Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bianca
"Just the ones who do."
The words hang in the air between us, and I hate that they make sense. Hate even more that some traitorous part of me feels... what? Relief? Gratitude that he has rules, that women and children are off-limits, that he's not the kind of monster who hurts indiscriminately?
God, what's wrong with me?
This man just tortured someone in a storage closet. Cut his ear. Made him bleed while I sat at a table eating chocolate mousse and making small talk with his crying wife.
And now I'm sitting here feeling warm because he said I'm safe?
I'm losing my mind.
The car door opens—we've arrived at his estate without me even noticing—and Dante steps out, waiting for me to follow. I climb out on shaky legs, my heels clicking against the stone driveway.
Inside, the house feels even emptier than usual. Colder. Like it knows what happened tonight and disapproves.
Or maybe that's just me projecting.
"I'm going to bed," I announce, heading for the stairs.
"Good idea. It's late."
I make it three steps before his voice stops me.
"Bianca."
I don't turn around. "What?"
"Where exactly are you going?"
"To my room."
"That's not your room."
Now I do turn. He's standing at the base of the stairs, hands in his pockets, looking at me with that unreadable expression he wears when he's about to issue a command disguised as a suggestion.
"Yes, it is," I say carefully. "The guest room. The one I've been sleeping in for the past week."
"The guest room I specifically told you not to use."
"The guest room I'm using anyway because I'm not sleeping in your bed like some kind of—" I cut myself off before I say something I'll regret.
"Like some kind of what?" He takes a step up. "Say it."
"Like I'm waiting for you." The words come out sharper than I intended. "Like I'm just another conquest you get to check off your list whenever you feel like it."
"That's what you think? That I put you in my room so I could have easy access?"
"Didn't you?"
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "If I wanted you in my bed, Bianca, you'd already be there. The room assignment wasn't an invitation. It was practicality."
"Practicality."
"Appearances. If my staff thinks we're not sharing a room, they'll talk. And if they talk, word gets out. And if word gets out, my father hears about it before the party, and the whole charade falls apart."
I hadn't thought of that.
"Then tell your staff we're taking it slow. That I'm—traditional or something. They'll believe it."
"They'll believe you're sleeping in a guest room while playing my girlfriend?" He climbs another step. "That's not how this works."
"Then maybe you should've thought of that before you bought someone who wasn't interested in sleeping with you."
"I didn't buy you for that." He's closer now, but still keeps distance between us. "If I wanted sex, I'd go to a club and find myself more than one willing woman to spend the night with. I need someone who can stand next to me at a party, someone smart enough to handle my family. Someone who—"
"Someone who'll wear skimpy pajamas and sleep in your bed and pretend to be the perfect little girlfriend?" I cross my arms. "That's exactly what you thought you bought, Dante. Don't pretend it's anything else."
His jaw tightens. "What's your obsession with the pajamas?"
"They're see-through!"
"So?"
"So I'm not wearing them!" I can hear my voice rising but can't seem to stop it. "You threw away my clothes and replaced them with lingerie that belongs in a—a—"
"A what?."
"A brothel." The word comes out like a slap. "You want me to dress like a prostitute, and I won't do it."
Silence.
His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face like he's looking for something specific.
"That's the second time you've used that word tonight," he says quietly. "Hooker. Prostitute. Why?"
"Because that's what those clothes are designed for. To make me look like I'm for sale."
"Or to make you look desirable. Feminine. Attractive."
"I can be those things without showing everything I have."
"Can you?" He's assessing me now, clinical. "Because from where I'm standing, you go out of your way to hide. Like you're ashamed of your own body."
Heat floods my face. "I'm not ashamed—"
"Then what's the deal with the clothes, Bianca? Why does it matter so much?"
"Because it's not about comfort!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Because people see a woman in revealing clothes and they make assumptions. They assume she's stupid. That she's available. That she's—"
"A prostitute," he finishes.
"Yes." I clutch my pendant, feeling the familiar edges cut into my palm. "Most women who dress provocatively are seen that way. Like they're less intelligent. Like their only value is their body. And I won't—I can't—"
I stop, realizing I'm saying too much.
"You can't what?"
"Nothing. Forget it." I back up a step. "I just want my own space. That's all. My own room where I can wear what I want and not have you judging every choice I make."
He studies me for a long moment, and I can practically see him cataloging information, filing it away to use later.
"You had two conditions," he says finally. "Teaching. Visiting your mother. I agreed to both."
"So?"
"So everything else, you obey." His voice is firm but not aggressive. "Including sleeping arrangements."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" He crosses his arms. "Nothing about this is fair, Bianca. But you signed the contract anyway. You agreed to follow my instructions. And I'm instructing you to sleep in my room."
"Why does it matter?" My voice drops. "If it's about appearances, we'll mess up the bed. Make it look slept in. No one will know the difference."
"I'll know."
"Why do you care?"
"Because you're mine." The words are matter-of-fact, unyielding. "For the next however many months it takes to settle this debt, you belong to me. And what's mine doesn't hide in guest rooms."
"I'm not having sex with you."
"I'm not asking you to." He doesn't move closer, just watches me. "I'm telling you to sleep. In a bed. That happens to be in my room. That's it."
"In those ridiculous pajamas."
"In whatever you want. I'll have Maria get you something else tomorrow."
That surprises me. "Really?"
"Really. I don't care what you sleep in. I care where you sleep. Those are two different things."
I search his face, looking for the lie. But his expression is serious, almost businesslike.
"I still don't want to," I say quietly.
"I know. But you're going to anyway." He checks his watch. "You have tonight. Sleep where you want. But starting tomorrow, you're in my room. No arguments."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll make it an order instead of a request." His eyes meet mine. "And trust me, you don't want me to start treating this like the business arrangement it is. I've been generous so far. Don't make me remind you what I'm actually capable of."
The threat is clear but delivered calmly. Matter-of-factly.
Somehow that makes it worse.
"You're impossible," I whisper.
"I'm practical." He turns back toward the hallway. "Get some sleep, Bianca. We have a busy day tomorrow."
He walks away, leaving me standing on the stairs, shaking with a confusing mix of anger and something I refuse to name.
I head to the guest room and close the door firmly behind me.
Tomorrow I'll have to face whatever consequences come from defying him.
But tonight?
Tonight this room is still mine.