Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Bianca
I wake to warmth.
Not the blankets—those are tangled at my feet. Not the morning sun streaming through the windows.
Body heat.
My eyes snap open, and the first thing I see is Dante's face inches from mine.
He's asleep. His features relaxed in a way I've never seen, dark lashes resting against his cheeks, that perpetual tension in his jaw finally softened.
He's also in my bed.
His bed, technically. But the bed I'm in. The bed he said I had to sleep in.
The memories from last night come flooding back—the spanking, the way I responded, his finger pushing inside me, both of us cursing. The way he walked out like he couldn't get away fast enough.
And now he's here. Next to me. Close enough that I can feel his breath on my face.
Rage ignites in my chest.
I shove him.
Hard.
He goes over the edge of the bed with a crash that's deeply satisfying, landing on the floor with a grunt of surprise.
"What the—"
But he's already moving. Before I can even process what's happening, he's back on the bed, looming over me, one hand wrapping around my throat as he pins me to the mattress.
Not choking. Just holding. But the message is clear.
His eyes are dark, dangerous, still hazy with sleep but sharpening fast.
"Bad move," he growls.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I refuse to show fear. "Get off me."
"You just pushed me out of my own bed."
"You weren't supposed to be in it!"
"It's my bed. I'll sleep wherever I want." His hand tightens slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he could. "And pushing me? Really? You want to start your morning with another lesson?"
Heat floods through me at the memory of last night's "lesson," and I hate myself for it.
"You said you wouldn't touch me," I spit out.
"I said I wouldn't make you have sex with me. I didn't say anything about sleeping in my own bed." His thumb traces my pulse point. "Your heart's racing."
"Because you're choking me!"
"I'm not choking you. If I were, you wouldn't be able to talk." He leans closer, his body pressing mine into the mattress. "This is restraint. This is me reminding you that pushing me has consequences."
"Everything has consequences with you." I try to buck him off, but he's too heavy, too strong. "Let me go."
"Say please."
"Go to hell."
His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "There's that fire. I was starting to think last night broke it."
"Last night was—" I cut myself off, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
"Was what? Illuminating? Educational?" His free hand trails down my side. "Arousing?"
"None of those things."
"Liar." His fingers find the hem of my t-shirt, playing with the fabric. "You were soaked, Bianca. Don't pretend you weren't."
Mortification burns through me. "Shut up."
"Why? Because it's true? Because you can't stand that you wanted it?" He shifts his weight, and I become acutely aware of how little clothing is between us. His sweatpants. My t-shirt and those damn lace panties. "You can hate me all you want. But your body tells a different story."
"My body is a traitor."
"Your body is honest." He releases my throat but doesn't move away. Just props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "The rest of you? All lies and deflection. But your body? It tells me exactly what you want."
"What I want is for you to get off me so I can take a shower." I shove at his chest. "Alone."
He doesn't budge. "Is that really what you want?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?" His hand slides higher, under the edge of my shirt, fingers tracing my ribs. "Because I could make you feel very good right now. Could finish what we started last night."
My breath hitches traitorously. "I don't want—"
"You do." His mouth is close to my ear now. "You want it so badly you're shaking. But you're too stubborn to admit it."
He's right. I am shaking. My entire body is trembling with a confusing mix of anger and arousal that I don't know how to process.
"Please," I whisper, hating how weak it sounds. "I need space."
He goes still.
Then, slowly, he pulls back. Rolls off me. Sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me.
"Go," he says, his voice rough. "Take your shower. But Bianca? Next time you push me out of bed, I won't be so understanding."
I scramble off the mattress, putting distance between us. My legs are unsteady, my heart still racing.
"There won't be a next time," I say. "Because you're not sleeping here again."
"Yes, I am."
"No—"
He turns to look at me, and the expression on his face makes the argument die in my throat. "This is my room. My bed. I'm sleeping in it. You can share it or sleep on the floor yourself. Your choice."
"That's not fair—"
"Life isn't fair. Deal with it." He stands, stretches. "Now go shower. You have school."
I want to argue. Want to scream at him. Want to do something other than obey like a well-trained pet.
But I also desperately need to get away from him before I do something stupid.
So, I grab my towel and escape to the bathroom, locking the door behind me with shaking hands.
The shower is scalding hot, and I stand under the spray trying to wash away the memory of his hands on me. His voice in my ear. The way my body responded to him despite everything my brain was screaming.
I hate him.
I hate that he's right about me.
I hate that I want him.
By the time I step out, wrapped in a towel, I've gotten myself marginally under control. I can do this. I can get dressed, go to school, and pretend last night never happened.
I open the bathroom door and head for the closet where I hung my work clothes yesterday.
The closet is empty.
Completely empty.
My clothes—all of them—are gone.
"What the hell?" I pull open drawers. Empty. Check the hamper. Empty. Even the dress I wore yesterday is missing.
Panic rises in my chest.
"Dante!" I storm out of the bedroom, towel clutched around me. "DANTE!"
He's not in the room. Not in the hallway.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and call him.
He answers on the second ring. "Miss me already?"
"Where are my clothes?"
"Being disposed of."
The casual way he says it makes me see red. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Your wardrobe was... inadequate. I've arranged for replacements."
"You threw away my clothes?!"
"I had them removed, yes. New ones will arrive this afternoon."
"I need clothes NOW, Dante. I have school!"
"Maria will bring you something to wear in the meantime." He sounds completely unconcerned. "Consider it a temporary solution."
"You can't just—you had no right—"
"I have every right. You're mine, remember? That includes making sure you're properly dressed." A pause. "The new wardrobe will be more appropriate for your position."
"My position as your prisoner, you mean?"
"Your position as my girlfriend." His voice hardens. "The party is tomorrow, Bianca. You need to look the part. Your schoolteacher clothes aren’t going to cut it."
"Those were MY clothes! You can't just throw away my things!"
"I already did. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting." He hangs up before I can respond.
I stare at my phone, shaking with fury. He threw away my clothes. ALL of them.
A knock on the door makes me jump.
"Miss Mancini?" Maria's voice. "I have something for you to wear today."
I yank open the door. Maria's holding a garment bag, her expression apologetic.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "He insisted."
"It's not your fault." I take the bag, my hands still trembling. "Thank you."
She nods and disappears back down the hallway.
Inside the bag is a dress. Simple, black, appropriate for work.
Also tighter than anything I'd normally wear.
And shorter. But it's clothes, and I need clothes, so I put it on.
The fabric clings to curves I usually hide.
The neckline is lower than I'm comfortable with.
The hem hits mid-thigh instead of my usual knee-length.
I look like someone else.
Someone who belongs to Dante Vitale.
The thought makes me want to scream.
I spend the day at school in a haze of anger. The kids notice I'm distracted, but they're sweet about it. Alex asks if I'm okay twice. I lie and say I'm fine.
By the time Tony picks me up, I've worked myself into a fury that's been building all day.
When I get back to the estate, there are designer shopping bags covering the bed. es. Dresses, skirts, tops, lingerie—all of it screaming money and sex and everything I'm not. Or at least not anymore.
I pick up a dress. Red. Skintight. Completely backless.
Another one. Black lace. See-through panels.
A third. White, short enough to be a long shirt.
Every single piece is provocative. Revealing. The exact opposite of what I'd choose for myself.
He did this on purpose.
Took away everything that was mine and replaced it with his vision of what I should be.
I'm shaking so hard I have to sit down.
The clothes mock me from their expensive bags. Beautiful. Designer. Completely wrong.
By the time I hear his footsteps in the hallway hours later, I've moved past fury into something colder.
Something more dangerous.
He's going to pay for this.
I just have to figure out how.