Chapter 10 Sophia
SOPHIA
It’s probably not right, lying here, waiting for Dante to leave for the morning before I get out of bed, holed up in a room that contains my things but feels nothing like mine.
This is not the way I used to imagine married life would be one day. Going out of my way to avoid my husband. Afraid to face him out of embarrassment for practically humping his hand last night. It was too easy for him to do whatever he wanted. I made it easy for him. I practically begged for it.
And in the end, he still refused to go any further than a hand up my dress. I wish I knew what that means. It’s not like he can’t get it up. I felt it, like steel. The man was ready to go.
And so was I. If he had taken me then and there, I wouldn’t have tried to stop him.
Instead, I had to lean against the door for the longest time afterward, catching my breath, weak in the knees, wondering what the hell just hit me, and why I’m not good enough for him even to consummate our marriage, or why he wouldn’t kiss me.
Now that I know the problem isn’t impotence, what other possibility is there?
He simply doesn’t want me that way. His dick gets hard, but he can’t be bothered to put it in me.
Is it because I’m a Vitali? Or is there something deeper at play, like that dead girlfriend of his?
Is he still hung up on her? Like it would be cheating for him to have sex with his own wife?
Or am I completely overthinking the entire thing?
The pressure in my head eases like magic once I hear the front door open and close downstairs.
He’s gone for now.
The day can begin.
I sit up and stretch, then fling the blankets back, just as I used to do when I was a kid, fighting to get out of bed for school.
It took throwing the blankets off me, even on the coldest mornings, to get me moving.
The habit stuck, making it possible for me to get out of bed, to get up and grab a quick shower now that my mysterious husband is off to sit at Papa’s knee like the sniveling little lackey he is.
It helps when I think of him that way, as someone small and cowardly.
My wounded pride doesn’t sting quite so much.
He’s only a few hundred yards away, if that, but I would swear the air in the house feels different without him in it.
Not in a bad way, either. It must be nice to have a man, a real man, I really want that in my life.
Like Emilia has with Luca. When he’s finished work for the day, she probably wants to see him.
He takes her with him when he stops by the club he runs, because they want to be together.
That must be nice. Knowing where they stand with each other.
Meanwhile, here I am, more than two weeks into my marriage, and I don’t even know my husband’s favorite food, how he takes his coffee, or any of those little things that are so meaningless on the surface, but over time create the tapestry of a relationship.
At least, that’s how I imagine it. All I have to go on is my imagination.
It’s not as if my parents ever set a strong example of marriage, either.
He’s busy, and she’s bored.
What a love story.
When I look at it that way, what in the hell would give me the idea that my life will be any better? Where do I get the idea there’s such a thing as love? Does it even matter when it comes to marriage?
All I know for sure is there’s something in me that yearns for something more.
That’s what makes my heart feel so heavy as I head downstairs in my bathrobe, still damp from the shower.
Even though I really don’t have anything to do today, my soul is screaming for caffeine after lying awake half the night, torn between being embarrassed for basically falling apart and wishing the bedroom door would fly inward so Dante would come storming in to do all kinds of unspeakable things to me.
In other words, drying my hair can wait until I have a sufficient amount of caffeine running through my system.
This family surely has a fondness for their coffee.
The fancy machine in the kitchen is the same model as the one I noticed at the main house, one of the handful of times I’ve walked through with the girls.
I prefer espresso-based drinks to regular coffee anyway.
Wow, I actually have something in common with my husband.
Alert the press, tear out the front page.
Maybe it’s irritability after getting what feels like twenty minutes of sleep all night that makes me growl when my phone buzzes, sitting on the counter.
No offense to Guilia, but I’m not in the mood for a text session right now, so she can grill me about the details of last night.
The only details fresh in my mind are the kind I wouldn’t share with her, anyway.
It isn’t Guilia, though. The message is from an unknown number. Usually, I would immediately delete and move on, but the message itself catches my eye and hits me in the stomach.
Unknown: How is my sunny girl?
Only one person in the entire world has ever called me that.
“You’re walking sunshine. You bring the sun with you wherever you go.
” Enzo swore I could improve even his worst moods, just by being present.
I didn’t have to say anything. He only had to see me, feel my presence, and he would lighten up.
It takes a few seconds for the confusion in my mind to settle.
How many years did I spend wishing for a message like that?
What I wouldn’t give, especially in the early days when the texts I sent went ignored.
I lived with my heart in my throat for so long.
I scoured the news and stalked mutual acquaintances on social media in case someone mentioned him.
Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know, since the longer he stayed away, the more sure I was he had to be dead, lying in a landfill somewhere or weighed down underwater.
I know that’s how things are done sometimes. I don’t need to see a body to understand the way my family and so many others do their so-called business.
Here I am, the phone in my trembling hand, the words I would have given anything to read now on the screen. I have what I wanted. Why is it that whenever I get what I want, it always comes at the worst possible time? I have to shove aside my frustration to type out a quick message.
Me: How did you get my number? I’ve changed it since you went away.
I think that’s the safest question. I would definitely like to hear the answer.
Enzo: I have my ways. I thought you had more faith in my abilities.
What would I know about his abilities after all this time? My hands are shaking, but I manage to type out a reply somehow.
Me: Tell me the truth. How did you know how to reach me?
He wouldn’t have gotten the number from my parents. Even though Mom didn’t seem to feel as strongly as Dad did about Enzo, she wouldn’t ruin this alliance by helping Enzo get in touch with me.
Enzo: A little birdie told me. He also told me not to use his name.
I’m going to be sick. My stomach drops like I just started down the first big hill of a roller coaster while my thumbs fly over the screen. There’s only one person he could be talking about.
Me: You saw my brother? You talked to him? Where is he? How is he?
He replies so quickly, like he knew what I’d ask and had his response ready.
Enzo: Do you really want the answer to that question?
I don’t realize how tightly I’m clutching the phone until my fingers start to ache, and I have to force myself to loosen my grip.
I can’t lie to myself and pretend it hasn’t been hanging over my head.
Wondering what Alessandro thinks about my marriage, grateful every day he doesn’t show up and declare war all over again.
This time, he would be the only one fighting.
At least, I hope he would. I hope nobody with the name Vitali would support him.
Otherwise, what was the point of my marriage?
Another message comes through before I can gather my thoughts.
Enzo: He wants to get you out of this. So do I.
Me: Out of what?
He responds in a series of messages that hit like little bombs, one after the other.
Enzo: What do you think? This fake marriage.
Enzo: I already knew I would never forgive Giorgio for the way he treated me, but this is beyond the worst thing I thought he was capable of.
Enzo: I blame myself for not being there for you.
My head is spinning by the time he finishes. I need to end this before it goes too far, don’t I? All I’m doing by exchanging messages is encouraging him. That’s wrong. It’s mean too. I can’t give him the wrong idea.
But when I think about shutting the phone down or even just blocking Enzo’s number, there’s a sour feeling in my stomach. It would mean cutting off my last connection to my brother. He’s certainly not contacting Dad after being pretty much disowned.
Me: Can you give me Alessandro’s number? I want to reach out.
It’s a long shot, but I can’t give up on him. I was raised with the word family practically tattooed on my ass. It was all that ever mattered. Now I’m supposed to abandon it?
He keeps me waiting this time until I have to force myself to place the phone on the counter and finish fixing the latte I came down here for.
Is he annoyed that I basically ignored everything he said before that?
Maybe I should have said what? What was I supposed to say? I don’t want to give him false hope.
This marriage is a farce, and I’m virtually a prisoner, but that doesn’t mean I can afford to play games or lead him on. I’m not some bored housewife looking to spice up her life.
It feels like forever before he gets back to me.
Enzo: I don’t think that would be a good idea, do you?
Dammit. Well, I can’t say I didn’t try.
Me: I see. You probably should not message me like this anymore, anyway. It’s inappropriate.
Enzo: Inappropriate?
The message has barely come through before my phone rings. Reflex means I come close to answering it before stopping myself. I am not doing this. Life is messy enough in the first place without me letting my loneliness and confusion over this marriage get me in trouble.
Once he gives up and the phone goes still, he texts again.
Enzo: Pick up. I need to talk to you.
I am so damn tired.
It’s the sort of tired that has nothing to do with the amount of sleep I’ve gotten. Exhaustion has seeped into my bones and made me sick to death of being told what to do.
He needs to talk to me.
Dad needs me to marry a stranger from a family considered our mortal enemies until roughly three minutes ago, or so it seems.
Dante needs me to stay out of his way while he does his super-important work.
And dear old Papa needs me to be a happy newlywed in front of strangers.
What about what I need for once?
The front door couldn’t possibly swing open at a worse time. A yelp squeezes its way out of my throat before Dante strides in unannounced and unexpected.
He stops dead for a second before closing the door. “Not the welcome a husband wants from his wife,” he murmurs with a wry smirk.
“I didn’t expect you.” And I’m holding the phone that my ex keeps texting me on. Dante would flip his shit if he knew about our conversation, even though I’ve done nothing wrong and can prove it. I even told Enzo it’s inappropriate to text me.
I get the feeling the walking enigma now staring at me wouldn’t care too much for the facts.
“I left my phone upstairs,” he explains. There’s something about the way he says it. Suspicion in the way his gaze ping-pongs over the room while the rest of his body stays still. He’s sizing up the situation.
One silent beat after another makes the skin on the back of my neck prickle uncomfortably until I have to ask, “Are you going up to get it?”
Isn’t Papa going to be worried if you take too long? Yeah, I’m not suicidal, so I keep that question to myself.
“What’s happening here?” he asks, folding his arms and testing the strength of his jacket sleeves. I vaguely remember him mentioning a meeting this morning with some important person or other, which means he’s dressed almost as nicely as he was last night and looks sinfully tempting.
It doesn’t help that I now know how good he is with his hands. Combined with the number of years since a man last touched me, my core quivers when I remember how hard I came, and a flush warms my cheeks.
The phone is still in my hand and chooses this very moment to buzz twice with a new message. Fucking Enzo.
Adrenaline starts pumping when Dante’s attention lands on the phone, which, to my horror, I tighten my hand around. Why not come out and admit I’m trying to hide something?
“I’m going to ask you again,” he announces, his gaze drifting upward, slowly taking his time.
Only now do I remember I’m wearing nothing but a black satin robe I pulled on while I was still damp from the shower. It clings to my body in a way that obviously interests him.
Either that, or there is suddenly something fascinating about my boobs.
“What is happening here?” he asks softly, finally looking me in the eye. “What are you hiding? Don’t think about lying, either. I can read you like a book.”
My heart is pounding out of control by the time he takes one slow step toward me, then another. Stalking me like an animal, the way he so often does, cornering me the way a predator traps its prey.
“Well?” he asks, dark eyes narrowed. “Are you going to give me an answer?”