7. Seven #2
“How lovely,” she said, her voice brittle as glass. “Though I’m surprised Arrow’s settling for something so conventional.” Her eyes flicked to him. “Marriage never seemed your style.”
I leaned back against Arrow’s chest, a calculated move that brought my head just beneath his chin. “People change.” My voice dripped with honey. “Don’t they, darling?”
The endearment felt like acid on my tongue, but the flash of rage in Katerina’s eyes made it worthwhile. Arrow’s free hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture so intimate I nearly forgot this was all performance.
“Some things are worth changing for,” he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard.
His breath ghosted against my ear, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. I fought the urge to pull away, reminding myself this was just a power play. Nothing more.
Katerina stood abruptly. “Well, I should leave you two lovebirds to your lunch. Wouldn’t want to intrude on such domestic bliss.” She leaned down to kiss Arrow’s cheek, lingering just a second too long. “Call me when you get bored, Arrow. You always do.”
She sauntered away, hips swaying deliberately, and I immediately tried to slide off Arrow’s lap. His arm tightened around my waist, holding me in place.
“Stay,” he commanded, his mouth against my ear. “Until she’s gone.”
I stiffened but remained where I was, acutely aware of his body beneath mine, the solid wall of his chest against my back. Through the restaurant window, I watched Katerina climb into a sleek silver car.
“You can release me now,” I said, my voice tight. “Your girlfriend is gone.”
His chuckle vibrated against my back. “Katerina was never my girlfriend.”
“Just one of your many conquests then,” I replied, finally extricating myself from his grip and sliding into my chair. My skin burned where he’d touched me.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Harlowe.”
He picked up his fork and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
I poked at my food. “Trust me, jealousy isn’t what I’m feeling. This is contempt.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” He took a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Eat.”
I forced myself to lift my fork. The sea bass was perfectly cooked, tender, and flaking beneath the tines. I couldn’t deny my hunger anymore. With every bite, his gaze stayed on me, studying me like I was a puzzle he was determined to solve.
“Why her?” I finally asked, setting my fork down.
“Why who?” He cut into his duck with precise movements, each slice exactly the same width.
“Katerina. Why did you sleep with her?” I didn’t know why I cared. I told myself it was just intelligence gathering—knowing your enemy’s preferences.
His eyes met mine. “I didn’t say I did.”
“You didn’t deny it either.”
That earned me a slight smile.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m just trying to understand what kind of man I’m being forced to marry.” I took a deliberate sip of wine. “The kind who fucks his friends’ daughters? The kind who keeps a harem of desperate socialites?”
“The kind who understands the difference between fucking and ownership,” he said, his voice so low I had to lean forward to hear it. “Sex is temporary. Marriage is permanent.”
A chill ran through me. “So you plan to keep your extracurricular activities after we’re married?”
“Would that bother you?” He studied me, those gray eyes dissecting my reaction.
“Not at all,” I lied.
He watched me for a long moment. “The truth, Harlowe. Not what you think I want to hear.”
I stabbed at a piece of asparagus. “The truth? Fine. I don’t care who you fuck. I just want to know what kind of humiliation I’m in for. Will you parade your whores in front of me? Bring them to family dinners? Or will you at least have the decency to be discreet?”
“I’ve never needed to pay for sex,” he said mildly, as if we were discussing the weather. “And I don’t plan to start after we’re married,” he continued, setting his fork down. “I’m not my father. Or yours.”
The implication hung in the air between us. I knew the rumors about Giovanni’s infidelities—the women who’d come and gone through our house like ghosts. My mother pretended not to notice, or perhaps she simply hadn’t cared anymore. Not after losing Luca.
“So, what was Katerina, then? A charity case?”
His lips twitched. “Katerina Volkov is the daughter of a business associate. Nothing more.”
“She seemed to think differently.”
“People often do.” He signaled for the check. “Finish your wine.”
I drained the glass, relishing the burn as it slid down my throat. The alcohol hadn’t touched the cold knot of dread in my stomach, but at least it dulled the edges.
“Tell me something,” I said, setting down the empty glass. “What happens if I run? If I disappear before the wedding?”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened. “Then I find you. And I bring you back.”
“And if I fight?”
“Then you lose.” He said it without malice, just stating a fact. “You’ll always lose when you fight me.”
Something about his certainty made my blood boil. “You’re so sure of yourself.”
“I am.” He passed his black card to the waiter without even glancing at the bill. “Because I understand something fundamental that you don’t.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, leaning forward.
“That you want to lose.” His eyes met mine, and for a moment, I saw something flicker in their depths—not cruelty, but understanding.
“You’ve spent years chasing oblivion in clubs and bedrooms. You let strangers hurt you, control you, mark you.
Not because you enjoy pain, but because you crave the moment when someone else takes responsibility for your pleasure. For your existence.”
My cheeks burned with humiliation and rage. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you better than you know yourself.” He stood, buttoning his jacket. “And soon, you’ll know it too.”
I wanted to throw my wine in his face, to scream that he was wrong, that I wasn’t a broken doll seeking a master. But the words stuck in my throat because somewhere, buried beneath layers of denial and self-deception, was a sliver of truth I wasn’t ready to face.