Chapter 9
ANNETTA
It’s only when I drag myself downstairs and take my first sip of coffee that I remember last night through the dull pounding of a hangover.
I told Dom I like it when he touches me.
That if he doesn’t have me, I’d take another man to my bed—a bald-faced lie.
I set my mug on the counter, press the heels of my hands against my eyes, and groan. Who did I become last night? My face is burning so hot that it feels like my hair will ignite. And all for what, an elevator door opening?
Against the starburst of light and dark behind my eyelids, the memory of his response sends a shudder through me.
I dig through my hazy memories for the sensation of Dom’s hard cock against me. He felt so big, like I knew he’d be. Big, and barely holding back.
I moan at the memory, secure in the knowledge that I’m alone in the house.
So much for fading into the background.
I drink deeply from my coffee, letting the almost-too-hot liquid scald my throat and warm my insides. Outside, thick grey clouds sleepily weave through the high-rises.
At least I know now he wants me. I can work with that.
A couple of hours later, I add the finishing touches to my snack trays. Unlike whatever’s going on with Dom and me, this makes sense.
I have one tray of cut veggies for Valeria if she’s on a diet, and another stuffed with crackers, meats, and cheeses, in case she’s not.
After I found the thermostat and cranked the heat up from Dom’s original arctic settings to a toasty seventy degrees, I’m dressed in a casual, but not-too-casual, off-the-shoulder sweater, and leggings.
No wine tonight—the thought makes me nauseous—but I have coffee brewing and tea ready.
Dom doesn’t have a TV, which was probably the most unexpected thing about him, but I did find some Bluetooth speakers embedded in the ceilings to connect my phone to, and piped in classical study music.
My skin crawls when the elevator door pings—I’m learning to hate that sound—but I relax when Valeria steps inside, wearing a thick jacket with the sleeves rolled up, black baggy jeans, and sneakers.
She hefts a thick binder and a stack of books to one arm when I step forward to hug her, but as I lean forward, she shifts and pokes me in the eye with the edge of her binder.
“Sorry!” she blurts out.
“No, it’s okay.” I rub my eye and wince.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t already hungover, but I don’t mention that part.
She grimaces. “I’m not great at hugs.”
“Maybe we can go for a high-five next time,” I say, laughing.
She gives me a tiny, grateful smile as I lead her into the kitchen.
“What do you have so far?” I pull out a couple of plates, and when I turn, her expression has turned businesslike.
She nods and spreads her binder and books across the counter. “Let’s start with the theme.”
Several cups of tea later, I have the distinct impression that her dad’s set her up to fail.
After he fired his event planner for high prices, he threw everything at his daughter and told her to figure it out and do it cheap.
The only expense he’s budgeted for is renting out a huge yacht on the pier and a catering company he already picked out—a favor to a friend, I guess.
From what I can tell, Valeria’s never planned a party and has no contacts outside of the family.
Because she’s going to school and working as a bartender—and now as my delivery person—it’s almost impossible for her to find the time for this.
“At least we have the florist settled.” She thumbs through one of the floral arrangement books, stopping for an extravagant, avant-garde display.
I roll a lock of my hair between my fingers as I look over the glossy photos of high-society dinners and sticky notes with scrawling handwriting.
My tongue is thick in my mouth. I’ve helped Serafina with her arrangements before, but I was never good at deciding what to pick or figuring out the structure of the arrangement. She always made it look so easy.
“Here.” Valeria points to a few arrangements with stone vases and structural designs.
“What do you think about these? On the second deck of the yacht, there will be dozens of small, circular tables, so we’ll need something low and circular to mimic those shapes.
My mom took a look at the arrangements I picked out, but she said the men wouldn’t like sitting next to something so girly.
We’ll need ‘manlier’ flower arrangements. ” She rolls her eyes. “Any thoughts?”
Apparently not, as I look through these. The flowers all remind me of my sister. Calla lilies, tulips, roses. I can almost smell them and see her touching them.
“I—” My throat closes up.
Valeria glances toward me with a touch of panic. “This is too much, isn’t it? I told Mom…”
With a supreme force of will, I drag myself out of the river of grief threatening to tow me under. “It’s not too much. I can handle it.” I sip from my tea. “What about moss? You could do something more forest-y?”
She stares at me a little longer before she finally nods. “I’ll find some reference photos.”
I sit up straight. “I can do that.” Finally, something to do that isn’t waiting around all day for Dom to come home and tell me he won’t fuck me. “We have the theme figured out. I can mock up some invitations and send them over to you.”
“No, I wouldn’t impose—”
“You have exams coming up, right?
She drums her fingers against the counter, then meets my eye like accepting my offer of help is a bomb she’s about to snip the red wire on. “Yeah. Alright, that would be great. Thank you.”
I stand and busy myself with our glasses and cups to hide my smile. “So, same time next week?”
We tidy up in a comfortable silence. When she’s done, she hovers at the kitchen island, tapping the marble again.
I eye her across the sink. “What?”
“Do you…” She firms her mouth and stands tall. “Do you want help? Getting out of here?”
I blink a few times.
She wants to rescue me?
She doesn’t miss a beat. “I have a little money saved up. Eight thousand.”
I look into her dispassionate face and think that I might’ve misjudged this woman.
“You can have it. I can get it to you tonight, and you can take my car.”
Is she offering me—a near stranger—everything she owns?
Staring blankly at her, I lower my soapy hands into the sink. “Where would I go?”
“Get a plane ticket. Go to Europe.”
The thought is at once infinite and crushing. Europe? I could see the world. I’d be free to reinvent myself. I could ask Rafa, too. He drove me in complete secrecy to get my IUD weeks before my marriage to Frederico. He would give me cash if I asked for it, too, and he wouldn’t tell a soul.
My family would be safe, wouldn’t they? If I left. Dom would be happier for it. He never asked for a wife.
My chest squeezes.
I don’t want to leave.
Valeria watches me with something like compassion. “If he’s hurting you…”
My eyes widen. “You mean Dom?”
I know he’s not a good man, I’m not lying to myself about that, but I’ve seen him on the couch, groaning from a belly full of my mom’s arancini.
I’ve seen him play princess tea time with my baby cousin and dig his thick fingers into the muddy coat of Cousin Tito’s dog.
He’s not the kind of man who’d hurt me just because he could.
“Do we know another Dom?”
“He’s not hurting me.” I dry my hands on a kitchen towel before meeting her eye. “But, thank you for asking.”
She shrugs. “So, you like him then?”
I wipe my hot palms on the sides of my leggings as I walk around the island.
God, this feels ridiculous. “Yes, I like Dom.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. “I mean, like, like?”
We both grin, and I stand on my toes to nudge her shoulder with mine.
She relaxes and waves a hand around to gesture at the penthouse, lit up by warm lights that cast a glow on all of Dom’s belongings.
The city outside sparkles from an uncharacteristically bright sunlight. “What’s it like? Being married?”
It’s a bit odd to think we’re the same age. Valeria doesn’t convey a look of innocence, necessarily, but she seems like a normal, if a little serious, twenty-something-year-old, as she waits for an answer.
“So far, he mostly stays out of the penthouse,” I say.
She clears her throat, looking away from me. Something flickers in her expression. “What about kids?”
The thought makes my skin crawl. Does she want kids? It’s hard to imagine Valeria in her all-black outfit, cooing over a baby.
“Not for a long time.” Not ever, if I’m lucky. I glance at the wall clock in the living room. “Didn’t you say you had to make it to work around six?”
She blows out a long stream of air, her shoulders slumping down. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
As I walk her to the elevator and we wait for it to arrive, she gives me a long look, the kind Mom usually gives me when she’s about to say something I won’t like. I want to peel the doors open and shove her inside before she can let the words out.
“You know,” she says while I fix a frozen smile on my face, “at Annetta’s wedding, I thought she was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen. She was like a real-life princess, and she looked so happy. I’m glad she had that. She got to be happy.”
The elevator doors open. She squeezes my shoulder and steps inside, and the moment the doors close, I let grief pull me under, and I sob.
Waves crash over me, each stronger than the next. I suck in a mouthful of dirty water and flail my arms to stay afloat. The water is syrupy and dense, and I can barely keep my head far enough above the waterline to take a breath before the next wave crashes over me.
I’m going to die here.
My mind cleaves in two.
Let go.
Fight.
I don’t know which to listen to, but I don’t have to wait long to decide. A pair of hands grips my shoulders. I go limp. They’ll rescue me.
The hands move to my neck, and instead of lifting me, they constrict and push me further under the waves. My lungs burn as I hold my breath and claw at the hands, kicking at the water and doing everything I can to stay alive a few moments longer.
I wake up in the dark. I can’t breathe. I scrabble at my throat and kick at the bedsheets, trying to get a lungful of air. The only thing I can do is choke and gasp like a dying fish.
BOOM.
My bedroom door swings open, and a massive man storms inside.
A scream lodges in my throat. I clamber back, my legs catching in the sheets, still clutching my throat.
The man grabs my ankle and hauls me toward him.
“No.” I scream and sob, kicking with my free leg as hard as I can and driving my nails into the bed sheets to claw for purchase. “No. No!”
The man grabs both my legs and pulls me against him, presses me against his chest, and—
It’s Dom.
He’s saying something. His hands move across my back, searching. I choke out a sob, curling myself into him.
“Do I need to call the doctor?” he asks. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
I suck in a deep breath, and his scent coats my insides like a warm vapor, calming me.
I press my face against his furred chest. I’m sitting in his lap, my legs on the top of his thighs, and his belly against my body.
His arms band against my back, making me feel, for a moment, safer than I’ve ever felt.
I shudder out a sigh. “I’m okay.”
I nestle deeper into his chest and wrap my arms as far as I can around his waist. He’s so strong and warm.
His cock, not entirely soft, presses into the bottom of my thigh through the fabric of his boxers, his only piece of clothing.
I shift my leg to grind into it, but at the same time, Dom clears his throat and slides me onto the bed.
He kneels on the floor like he’s going to say his prayers, hiding his lower half behind the bed.
“What was that?” he asks. Since when does he wear glasses? The unfamiliar black frames lend an air of sharp sophistication to his features.
“A bad dream.”
I like the way he’s watching me, like I’m taking up all his awareness. Already, the terror of the dream is being chased to the dark recesses of my mind.
“About what?” Dom leans in slightly.
For all my fears and hesitancies, the big man before me doesn’t scare me. I wish I were on his lap again, wrapped in pine and smoke as I press my face against his chest.
“Bad things,” I murmur.
Dom huffs an angry laugh, shaking his head. “That wasn’t your run-of-the-mill bad dream. You were shouting ‘stop.’ Did someone hurt you? Who did that to you?”
I skate my gaze down Dom’s form. When will I get another chance like this? His broad chest and arms are on full display. I lean forward. Would he let me touch him if I didn’t say a word? We could pretend it was a secret.
“You have something to tell me?” His voice strokes against my body, still thrumming from the emotion of the dream.
I suck in a breath and lean back on the bed. “No one hurt me, husband.”
Dom’s mouth twitches at husband, and I wait for him to storm off, but he stays.
“Tell me,” he says in a quiet, deadly voice.
I’m not sure if we’re still talking about my dream.
“Since when do you wear glasses?” It’s half-distraction, half-burning curiosity. I thought I knew everything about Dom, but he keeps surprising me.
“I need them to read.”
“What were you reading?”
He exhales. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yeah, I would.” I reach toward his waist, but he rises in one fluid motion, treating me to an eyeful of the bulge in his boxers and his thick, muscular thighs.
“You let me know if you remember anything relevant.”
He strides out of the room, his muscular ass filling his boxers.
My mouth is dry as I call out to him. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t answer.