CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FRANCESCAREFUSEDTO leave her suite for three days. Even when she was tempted. Tempted to see if the dog was still around. Tempted to go for a swim. Tempted to ask Aristide why they were here if he wasn’t making her go to some dinner or function, if he wasn’t insisting she meet his mother again—because she’d been all set to refuse everything he’d asked, and then he’d gone and not asked for anything.
She focused on wallowing. Sleeping, eating whatever she wanted, drinking however much she wanted, and barely leaving her bed. She was bored and restless by day two, so she’d tried to read.
When she’d arrived at the great love confession in her book, so sweet it made her cry great wracking sobs, she’d ripped out every single page of the confession and tossed them into the fireplace, watching each lying word burn.
It had made her feel better for about five seconds.
Burning fiction didn’t solve her reality.
And that was the realization she’d come to finally, which had her showering, getting dressed, and leaving her room. She’d had the sulk she’d never been allowed growing up, but that didn’t change the reality.
She had to face it and determine what she wanted to do about it. She might have her freedom, but she was not completely devoid of responsibility.
She was so angry at Aristide, for so many reasons, but she had also made a mistake. He had not been wrong about her. In her taste of freedom, she had thought only of what she wanted. She had maneuvered him into what she wanted, because that was how she was used to surviving.
This wasn’t survival anymore. It was just life. So she owed Aristide an apology. Regardless of whether he owed her one too. Regardless of whether he would offer it. An apology would not solve or change anything. That morning after back in Nice had...broken something inside of her that she did not think she could ever repair.
But perhaps they could find some common ground. A space to create two separate lives for most of the year. After all, it seemed like they’d mostly fooled the press. Maybe Aristide wasn’t yet viewed as a paragon of virtue, but that would take time. As long as they stayed married and he stayed out of trouble, it should be an eventuality that came sooner rather than later.
That had been the plan anyway. Not chemistry. Not sex. Not love—that fairy tale, that parasite as Aristide had called it. And it was all those things, surely, if it made her feel like this.
She decided to take a walk on the beach to plan out what she would say to him, but the moment she stepped onto the sand she saw him in the distance. His back was to her, but he stood there on the beach, shirtless, dark swim trunks low on his hips. His hair was wet.
In front of him was the dog he’d allegedly bought her as a present.
“Stay,” he ordered the dog. “Please.”
At the please the dog went from a sitting position to a lying one. Aristide slowly began to back away from the dog—whose tail wagged harder and harder. The dog began to whimper, but it stayed.
At a certain point, Aristide stopped walking away from the dog. He turned a little, though she didn’t think he’d seen her yet, but she could see his profile. A smile curved his lips. Something sharp and painful settled in her heart. A longing so deep her eyes filled with tears.
“Come,” he ordered the dog and the dog leaped to its feet and bounded for him. He knelt in the sand and caught the dog’s happy approach, running large hands over the dog and praising it for being a good boy.
Francesca stood frozen, watching the whole tableau play out. And she realized then and there what the real problem was. Because she had spent lifetimes convincing herself of fictions to get through the day. Finding dreams to reach for so she didn’t get mired in the realities of her present.
But this was no fiction or dream. It was simply what she felt. Somewhere along the way, she’d fallen in love with him. Not just lust, not just interest, but actual love. That was the terrible choking feeling that kept taking up residence in her lungs.
That first week, he’d given her something no one ever had. And that had opened something inside of her. Not just a chance to look and enjoy her own wants and desires, but a chance to see herself as a free adult human being.
And in doing so, she’d seen him as an adult human being. Who was kind, and messed up, yes, but strong and solid and noble, whether he believed it about himself or not.
So she’d fallen in love with him—foolish, parasite—it didn’t matter. That was the feeling in her chest, and it would always be there. Causing her pain.
Because she knew, even if he ever fell in love in return, he would only view it as the enemy. As the parasite. There were no happy endings for her. There never had been.
But she could find a good ending nonetheless. A solid one. She would find it, even in the midst of this swirling realization, because she would not find herself in another prison. She would make the best of her reality. Always.
He turned suddenly, as if he’d sensed her there. But he must have heard something or seen her out of the corner of his eye.
For long, ticking seconds they only stared at each other. Across the expanse of a beach. She wanted to run to him. She wanted to run away. And she did neither.
Eventually, he walked to her, the dog staying put as if he’d given it an order to stay. When he finally approached, he surveyed her outfit. Casual pants, sneakers and a T-shirt.
“You are not dressed to swim,” he observed.
Francesca looked out at the waves lapping against the beach. “No, I don’t feel much like swimming.” All those things she’d found joy in felt tainted now. Maybe that feeling would fade, but for now she had no interest in throwing herself into the waves. Because it felt like that was something he’d given to her.
Kindness, then cruelty. The swims, the cooking lessons, the dog whimpering off in the distance clearly wanting the go-ahead to run to them. She could not make sense of him. “Why are you so...determined to give me things I want? When it is quite clear you don’t want me.” She had to account for the heat in his gaze. “At least, you don’t want to want me.”
He was very quiet for a while, but she didn’t move. Didn’t take the question back. When he spoke, his voice was low.
“I needed a certain kind of wife. And wives being people aren’t simply tools that one can use and discard in a closet.”
“Hmm.” There was that kindness again, but it wasn’t about her, was it? “So, it is a kind of payment.” Which felt...depressing. That he’d offered her things, that he’d listened and made her feel heard, only as some kind of payment.
His eyebrows drew together. “I suppose.” But she could tell the way he agreed reluctantly that he didn’t actually agree.
It didn’t matter. She had things to say, and although she wasn’t as prepared as she’d liked to be to say them, she needed to get it done. She met his gaze, chin raised, as if she was going to battle.
Because it felt like she was.
“I’d like to stay here while you go to London. We can pare back our outings at this point, I believe. You can focus on business. It is the natural progression of a marriage. Perhaps I’ll find some sort of charitable endeavor to focus on so it seems as if I have work too. Should a large event come up, I will of course attend. If we need to be seen together, we will.”
He did not say anything. He studied her with a faintly puzzled frown. So she kept talking. She needed to get it all out.
“And I would like to apologize.”
The puzzled frown turned into an all-out confused scowl. “For what?”
“I should not have...pushed. Maneuvered you, as you said. We do not have to be at odds anymore. You were right. I will keep my distance and this will go back to what it was meant to be. A business deal. Your reputation. My freedom. Two separate, safe, content entities working together on occasion.”
She forced her mouth to curve pleasantly, even though she felt positively dead inside. “So, I will leave you to your morning.” She marched past him, toward the dog. “And I’ll collect my present. Come,” she instructed to the dog, who immediately raced up to her, then pranced about her feet as she walked resolutely down the beach.
She didn’t have a destination in mind. She’d just keep marching until the threat of tears was gone.
The dog, naturally, followed her command without a second of concern for him and with none of the disobedience it had shown Aristide the past few days. Only making some progress today.
Well, he supposed the obedience was because of him. She could thank him later.
When?When she doesn’t go to London with you?
And he was left standing on the beach as though a bomb had just detonated in his chest while her and the dog’s form got smaller and smaller.
When, really, this was ideal. Time apart would be good for them. No doubt with some space they could get back to how it had been in the beginning, as she’d suggested. An easy kind of...friendship wasn’t the right word. She’d said business deal, but he didn’t love that phrase either.
Well, it didn’t matter what they called it. Everything was back on clear, even ground where they belonged.
But she didn’t come to lunch or dinner that night, even though he’d sent a staff member to fetch her. They’d returned, looking uncomfortable, with news that Francesca preferred to eat in her room as the dog would no doubt misbehave in the dining room.
The following day, he’d hoped he might catch her for a walk on the beach—she’d taken over the care of the dog, so certainly he’d have to run into her outside at some point.
But he never did.
Knowing she was here had been one thing when he’d thought she was angry with him. He was used to anger. To being shut out because he had disappointed or hurt someone. Everything he’d done during those first three days they’d been here had been at that anger. Take care of her idiot dog, work as though he was not upset or preoccupied, dine with his mother and such. He’d done it to prove her anger had no sway over him.
And he’d felt all of thirteen, existing in the icy silences of Valentino’s determination that there was nothing more between them now that they shared a terrible father.
But now he knew she wasn’t angry, or at least said she wasn’t, and he didn’t know what to do with the tired way she’d come to him with a truce of sorts. How she’d apologized. How he was supposed to feel as settled as though they were on the same page, when it seemed she was still avoiding him.
Well, he did not have to be avoided in his own home. He did not have to use his staff as messengers. He stood, forgetting his half-eaten dinner and strode across the castle to her suite of rooms. He knocked on her main door—with probably more force than necessary—and warned himself to get his strange, confusing, tempestuous feelings under control.
He would not take them out on her. That was not who he was. And he didn’t need her. To be his dinner companion. To need to be his. Need had no place here.
This clawing feeling inside of him wasn’t any of the things his mother had talked about. No. They were just needing this settled, when clearly if she was avoiding him, she was not settled.
Francesca opened her suite door, a careful look on her face. He thought she was trying to look placid, but he saw the trepidation and suspicion in her dark gaze.
She had opened the door wide, but she still held on to it, like it might be needed to shut it in his face. The dog was curled up by the unnecessary fire in the hearth.
Everything about the scene was cozy, down to what she wore. Despite the fact fall was on the way, it still felt like summer, but she was dressed in soft, fuzzy material meant for lounging. She looked so...soft. Infinitely touchable.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. He was the one who’d drawn that line, had he not? “I came to tell you I am going to London in the morning,” he said stiffly.
She smiled, with absolutely no warmth. “Excellent. I hope you have a wonderful trip.”
“I’d like you to join me at the end of the week to attend a fundraiser.”
She nodded, still gripping the door. “Naturally.”
That should be it. Their staff would handle the arrangements and he would see her again in London at the end of the week.
“Have you ever been to the National Gallery?” he asked.
“Well, no.”
“We can go together the following day.” They should do more than events, after all. Keep the stories about them.
“For a photo op?” she asked, carefully.
Yes, that was what he’d been thinking. He should nod and agree. But something about the scene in front of him had him...wanting to be a part of it. “It does not have to be.”
“Then I would not want to intrude on your schedule.” She smiled blandly at him. Like she had in those first moments he’d stolen her away from Vale. She’d held her own but kept herself carefully under wraps. “I’m sure I can handle a visit on my own.”
“It does not suit our image if you’re wandering about the museum without my company.”
She nodded thoughtfully at that. “Well, perhaps another time, then.”
Because she’d rather not go than be with him at all. After...making amends. After apologizing to him. She made no earthly sense. And it should make him angry. He was angry.
That was the twisting, clawing feeling inside of him. Anger, not panic. Control, not loss.
“Was there anything else?” she asked, sounding vaguely curious when he could see exactly what she wanted in her eyes. She wanted him to leave.
Leave.
“Breakfast. We will eat a meal together before I go.” He did not dress it up as a question, because it was an order.
She looked back at her dog, lolling in front of the fire like some kind of boneless creature with fur. “Liborio is still learning his table manners.” She returned her gaze to him with that fake mask of a smile. “Perhaps when you return.”
It was not a real excuse. The dog didn’t need to eat with them. And he could have pointed that out. Might have, if there was not some hint of vulnerability underneath that mask she’d once worn so well.
But he could see under it now. He could see her now.
“Is that disastrous dog really deserving of such a name?”
For a moment, just the smallest, quickest moment, he saw the flash of temper in her eyes. One he would have welcomed in the here and now, because it was more like...before. When they had enjoyed each other’s company. Before everything had been complicated by crossing lines—just like he’d known everything would be.
Without answering his question, she stepped back, and didn’t meet his gaze. “Good night, Aristide.”
And she closed the door. Gently. But in his face all the same.