4. Simone #2
"A good life?" I stare at her in disbelief. "Nora, he doesn't want me. He wants what I represent—money, power, territory. I'm just the key to the vault."
"And what did you expect?" Nora looks at me knowingly. She’s spent most of her life in this world, serving the men who run it. She knows the way it works as well as I do. "Did you think you would marry for love? Did you think your father would choose a husband based on your feelings?"
The question makes me feel foolish. “No,” I admit. “But I thought it would be someone I could… I don’t know. Respect, maybe. And anyway, my father didn’t choose Tristan. Konstantin did. As if he’s some fucking king…”
“With your father gone, he all but is now, Simone.” Nora’s voice sounds a touch tired.
I wonder what she’s worried about, besides me.
What she’s thinking about, stressing over, in all of this.
How she feels about the man who will command this household very soon.
“I still think it could have been worse.”
"So I'm supposed to be grateful? I'm supposed to smile and thank them for selling me like cattle?" I glare at her, knowing I’m being rude, but I can’t stop. I’m so angry, and it needs somewhere to go.
Nora is quiet for a long moment, her eyes sad.
She reaches out, patting my hand, the untouched teapot breathing steam between us.
"I know this is hard. I know it's not what you dreamed of when you were a little girl.
But this is the world we live in, the world you were born into.
You can fight it and make yourself miserable, or you can find a way to make it work for you. "
"Make it work for me?" I shake my head. "How exactly am I supposed to do that?"
“You are smart. You are strong.” As she says it, I remember that Tristan said something similar earlier.
I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment, though it was framed as one.
He could have been mocking me; I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was.
But from Nora, it softens me, makes some of the anger and rage and fear leak out of me, leaving me tired and wanting a hug.
“By remembering,” she continues, “that you are the daughter of a powerful man, and that blood doesn't bow to anyone.
" She leans forward, her voice dropping, low and confiding.
"You think you have no power in this situation, but you're wrong.
Men like Tristan O'Malley—they're used to women who cower and submit.
They don't know how to handle a woman who is full of fire. "
"What are you saying?" I rub my temples, looking at her.
"I'm saying that just because you have to marry him doesn't mean you have to make it easy for him.
You want to make his life hell? Then do it.
But do it smart. Make him work for every smile, every kind word, every moment of peace.
Make him realize that taking you was the easy part—keeping you is going to be the challenge of his life.
" Nora smiles at me, a smile of camaraderie, woman to woman.
“Make him regret treating you like you were already won.”
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You think I should make him suffer?"
"I think you should make him earn you. Every day, every night, every moment you're together. Don't give him anything he doesn't fight for."
The idea has merit, I'll admit. If I have to marry Tristan O'Malley, at least I can make sure he regrets it. I can be the worst wife in the history of arranged marriages. I can make him wish he'd never heard the name Russo.
But even as the thought gives me a moment of satisfaction, the reality of what I'm facing crashes back down on me.
Making his life difficult won't change the fundamental facts of my situation.
I'll still be trapped, still be property, still be at the mercy of a man who sees me as nothing more than a means to an end.
And I'll still have to share his bed.
The thought makes my stomach clench with a mixture of revulsion and something else I refuse to acknowledge. Whatever game I play during the day, whatever battles I fight for my dignity and autonomy, when night falls, I'll be expected to submit to him completely.
The tea Nora brought me has gone cold, but I pour myself a cup anyway, needing something to do with my hands.
"Nora, what if… what if I can't do this? What if I'm not strong enough?" I bite my lip, thinking of Tristan’s arrogance, his confidence, his strength. I don’t want to let a man like him—any man—break me down, but I don’t know if I can do what Nora is suggesting forever. I’m angry, but I’m also tired, and I haven’t even married him yet.
"You are stronger than you know, mija .” She squeezes my hand, her dark eyes soft and kind.
She’s loved me more than anyone else ever has in this world, and I’m grateful that she’s here, at least. “You survived losing your mother when you were just a child.
You survived growing up in this world, with all its darkness and violence.
You survived your father's death and everything that came after. You can survive this, too."
I let out a breath, staring down at my tea. “I didn’t think it would be like this.”
Nora smiles gently. “We rarely do, mija . Usually, when it all comes crashing down, it’s never like you think it will be. But you go on. You survive. And I believe in you. I’ll be here when you need me.”
I nod, swallowing hard as I set my teacup back down. “I should get some rest,” I say finally. “Tomorrow… tomorrow is going to be difficult.”
Nora nods, standing up slowly and squeezing my shoulder. “Have some tea and cookies, Simone,” she says gently. “Leave it here when you’re done. I’ll be back to clean it all up later.”
I nod gratefully, my anger all spent and leaving me exhausted. I sit there for what feels like a long time, sipping at the cooling tea, running over my options again. But there are none, and I’m not brave enough to look Konstantin in the face and tell him to shoot me.
Which leaves marrying Tristan.
I finally make my way up to my room, changing into a silky slip nightgown as I get ready to go to sleep.
I sink into the comfort of my own bed, luxuriating in the cool sheets and softness of the pillows, grasping at whatever I can that feels good.
I’m truly exhausted, and when I close my eyes, despite the anxieties of the day, it doesn’t take long for sleep to come.
But I can’t escape Tristan, even in my dreams.
In the dream, I’m back in the library, alone with Tristan. He’s standing in front of me, not across the room, in tailored suit trousers and a sleek button-down undone at the top, his copper hair falling into his face as he looks down at me with clear, undisguised lust.
“You know why you’re here,” he growls, his voice deep and resonant, and I feel a shiver run down my spine, heat flooding my veins.
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper, but I don’t sound defiant, the way I hoped. I sound breathless. Eager.
“Yes, you do.” He looms over me, backing me against the bookshelf, moving with a slinking, predatory grace. "You've been thinking about me all day. About what it would feel like to have my hands on you."
“No,” I whisper. But even as I say it, I can feel heat pooling between my thighs, my nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of my blouse. My body arches toward him, and I grip the edges of the bookshelves, trying to keep myself in place, keep myself from leaning into him.
"Liar." He reaches up and cups my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind won't admit it. You crave me. You crave this.”
His body moves flush against mine, hard and hot, the firm lines of muscle making me gasp as he leans down to kiss me.
His mouth is full and demanding against mine, his tongue sliding along my lower lip, demanding entry.
I reach up, as if to push him away, but suddenly my hands are gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer as his tongue invades my mouth, as his scent and taste invade my senses.
He overwhelms me, dominates me. When he breaks the kiss, a slow smirk sliding over his mouth, I’m panting, breathless as I lift my chin for more. “Please,” I whisper, but I don’t know what I’m begging for, what it is that I want more of. What he can give me that I want so badly.
"Please what?" His hands slide down to my throat, not choking but claiming, marking me as his. "Tell me what you want, Simone."
"I want..." The words stick in my throat, too shameful to voice. My body shivers at his touch.
"Say it." His voice is a command. I want to fight it… and I don’t, all at the same time.
"I want you to touch me,” I whisper helplessly.
His smile is wicked, triumphant, as his gaze slides down my body, down to where he’s pressed against me, pinning me to the shelves. "I am touching you."
"More," I breathe, my cheeks burning with shame. "I want more."
His hands slide down to the neckline of my blouse, and with one swift motion, he tears it open, exposing my breasts to his hungry gaze. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until I arch against him. "Perfect. Mine .”
I hear the clink of the buttons hitting the wooden floor.
I feel his hand gliding up my thigh, undoing the front of my slim trousers, pushing them down my hips.
That same hand is on my leg again, bringing it up to his hip, that thick hardness between his legs grinding against me.
I should be embarrassed, should be fighting him, but all I can do is wrap my leg around his, pulling him closer, wanting more of that hardness, more pressure, more…
"This is what you want," he growls, his hand gripping my hip. "This is what you need. Someone who won't ask permission, someone who'll just take what he wants."