21. Simone
SIMONE
I wake up not entirely sure where I am.
I have a headache unlike anything I’ve ever had before, and I’m dimly aware of a hard male body behind mine—hard everywhere , if the thick shape pressed against the small of my back is anything to go on.
He’s still snoring softly, and as I slowly come back to myself, I realize we’re in the sitting room.
Half-naked, which makes me blush from my forehead to my toes, hoping none of the staff came in here while we were sleeping. My entire body is exposed. If anyone had walked in, they’d have seen me sleeping in a pool of my torn dress with my husband behind me.
It would have been very clear what happened. That I lost control. That I let my husband have what he wanted—my surrender.
Can I still take it back?
I was drunk. I wasn’t in my right mind. All the things I could hurl at him come to mind as I wonder if I can move his arm off of my waist without waking him, and slip out of the room.
A part of me doesn’t want to move.
This was a mistake. I let him in too far, gave him too much of me, let him see that I’m not always barbed words and stubborn refusal and hateful anger.
That in some other life, some other scenario where he’s not the man who stole my father’s legacy and cornered me into a marriage I didn’t want, where we haven’t pushed each other to the other’s breaking point, maybe I could have actually liked him.
If I let this go further, it will break my heart. It will make me his , and that’s something I can’t be. But last night was so…
It was so good .
It felt so good to let go. To let myself just feel .
I’ve never done that before. All my life, I was the perfect daughter, preparing myself to be the perfect wife.
I’d resigned myself to what that life would be for a long time.
An arranged marriage, a husband I might respect but could never love, a cold, passionless existence.
That , I realize, is why I hate Tristan so much. While I’ve been following the rules my whole life, he’s followed none of them. But even when he came bursting into my life, he expected me to keep following them all the same.
Maybe, if he’d told me to be whoever I wanted to be, if he’d encouraged me to let something loose inside of me instead of expecting me to fall in line, I’d have felt differently.
Last night, I felt differently.
I swallow hard, reaching for the torn halves of my dress to try to cover myself, but it isn’t much use.
Behind me, Tristan shifts again, and I feel the hard line of his cock pressing into my back, eager for more.
When I feel his breath change against the back of my neck, feel him waking up, I half expect him to push aside the rest of the dress and himself into me.
Instead, he pulls away from me and sits up, rubbing his hands over his face.
I look at him, startled. I’d expected him to demand more.
To keep pushing me now that he got me to give in last night, to finalize his claim on me by fucking me again this morning.
I know he’s aroused. I can see it, now that he’s sitting up; it’s impossible to miss.
But he just drops his hands after a moment, looking at me with an expression that’s almost wary.
“We got drunk last night.”
It’s not a question. His voice is gravelly with sleep, and I feel a trickle of desire through my veins, my body remembering how good it all was. I swallow hard, pushing myself up as I try to gather the remnants of my dress around me.
“We did.” I lick my lips nervously. Tristan’s eyes don’t go to my mouth or my barely-covered breasts.
He’s not at all what I expected this morning.
Instead of his usual attempts to either seduce or force me into doing what he wants, he’s looking at me as if I might bite him.
As if he’s not sure what to do with what happened last night, either.
He runs a hand through his hair, and I remember that he was vulnerable with me, too. Talked to me at dinner about things that he’s never spoken of before.
Tristan glances at the clock, still not looking at me. “I have a meeting this morning,” he says abruptly, pushing himself up from the couch. “I should shower.”
He says it like an excuse to leave, which startles me. Tristan does what he wants; he doesn’t make excuses to me for anything, least of all where he’s going and what he’s doing. But there’s an awkwardness to him this morning, an apologetic tinge to everything he says, that’s almost endearing.
Don’t let it get under your skin, I tell myself firmly, still clutching my ruined dress around my breasts.
Tristan strides to the door without another word or a backward look, and I swallow hard, trying to think past the pounding headache.
I’m going to have to try to slink upstairs without anyone seeing me, which is embarrassing.
I can’t believe I’m going to be doing a walk of shame in my own home.
I give it a few moments, then walk to the door and peek out. I don’t see anyone, although I know there’s probably security lurking about. Whatever , I tell myself. If Tristan didn’t want them seeing me running around half-dressed, he shouldn’t have torn apart my only clothing.
With the coast as clear as I think it’s going to be, I slip out of the sitting room, hurrying as quickly as I can to the stairs. Tristan pocketed my underwear last night on top of everything else, which only makes trying to keep myself covered that much more awkward.
I like the way these feel wrapped around my cock.
A shudder of pure, heated lust ripples down my spine at the thought of Tristan stroking himself with my panties wrapped around him. The shock of arousal startles me, slowing me down for a few steps, and I see one of the staff coming around the corner with a basket of laundry.
The desire is instantly replaced with hot shame, crawling up my neck as I force myself to look her in the eye as I walk past, keeping my chin up despite the fact that I want to sink into the floor and never emerge again.
She keeps going, pointedly not looking at me, and I want to fucking disappear.
Just another reason to hate Tristan.
But is it ? That frustratingly logical voice in the back of my head chimes in. I agreed to everything last night. I wanted it. I was hopelessly aroused by him ripping my dress. I can’t pretend that I didn’t want all of it.
So really, it’s not his fault, and it’s not fair to hate him over it.
There are plenty of other reasons, I tell myself firmly, hurrying up the stairs to my room. Once inside, I go straight to the bathroom, shedding my ruined dress in a puddle of silk as I find a bottle of ibuprofen and take three for my headache, before turning the shower on as hot as I can stand it.
An hour later, I’m showered, my hair washed and dried, and dressed in a pair of clean dark jeans and a silky blue blouse.
My stomach is queasy from drinking last night, but I know I need to eat something, so I head downstairs in search of some strong coffee and maybe a piece of dry toast. If Nora isn’t in the kitchen, I can manage that myself, even if I don’t know how to cook.
I walk into the kitchen… and there, of course, is Tristan—already dressed in a dark suit, his hair still damp from his own shower. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, we just stare at each other.
“Good morning,” he says, a touch awkwardly, as if we didn’t wake up entangled on the couch this morning already. I force my expression not to change, as if there’s nothing odd about this conversation at all. If this is how he wants to play it, fine.
“Morning.” I smile sweetly at him, heading for the coffeepot. I feel his eyes follow me across the room, and I can tell he’s trying to read my mood. The silence stretches between us, and I wish he’d just leave, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything until I’ve poured a cup, dosed it liberally with hazelnut creamer, and am searching for bread to pop into the toaster.
“Second cupboard,” he says casually, as if we do this all the time. As if we’re an old married couple that normally makes our own breakfasts.
I glance at him. “What?”
“I assume you’re making toast. That’s my hangover cure as well.” Tristan grins at me, and it’s only then that I notice the plate behind him, with only crumbs on it now.
Something about that realization, the intimacy of finding something we share, makes my chest tight. I swallow hard, stepping away from the counter.
“I wasn’t looking for bread.”
Tristan gives me a knowing look over the rim of his coffee cup. “Of course.”
“I’m not even hungry—” My stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and he smirks at me as my cheeks heat.
“Don’t you have a meeting?” I snap, taking a sip of my own coffee. “Or are you hanging around just to torment me?”
“I wasn’t planning on it, but you make it so easy.” Tristan’s smirk deepens, and I can’t help but notice that it makes him look younger. He’s not that old as it is, in his early thirties, but it makes him look mischievous and boyish, like he could be in his mid-twenties or even younger.
I glare at him. “Fine. I’m leaving anyway.”
The amusement on his face drops in an instant. "What do you mean? Where are you planning on going?"
"I mean, I need to leave the house. Go somewhere. Anywhere. I feel like I'm suffocating." I clench my teeth before I can say anything else. That already felt far too vulnerable for my own comfort.
Tristan’s face tenses. "Simone..."
I let out a sharp breath, steeling myself for a fight. Whatever softness there was between us after last night, it’s gone now. "I know it's not safe. I know Sal and Enzo are still out there. But I can't stay locked up in here forever, Tristan. I'll go crazy."
He studies my face, and I can see him weighing options, calculating risks. "Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know. The beach, maybe. Or just... around the city. I need to think."
Something flickers across Tristan’s face, but I can’t read it. "About what?"