Chapter 27
DANI
I wake up alone, my thoughts filled with Dexter. He’s more wounded, more broken, more complicated than I ever imagined.
He does things I don’t understand. Kissing me, being so close and intimate with me, touching me and making me come apart in his hands.
I believed it would lead to more. I believed he felt something for me, because I felt something for him. But I made the mistake of telling him I was falling for him. I slap a hand over my face and groan. Dios , what was I thinking?
I don’t like him being like this, all cold again. Away from me. As if he can’t stand being around me.
Now we’re back to playing that charade again.
Only, I can’t.
It’s exhausting.
I want to reach for my phone and call Raquel, but I can’t disturb her again. She’s always so busy. I feel so utterly alone and wretched, but it’s the last day of the honeymoon and tonight we fly back to S?o Paulo for dinner with my parents. Tomorrow morning, we leave for New York.
I’m going to stay away from Dexter. I won’t confront him, or ask him what the hell he’s playing at. No. Instead, we’ll spend the day dancing around each other, pretending like last night never happened.
By the time I get up, shower and get dressed into another bikini and coverall, Dexter is already at work, seated in the office chair, laptop open, his focus locked on the screen.
“Good morning,” I say. Clearly he doesn’t want to have breakfast out on the terrace with me. He’s focussing so hard, his brow creases.
“Morning,” he murmurs, barely glancing up.
Seeing that he’s not going to move, I bring him a cup of coffee, setting the cup beside him. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
“You’re working again,” I say because staying silent seems childish.
“Busy day.” His tone is dismissive and detached. Like last night meant nothing. Like I mean nothing. So much for spending the last day here together. So much for that stupid, fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, he might be different this morning.
Silly woman. What was I thinking?
He looks up then, and blinks when I don’t disappear. Then he blinks again, his eyes dark as they slowly inch over my body.
He definitely noticed my outfit.
If he’s going to bury himself in work, then fine. I won’t waste my last day here sulking over a man who clearly doesn’t care. I make the most of the infinity pool, the sun, the recliner, finishing my book and relishing the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. A sound I’ll miss this time tomorrow.
***
Back in S?o Paulo, my parents greet us warmly. My mother’s eyes brim with unspoken questions. But I sense that my father is stressed. When I catch him alone in a rare quiet moment, I ask, “Papai, o que foi? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, meu amor.” His voice is warm but I detect the hesitation. “Are you happy?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. I smile and lie. “Yes, Papai.”
“Has he been good to you?”
I force a brighter smile. “Yes, Papai. We get along. You don’t have to worry. He’s a … really nice person. Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
But, do I?
I reassure my parents, play my part, but inside, my heart is bruised and battered. Dexter keeps his distance, slipping effortlessly into his role as the aloof businessman, the dutiful son-in-law, but I know this is just a role, and it’s only temporary.
I hate that he’s pretending to my parents, even though we all know the deal. Tomorrow I start my new life in New York, and I wonder what beckons and awaits me.
***
By the time we land in New York, reality starts sinking in. A few special moments in our honeymoon gave me a false sense of security, a fleeting feeling that this marriage might not be so bad.
Dexter is softer than he lets on under his hardened exterior. He’s not Oscar Ramos. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m with the better man. And I also have to keep reminding myself that I’m helping my father.
Awkward tension fills the air as we step into Dexter’s apartment. It feels like a different world. A different time zone. A different something.
Like Dorothy from Kansas, I have the strangest sensation of being transported from S?o Paulo and dropped into my new life in New York. He casually mentions that he’s on the second floor of the apartment block he shares with his brothers. That Jett has the penthouse at the top and he’s sandwiched between Jett and Zach who has the first floor.
“There are amenities on the ground floor,” he mentions, and advises me to go and check them out whenever I want. “This is my humble abode,” he says, tossing his keys onto a sleek marble console by the door.
I look around in quiet awe. “This is… a gorgeous apartment.”
“Thanks. Let me give you the quick tour.”
I follow him down the hallway, my eyes sweeping around the vast property. His place is modern, and slick. Clean and clinical. It looks like it belongs in a magazine. Dark woods, black leather, silver accents. Everything screams Dexter.
“Bricks?” I trace my fingers around the rough wall.
“Exposed brickwork,” Dexter explains. “It’s raw, not dressed up. What you see is what you get.”
“Like you,” I murmur, walking over to the windows and looking out. “Cobbled streets. How charming.”
“You’re not mesmerized by the views of the Hudson River, or the rooftops and water towers of the Tribeca skyline. But you’re in awe of the cobblestone streets below?”
“Simple, and not ostentatious. Like me.”
“You’re not simple,” he says, giving me a peculiar look.
This will be interesting. “How would you describe me?”
I see the flex of his jaw, can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. Might be that he won’t even tell me the truth.
“You’re ... charming, and refreshing, and intelligent, and smart and ...”
This man is laughing at me, and I don’t like it. “Okay. Stop. We’re alone here, you don’t need to humor me. Continue with the tour.” I move past him, eyeing the rest of the apartment. He moves fast, barely pausing as he gestures.
“This is the master bedroom.” He pushes the door open. I survey it in silence because he doesn’t give me any details. Its sleek, masculine and looks impeccably clean. The color palette is charcoal grays, blacks, and whites. A king-sized bed dominates the room. Crisp white pillows with a textured slate-gray duvet. There’s a fireplace, built-in shelving, holding high-end watches, and a half-empty tumbler of scotch stands on the nightstand.
“Your room is here.” He steps away, across the hallway and pushes the door open to the room directly opposite his.
I step inside, and stop, my eyes sweeping over the king-sized bed and the dressers and what looks like the entrance to a walk-in closet. This room is such a contrast against the gray, black, and white of the rest of the apartment. It has a dash of color. My eyes fix on the soft green walls and that’s when I realize. They’re the same shade of eucalyptus green from home.
“Don’t you like it?” He sounds oddly anxious.
It smells like fresh paint. Like someone tried to disguise it and failed. “Did you do this for me? ”
“Yes, for you,” he says reluctantly. Like it’s a chore and now he wishes he hadn’t. “You told me it was your favorite color.”
“You remembered.” I try to compose myself. “I like it very much. You’re… thoughtful and kind, and you didn’t have to do this, but you did,” I say softly. I look away before he sees my eyes turning misty. I’ve been strong throughout this entire process, but now, this tiny act of kindness has me on the verge of blubbering. And I can’t break down, not in front of him.
“It’s just paint, Daniela.” Dexter leans against the doorframe, watching me. “Figured I’d make it a little more homey for you.”
I walk around slowly, taking in the plush bedding, the small details, things that aren’t just generic luxury but personal, and thoughtful. Things that make my throat constrict. Framed prints of S?o Paulo, a candle that smells of jasmine, a quote framed on the wall in elegant lettering: Onde o corac?o está, é onde está o lar .
Where the heart is, is where home is.
He probably used Google translate, or his assistant did …. But my heart is overwhelmed and I blink furiously, trying to fight back the tears that threaten to fall.
Such kindness and consideration …it chokes me.
Dexter thinks he’s being subtle, hiding how he feels behind rolled-up sleeves, and gruff one-liners, but it’s all bleeding through anyway. Like the scent of fresh paint, his intentions linger in the air, impossible to miss. He remembers things he shouldn’t. He cares more than he’s willing to admit, and it blows me away.
I want to throw my arms around him and fall into his chest.
I wish I could.
I swallow, trying soften the knot that forms in my throat. I felt so alone coming here, but these gestures from him soothe my hurt and loneliness in a way that I never expected. “Thank you.”
“Like I said, it’s just paint and a few pictures.”
“It makes me feel less homesick.”
A sliver of concern flashes through his eyes. “I guess this feels strange. Living here, away from your family, your friends…” He hesitates. “At least Raquel’s not too far. You’ll visit her often.”
I sigh. “I hope to, but she’s busy. Corporate lawyer, even though she found the time to crash our drinks evening, remember that?”
His lips curve slightly, and I think he’s going to bring up that night, when we were tipsy, when we got a little too close, when we kissed for the first time. But he doesn’t and we just stand there, the space between us small and filled with unspoken reminders of what could be.
He retreats into the hallway, into his safe space away from me. I nod. “I don’t cook much. I usually eat out, so I’m not sure what you want to do this evening.”
“I’m not hungry. Don’t let me ruin your evening. You just do what you normally do.” I don’t want to get in his way. Ruin his normal routine. He cocks an eyebrow. “Do what I normally do? What does that mean?”
I don’t understand why he’s so grumpy. I’m aware that this is his place, and I’m in the way. I don’t want to make him feel uneasy.
“It means ... just that.”
“What?”
I stare at the floor because I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t bear for him to see this would hurt me so much. We’re supposed to be following the rules. No emotions. No getting involved. No hint of a scandal. But we’ve already done things we weren’t meant to do. He’s a man with needs. Maybe he’s planning on getting those needs met. Just not from me.
“If you want to meet a woman, please just be discreet so that we can keep our happily married charade going.” My heart breaks just thinking about him with someone else.
He takes a few strides and then he’s in my face, tipping up my chin with his finger, his dark eyes boring into mine, a little dark and dangerous. My heart pounds.
“I don’t need to see anyone.” His gaze falls to my lips, and his brow creases. I hold my breath, wondering if he’s thinking of the hot tub. “I’m not doing anything like that, Daniela. I have no plans whatsoever. This might be a marriage of convenience but while we are married I will take my vows seriously. I’m not my father. Loyalty means everything to me.” His words, low and meaningful, wrap around and hug my heart.
My mouth falls open.
“I’ll be at work tomorrow,” he tells me, nonchalantly. “What about you?”
“I’ll be working from home. I need the Wi-Fi password.”
“Of course. Let me show you the study.”
He shows me the study and then quickly shows me the rest of the apartment. “Obviously, I’ll get you a credit card for expenses,” he says.
“I don’t need your credit card. I’m not a child. I’m a woman who works and I have access to my own money.”
He looks surprised, for a nano-second. “Of course you have.” He lets out an exhale, and seems a bit nervous. “I don’t know how this will work out.”
Such a fast turn of conversation. It makes me think maybe his doubts and reservations are bubbling just under the surface, that maybe he’s not so composed and okay with this as he’s making out to be.
“It has to work out,” I tell him. “Just one year. We can do that.”
“You seem so sure. So confident.”
“Aren’t you?” I peer at him, trying to work out what he’s battling inside.
“There’s a gala.” He rakes his hand through his thick hair. A few curls rebound back, falling over his brow. “It’s a charity event. We have to go. My brothers and my father will be there. I think the old man arranged it so New York society sees that we’re married.”
That, I can handle. “We’ll have to play the happy couple again,” I say.
“For a few hours.”
I hate that he’s so nonchalant about it. Has he forgotten the hot tub and how he made me feel? Did it mean nothing to him?
“There are already pictures of us from the resort circulating online,” he adds. “Papers, blogs… People are curious. None of the Knights have ever gotten married before.”
“Then we’ll need to dazzle everyone,” I say.
“Something like that.” He’s already moving away from me.
He painted the room for me, got me a few things to remind me of home, I know he feels something. “Think you can do it?” I ask. “Play at being happily married?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve played at being happy my whole life. What’s one more year?”
My heart sinks. Played at being happy , must be some of the saddest words I’ve ever heard. I don’t want that for Dexter. I don’t want that for anyone, but I especially don’t want that for this man.