10. Chloe
Chapter 10
Chloe
I ’m so confused. I want to hate this man but can’t bring myself to do so. I also don’t want to trust him, but for some reason, I do.
It’s been a long time since someone wanted to take care of me. And he had to go and throw ‘Angelo’ into the mix—Angel in Italian—a term of endearment that my father used to call my mother.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, and the fury he displayed a few minutes ago seems to have vanished.
I’m starved and have barely eaten all day, but my stubborn side will never admit that.
“No,” I lie, but as if on cue, my stomach growls, betraying me with a loud, unmistakable rumble.
“Your stomach tells me otherwise,” he chuckles, placing his flattened palms on the mattress, either side of me, pushing himself up. “What have you eaten today?”
I wince. “A vegemite sandwich.”
His face screws up as his body slightly shudders. “Vegemite? How can you even stomach that shit?”
“It’s cheap … and I don’t mind it.”
“It’s very … un-Italian of you. ”
My mother’s parents and my father’s mother may be of Italian heritage, but one of my grandfathers was Australian. “My paternal grandfather wasn’t Italian.”
“Hmm,” he hums. “Regardless, you won’t find any of that in this house. You’ll feast like the queen you are while you’re here.”
Once he’s standing at the foot of the bed, he looks down at me, offering a soft smile. Has he forgotten I spat in his face moments ago? It’s something I’ve never done before, and a part of me feels ashamed of my reaction, but he had been holding my hands hostage, leaving me with little choice but to act on instinct.
“The walk-in wardrobe is just through that door, which also leads to your private bathroom. It has everything you need. If you want something specific, ask, and I’ll ensure you get it.”
“I want my freedom.”
“Except that,” he counters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark-grey trousers. He has paired them with a black V-neck sweater, and it’s the first time I’ve not seen him wearing a suit. “Now change,” he adds as he turns and moves towards the door. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
I don’t move from the bed until he leaves. I rise and cross the room once the door clicks shut behind him. My eyes widen as I enter the lavish closet slash dressing room, overwhelmed by its sheer opulence.
It brings back memories of a life I once lived, but on a much grander scale.
The tips of my fingers glide over the beautiful clothes hanging along the wall. A mix of casual, semi-casual, and formal wear—an entirely pointless collection if I’m going to be locked away in this room for the foreseeable future.
I skirt around the long seating bench occupying the centre of the space, heading towards the chest of drawers, and although I’m not at all pleased by my current predicament, a flicker of excitement runs through me as I reach for the ornate handle.
The top drawer is filled with delicate lace and silk undergarments. The sheer volume suggests he plans on keeping me here for a long time, but I can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of my lips when I spot some simple, inexpensive cotton pieces mixed in with the luxurious underwear.
This man is such a conundrum. A combination of sugar and hot-headed spice, and I’m not sure which version of him I like best.
When I open the bedroom door and step out into the hallway, Alexander is waiting, as promised.
He takes a step back, and although he doesn’t say a word, I see the heat in his eyes as he peruses me from head to toe. The way he’s looking at me makes my skin prickle all over. What I like most about it, though, is that he did the same thing the night we met when I was in my bargain basement clothes.
This man has my emotions all over the place—at least for a moment—because that look is followed up by a single word: “Acceptable.” And just like that, I’m back to hating him again.
I opted for a pair of navy silk lounge pants that are absolutely adorable. The front features a delicate spray of white flowers, and the cuffs have white piping. The fabric feels incredibly luxurious against my skin. I paired them with a satin camisole accentuated with lace trimming along the neckline, and I topped off the look with a lightweight white jacket. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this put-together .
The selection I had to choose from was vast, but in the end, I picked this outfit purely for how it felt. I’m used to slim pickings and just opting for whatever’s clean.
Unfortunately, there were no shoes in the closet, so I slipped on a pair of white satin slippers. It didn’t feel right to be barefoot, even though that’s usually how I am at home.
He turns and starts walking down the corridor, so I follow. I’m famished and in no mood for another fight.
“I wasn’t sure of your shoe size,” he says as we descend the stairs. “I’ll have someone come to the house tomorrow for a fitting.”
“Or I could just tell you what my shoe size is.”
He pauses for a beat and glances at me over his shoulder. “That could work.”
“It seemed like the logical option. No point wasting money on a foot measurer when I already know my size.”
“I can afford it,” he grumbles.
“Can I ask how you knew my clothes size?”
He side-eyes me before saying, “I walked around one of my clubs until I found someone your height and build, and I asked them what size clothes they wore.”
“Humph,” I huff, oddly put off by that knowledge. “You were a little overzealous on the cup size of my bras. They are a tad big.” Hence why I neglected to put one on when I got changed.
My breasts may be bigger than average, but they are still perky.
This has him pausing again. His eyes flicker down to my chest before briefly moving back to my face. His throat clears as he faces forward and starts walking again. I bite my lips to hide my smile.
“Did you pick all those clothes out for me?”
“No. I had my personal shopper do it,” he replies, his tone half-annoyed, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Not to me, it isn’t. Even when my family had money, we’d buy our own clothes.
I’m surprised I’m not out of breath when we reach the formal dining room, considering how massively obnoxious his house is.
The long, black, onyx marble table, which can seat at least twenty people, stands in the centre of the room. Two place settings are arranged at one end, and I’m caught off guard when he pulls out my chair and gestures for me to take a seat.
When I falter, he commands, “Sit,” before taking his own seat opposite me.
A few minutes later, Carmella enters and places a plate in front of each of us. I glance down and see a variety of cured meats, cheeses, plump Sicilian olives—which I miss from my trips to Italy as a kid—and ciabatta bread. My stomach growls again on cue.
“Antipasto to start,” she says. “I baked the ciabatta fresh this afternoon.”
“It looks delicious,” I tell her.
“Enjoy, dolcezza ,” she replies, briefly placing her hand on my shoulder.
“Thank you.”
She called me ‘sweetness’ , and I can’t help but like this woman, despite who she works for. My gut tells me she’s one of the good ones. There’s a motherly warmth about her, and she was so kind when she showed me to my room earlier—or should I say my prison cell.
It made me wonder how someone so lovely could happily work for such a monster. But when she sat beside me on the bed, softly stroked my hair, and said, “Mr Mancini is a wonderful man, Chloe. You’ll see that for yourself in time” , I concluded that she was either brainwashed or she saw a completely different person from the one I did .
“Eat,” he orders, picking up an olive and popping it in his mouth. If I weren’t so hungry, I’d tell him to go fuck himself … with a cactus.
I blow out a puff of air as I reach for my fork and stab a piece of prosciutto, twirling it around the prongs. But before I get a chance to bring it to my mouth, images of my father flash through my mind. This is one of his favourite foods, but it’s been a long time since I could afford to buy it for him.
What is he eating tonight?
I’m the one who cooks for us, so I’m guessing nothing. Knowing that makes my appetite vanish in an instant.
I drop my fork onto the plate and push it away.
“Problem?” Alexander asks, arching a brow.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Bullshit, Chloe.”
“I can’t eat this.”
“Why? Are you a vegetarian or something?”
“No. I was thinking about my dad. He doesn’t know how to cook for himself. He’ll never survive without me.”
“I told you I would take care of it.”
“When? What will happen to him in the meantime?”
He gives me a look before calling out, “Carmella.”
“Yes, Mr Mancini,” she answers, rushing back into the room.
“Box up a serving of everything we are having for supper tonight, and get Antonio to drop it off at Theodore Carmichael’s residence.”
“Really!” I say, sitting up straighter in my seat. “Can I go with him to see how my father is?”
“No,” he barks. “Now eat.”
Ugh.
I slump back in my chair and rub my flattened palm over my stomach. “I’m stuffed,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I felt this full.
The primi , or second course, was delicious homemade pasta and sauce. This was followed by the last course, which was the most tender meat I’ve ever eaten with vegetables.
My mum was a fantastic cook, and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her when I was younger. Being here brings back all the memories I’ve tried so hard to bury. Thinking of the happier times we spent as a family is bittersweet.
“For someone who wasn’t hungry, you demolished every morsel,” he says sarcastically.
“Do you eat like this every day?”
“Yes. Carmella is a wonderful cook. That’s why I keep her around. It reminds me of my mother”—he turns his attention away from me and stares off into the distance—“and how my life was before she left us.”
It’s funny how I was thinking the same thing. We seem to have something in common, at least.
“What happened to your mother?” I ask.
“Car accident,” is his only reply.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“My mother died as well,” I say, watching his eyes narrow as if he doesn’t believe me. He probably already knows I’m lying. My hands move to the crisp, white cloth napkin on the table as my finger draws a figure eight in the fabric. “In my head anyway,” I add quietly. “It’s easier to believe she was taken from us than to face the truth that she simply abandoned me instead … that she didn’t love me enough to take me with her or keep in contact. ”
He stares at me momentarily, his gaze intense, before pushing back his chair and standing abruptly. Did I offend him?
Without a word, he tosses his napkin onto the table and turns to leave the room.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Out!”
“Where?”
My question makes him hesitate for a moment. “None of your business,” he says curtly before adding, “I’ll have one of my men escort you back to your room.”