ll make him dinner and wait for him to come home, I’ll talk to him, make conversation, but get hardly anything back in return until he relents when he realizes I won’t shut up, and tells me about his day and starts to ask about mine, before I get too excited and detail my whole day with the kids, like yesterday, when Arnold nearly set the science lab on fire, placing his Bunsen burner to close to the sweater he’d taken off and left on the table.
When Rome finally gives in and speaks to me, he makes me feel like his queen; he makes me feel wanted, even loved, but that’s just my delusional thoughts.
I may have Stockholm Syndrome, I diagnosed myself three years ago when I started feeling something for him.
Clearing my throat, I admit, “I usually eat at school.”
His eyes flash with anger, confusing me, and he growls, “Not today, you’re not. The chef’s made eggs benedict, your favorite.”
I scoff silently as everything inside me dies a little bit, just like it has since we’ve been married, because he’s now just proven he’s not given any thought to me over the years.
God, I’m such an idiot. He hasn’t even questioned the scars on my back since that first night.
When in the hell will I learn?
After he took my virginity, so gently, I might add, I unintentionally allowed a part of my heart to become his, and then over the years, with the little things he’d do for me like building me a library by taking two guest rooms, knocking the wall down, and making it a room of dreams for book nerds like myself.
The little touches and sweet words when we're intimate got to me as well.
Over the last four years, I’ve fallen for him, and sometimes I don’t understand why. If we’re out, he acts like I’m dirt on his shoe, especially if my sister is around, yet if we’re in our own home and it’s just us, I’m his queen.
And right now, he’s just broken my heart more.
Clearing my throat, I give Antonio a tight smile, then rasp to my husband without looking at him, “I, uh, I’ll just have an apple at work. I’ve got a few more tests to mark before my students come in.”
I can instantly feel the tension surrounding us, mainly because Antonio has his heavy arm over my shoulder, and he stiffens against me. He clearly did not expect me to decline his brother.
“Having breakfast with your husband too hard for you, El? Rather be at school, would you?” Romeo asks with accusation and a bite, and I look at him sharply.
For four years, I have tried to become the wife he wants, the wife everyone says he needs.
Sweet, docile, quiet.
But right now, my anger is taking over.
How dare he accuse me of something when he doesn’t know me after being married for so long? He doesn’t even want to know me!
Straightening my shoulders, I look him in the eye. I snap, “Actually, I’d rather eat at school than go into anaphylactic shock.” His body tenses, and I continue snidely, “You know, because I’m allergic to hollandaise sauce.”
“Ah fuck,” Antonio mutters from next to me, his body deflating a little.
Sneering at Romeo, I turn and kiss Antonio’s cheek and whisper, “Say hi to Maya for me, and please apologize for my canceling yesterday; I was just behind on grading after a student nearly set the classroom on fire.”
Antonio nods, sending me a sad smile, but I ignore it and walk toward my husband, stopping shy of touching him, and showing him my anger for the first time. I state, “Maybe you could ring Liliya, you know, because eggs benedict is her favorite after all, but I guess you knew that already, huh?” Romeo slowly closes his eyes, and I whisper, “I find it funny you accuse me of something, knowing I have been one hundred percent faithful to you because you’re always being reported back to by one of your goons, and yet you’re the one who seems to always be with my sister, even when we’re at events, showing everyone who you would have preferred to have married. Tell me, husband, where were you the day after we got married, hmmm? Why did I have to suffer a family breakfast without you? Where was my sister?” His jaw ticks, and I scoff, “You’re pathetic. Just divorce me and go to the one you really want.”
I sneer at the fucker, and then turn to walk away, but he grabs my arm and murmurs, “I’ll have the chef make pancakes with strawberries and berries,” ignoring my jabs at him and my sister.
I raise a brow at him, then make eye contact with Antonio, and sarcastically say, "Well, look at that. He does know my favorite breakfast after all. He just got me and my sister mixed up." He flinches, and I look back at my husband and snipe, "Well done. Ten points, Romeo.”
His nostrils flare at my calling him Romeo instead of Rome, but I ignore him, rip my arm out of his grip, and walk away, saying over my shoulder, “Go spend time with Liliya, Romeo; it’s obvious you preferred her this morning, otherwise, you wouldn’t have tried to kill me.”
Antonio’s eyes widen as I walk past him. Getting near the door, I grab my briefcase and coat before stating over my shoulder, “By the way, Antonio, Maya thinks you're screwing the maid.”
His mouth drops open, and he stutters, “I-I haven’t fucked anyone else in four years since I realized what she means to me, and that I’m her fucking only.”
I shrug and admit, “You're still her only, but she’s probably seeing something that isn’t there, you know, with the whole, ‘screwing a whore while she sat in the bathroom on your wedding night’ thing. She’s getting revenge. Your favorite chocolate balls are rabbit droppings pressed together.”
His face pales as he gags, and I grin, not once looking at Romeo, before I walk out of the house, heading to the garage to my old Ford that I bought for myself with my first paycheck.
Romeo threw a hissy fit when he saw it, but this car is my pride and joy; I bought it for myself without help from anyone.
It’s all mine.
It’s not brand new, but it’s in tip-top condition. It was the one thing I allowed him to do just so I could keep it, and over the first six months, I paid him back every cent he spent fixing all the problems. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have a say, just like he doesn’t have a say in the fact that I have my own bank account, and haven’t touched the card he gave me.
I won’t rely on him; I just can’t. I know I need to have his heir to leave him. I have a year to get pregnant, but right now, the thought of getting pregnant terrifies me, especially when I know my own flipping sister is on his mind, the woman he was supposed to marry.
Sighing, I climb into my car and drive away from the large mansion, not looking back but feeling his eyes on me.
At the school, I smile, watching my students rush out, happy it’s the end of the day, while I’m just glad no one tried to set the room on fire today.
“Bye, Mrs. Russo,” Alise says from near the door, and I give her a smile and a wave as my phone goes off.
As soon as the door shuts, I grab it but furrow my brows, seeing it’s from an unknown number and open it up. Everything inside me freezes, my eyes taking in the image on the screen before I throw my phone hard on the desk, my good mood well and truly gone. I hear it crack and instantly wince, knowing I’ll have to dip into my savings to fix the screen.
“Damn you, Romeo,” I mutter as I wipe away the traitorous tears; the picture of my husband, the man who owns all of me, a man who bought me, my body, wrapped around my sister in his office in our marital home. It’s forever burned in my brain.
“Damn you,” I whisper again, sniffling before grabbing my phone again.
I can’t do this anymore; I just can’t.
I click the home button, and thankfully, the screen still works despite being cracked. Wiping away the tears, I go into my contacts and press call on the clinic, my mind made up.
It rings five times before someone picks up.
“Hi, this is Ever’s Clinic. How may I help you?” a woman answers.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Hi, this is Elena Russo. I’m calling to confirm my five o’clock appointment.”
I hear a few clicks before she confirms, “Your appointment for your up-to-date contraception shot is still in place.”
I thank her before hanging up, more tears falling.
I’m struggling because I know how my heart feels about him; I’m in love with him, yet I don’t think I can continue this marriage.
I’ll never be her, and I don’t want to be.
In order to leave him, I have to give him a baby, I know this, but how can I bring a child into this world knowing my sister would be left to look after it, to torture it?
I can’t and I won’t; instead, I need to think of another way to leave him, because as much as I love him, I know I can’t stay with him anymore, and I know he won’t leave me because of his family’s morals, even after realizing I can’t fall pregnant, just not realizing why.
I’ll figure out a way to leave, and, in the meantime, I’ll act like the cowed wife he wants so badly. I won’t make conversation with him at dinner time, I won’t call or text during the day, and I’ll keep my mouth shut when he wants my body, letting him get it over with.
I’ll let him live his life with his lover, and hopefully, if I do get to leave, I can move on to another country under a different name and, hopefully, try and be happy.
Simple right?