Chapter Fifteen
Who the fuck does he think he is?
That arrogant fucking son of a bitch just crossed a line I didn’t even know existed. Seriously, I thought I could keep my cool and play the dutiful girlfriend… wife. Hell. Fucking. No. I can’t. Everything in me screams for me to lash back, to get even—to show him I’m not a fucking puck bunny, like he insinuated.
Storming out of the kitchen after the incident, I seethe with frustration. Seriously, what makes him think treating me this way is okay? Like he has the right to push me away, dismiss me like a common puck bunny whenever he feels like it? It’s bullshit, plain and simple.
I’m Lucia fucking Russo, and this… nope. We don’t do that shit here; least of all to me.
Like the pissed off drama queen I am right now, I slam the bedroom door behind me. My breathing becomes labored when I hear his infuriating chuckle. Why isn’t anything fazing him? Wait… that’s not entirely true. My body very much fazes him. Right, that settles it. I need to get to my apartment so I can get the dress I need for tonight.
With a smirk grazing my lips, I walk into the adjoining bathroom and switch on the shower, the hot water, obviously. Might as well cost him a few bucks while I’m pretending to be in here. Then I sneak back out to the kitchen, glad to see he’s gone. As I get closer to his bedroom, I hear the water from his shower which is weird since he just showered before breakfast. Oh well.
I stealthily enter Sawyer’s bedroom, and yes, he isn’t there. Wasting no time, I gather my things and steal one of his shirts because there’s no way in hell I’m putting that sweater back on. As soon as I’m dressed and have my things, I leave the apartment, even ask the doorman to call me a taxi, which he happily does.
Entering the apartment, I’m hit with Gail’s absence. It’s all-consuming. The lack of her presence vibrates from every room, hell, from every corner of the home we share. Until tomorrow… the home we share until tomorrow. Then it’ll all be over; the end of an era.
Our place isn’t big by any means, but right now, as I’m the only one here, it might as well be the enormous mansion I grew up in. My texts to my best friend are still going unanswered. Actually, she never even opened the last three I sent. My finger hovers over her brother’s contact information on my phone. I’m itching to call him. If for no other reason, then just because I need to know she’s okay. And to tell her… how sorry I am for lying to her for all those years.
I miss her so badly my heart tightens at the thought of never speaking to her. Knowing that now isn’t the time, I let go of the idea and instead head to my closet, rummaging through it until I find the dress I want for tonight. Then I enter the bathroom and take a long shower. I stand under the hot sprays, scrubbing my skin red like that’s going to help me shred the layers of shit I’ve found myself in.
Done with my pity party, I set about getting ready for my big night out. I shave, scrub, use both a hair and a face mask, and even waste some of my expensive and luxurious coconut bath oil. Sawyer isn’t worth it, but I am. And since my legs are going to be on full display tonight, I want them to look their best.
Back in my room, I begin curling my long red hair until it’s all a mane of soft curls falling down my back. Then, because I still haven’t been to the damn hairdresser, I blow dry my bangs to give them a bit of volume, which makes them a tiny bit shorter, so they’re no longer shielding my green eyes.
My phone won’t stop ringing, but I ignore it. I refuse to let Sawyer ruin my me time. Especially since I feel a little better after my shower.
Taking a deep breath, I settle in front of the vanity mirror, ready to do my makeup. I spent hours in the shower, so by now, the sky has started to darken. I’ve already switched all the lights on in my room, and they’re enveloping me in a warm, familiar aura.
I begin by smoothing a light layer of primer over my skin, the cool, silky texture calming the simmering anger within me. Next, I apply a flawless coat of foundation, carefully blending it into my complexion. As I work, I catch glimpses of my reflection—a cascade of long, red curls framing my face, complementing the emerald green cocktail dress waiting for me.
For my eyes, I opt for a palette of shimmering emerald greens, carefully blending the shades together to create a sultry, smoky effect. With each stroke of mascara, I enhance the intensity of my green eyes, the color seeming to dance and shimmer with every blink.
A bold swipe of deep red lipstick completes the look, adding a touch of sophistication and glamor. With a satisfied nod, I take one last look in the mirror, the reflection staring back at me radiating confidence and poise. Tonight, I’ll make sure Sawyer knows exactly who he’s messing with… kinda.
I can’t tell him exactly who I am, of course. But I can show him a side of myself that I’ve kept hidden so far. The one that’s far less agreeable, the one that knows he’s fucking trapped and can’t get rid of me even if I stop obeying his stupid rules.
Game on, motherfucker.
The sounds of someone trying to break down my door by fist startle me. Before I can decide what to do, I hear him. “Open up, bunny. I know you’re in there.” I curse when Sawyer’s angry tenor reaches me. Who the hell does he think he is coming to my place like that? I have neighbors that absolutely don’t need to think there’s trouble in mine and Sawyer’s fake paradise.
I reach for my silk robe, barely managing to tie the belt before I rush to the door and throw it open. Sawyer’s hand is in the air, poised for another angry knock. “Get in,” I hiss. I look around to make sure no one is watching us before I close the door behind him.
Sawyer isn’t hanging around, waiting to be invited further into my apartment. He’s already making his own way into the living room. I follow, hot on his heels, my anger at his rudeness and total disregard for my home lengthening my steps.
He turns, his upper lip curled. “You fucking left—”
I hold my hand up, silencing him. “Stop right there,” I whisper-yell. Though I want nothing more than to scream at him, I deliberately keep my voice pitched low. Gail and I have never had any real problems with hearing the other tenants in the building, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to risk a screaming match. “You’re in my apartment now, Sawyer. My home, my fucking rules. And I don’t like people forcing their way in here and trying to throw their weight around.”
His eyebrows shoot up his forehead, and his lips part, but he doesn’t speak. He clenches his jaw tight while narrowing his eyes like he can intimidate me telepathically. I meet his gaze straight on, lift my chin, and place my hands on my hips.
“Got it,” he chuckles, the sudden change in him surprising me. “I only get to make demands when we’re at my place.”
There are many things I’ll bend on, but I will not allow him to intimidate me in my own fucking home. “That’s right,” I shoot back. I don’t like the smile that spreads across his face.
Sawyer schools his expression and looks around the living room. I try to imagine what he’s thinking as he takes in the place that screams home. Gail is big on knick-knacks and keepsakes. So we have Polaroid pictures littering one wall, all of which are of us doing everything from eating ice cream, walking on the beach, to the day she won a beer drinking contest. My home is everything I never allow people from work to see in me; it’s soft and oh so personal.
“This is different from what I imagined your home to look like,” he says. I watch as he moves over to the wall and runs his index finger over a picture from the day we moved in here. “Guess you don’t have a stick up your ass all the time.”
I shrug, refusing to take the bait. “Only when some jerk shoves one up there,” I retort.
He nods as though he agrees and finds my statement reasonable. “Tell me why you left,” he probes, still staring at the Polaroid pictures.
“Because I had to get ready,” I answer, opting for a half-truth.
A smirk splays at the corner of his mouth, and he runs a hand through his untamed hair. It looks wild and free when it isn’t constricted by an elastic band. Just like his beard. “Another half truth. Do you want me to start putting them together like a damn jigsaw puzzle and draw my own conclusions?”
I purse my lips, trying to come up with a deflective retort. But nothing comes to mind, so I say nothing.
“Well?” he prompts, impatience coating that one word when I still haven’t answered him.
Licking my lips, I meet his gaze. “You pissed me off with your stupid demands, and I needed my dress, Sawyer. There’s nothing else to it.”
At the mention of his demands, his eyes leisurely peruse my robe covered body. He isn’t even trying to hide the way he studies my bare legs all the way up to my mid-thigh, where the fabric covers the rest of me. The belt is keeping the robe mostly closed, but my cleavage is still on display. Is he aware he licks his lips and that his pupils widen? Clear signs of arousal.
I momentarily consider distracting him with another blowjob. Definitely not because I regret not taking my time the last time I had him in my mouth. But more to get rid of the tension that’s building in the room. I decide against it and tell myself it’s because he took them off the table.
It feels like I’m being doused in cold water when he rips his gaze away and says, “Okay,” like he isn’t affected at all. “I need to go home and change. Pick you up in an hour or so?”
“Fine,” I say, reluctantly.
Sawyer slowly moves closer until our bodies brush against each other, and he bends down to rasp into my ear, “Don’t wear any underwear. Those sponsor events are boring as fuck, so I plan on making you keep your promise tonight.” I shiver as his lips graze the shell of my ear.
“We can’t,” I squeak, hating the effect he has on me. “The whole point of living this lie is to endear you to the sponsors.”
He chuckles darkly. “Then we better not get caught, bunny.”
I stand there, gaping and frozen in place as he leaves and bounces down the stairs. I’m feeling both schooled and… I don’t know how to describe the way he’s managed to unsettle and excite me with just a few words.
This isn’t going how I want it to at all. And what’s worse is that this isn’t me. I’m in charge of my career, and the way people see me. Only very few people know the real me. Gail’s probably the one that’s got the closest. With her, I don’t have to wear a mask of indifference. She’s seen me laugh at silly things, cry at movies. During all our years of friendship, there’s only one thing she didn’t know; the truth about my family.
I hate how much Remus’ presence has thrown me and my world off kilter. In barely any time at all, everything has changed. My best friend won’t talk to me. I might have managed to make Fabian my ex husband by marrying Sawyer, but it’s not enough. The world still needs to know, and then he’ll need to come to the Vatican with me, so we can stand in front of the Senate. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m winging it, one shitty decision at a time.
My legs shake and I feel like they might give out at every moment as I stagger back to my room. I look longingly at the green dress, but instead of putting it on, I lie down on my bed. I need a few minutes to calm myself down before getting dressed.
Every time I’ve wanted something big in my life, I’ve attacked it in stages. When I decided I wanted to be free of my family, I didn’t approach my uncle straight away. I took my time, and came up with a plan for how and when to present it to him. Until then, I let my entire family, my parents included, think I was fine with my marriage. It wasn’t until my seventeenth birthday that I asked my uncle for my freedom.
There are two paths to take in my family; either become my uncle’s protégé at fifteen, which basically means you sign up to get trained by him, and have to follow the plan he lays out for you. Some of my siblings and cousins went down this path, all of them wanting the chance of being the next head of our family. Since I had no such aspirations, I chose path number two, and my uncle and parents chose a husband for me; Fabian. We got married on my sixteenth birthday, which was the single worst day of my life.
My family dabbles in many things, but the biggest is that almost every lead politician is a Russo in blood. Not just in Italy, but all over the world. And Fabian, who was in with the current Prime Minister of Italy at the time, was pushing his own agenda. He allowed deals my uncle worked against. When I got proof of that, I used it to barter my way to ten years of freedom, all with my uncle’s blessing and funding.
I guess that’s the blessing about your husband seeing you as nothing but a stupid little girl. For Fabian, his arrogance became his downfall, or so I thought. It’s why I can’t understand why or how he got a seat on the Senate. He should have been ousted for going against my uncle’s orders.
Slowing my breathing, I force my thoughts to stay on track instead of running free and making me even more anxious. There’s always been multiple steps to conquer, but right now I’m doing the opposite. I’ve jumped in at the deep end, attempting to tackle it all at once. That’ll never work. I need to take it one step at a time. Starting with getting ready. I can do that.
I sit up and reach for my cocktail dress, and before my mind can conjure up things I need to lock down tight and never think about again, I get dressed.
My emerald green dress hugs my curves in all the right places, the luxurious fabric draping elegantly from my slender frame. The neckline plunges daringly, exposing my belly button. Delicate straps crisscross over my shoulders, holding the top together, while a gold chain accents the plunging neckline, adding a touch of sophistication.
As I move, the dress catches the light, revealing subtle hints of shimmer and sparkle woven into the fabric. The rich, jewel-toned hue complements my fiery red hair and brings out the depth of my green eyes. The fitted bodice cinches at the waist before flowing gracefully into a tight skirt that reaches only to my mid-thigh. With every step, the skirt clings to my curves, accentuating my figure in a way I know Sawyer can’t ignore.
There’s no way I’d ever wear underwear in this dress. It would be sacrilegious to do so. Not only because it has an inbuilt bra, but the lines from a thong just aren’t sexy. I still want to tell him he isn’t the reason I’m going commando. Just so he doesn’t get any ideas, like thinking I’m gonna continue to let him boss me around.
Once I’m wearing my black pumps, which give me a couple of extra inches to work with, I finish the outfit with some jewelry—gold hoop earrings, and fifteen gold finger rings spread across one hand.
My phone pings with an incoming text.
Sawyer: I’m coming up.
Sighing, I put my phone, lipstick, and other essentials in my black clutch and head for the door. While I’m debating what coat to wear, he rings the doorbell, proving he can be civil when he wants to. Asshole.
I end up wearing my knee-length, black coat since you can never go wrong with black, right? Once it’s buttoned, I open the door, greeting Sawyer with a sharp nod.
“Are you ready?” he rasps in that overly sexy voice of his.
“Yep,” I say, trying to sound like I’m in charge. But the sad reality is it comes out as a croak because… damn.
Sawyer stands before me, his presence commanding attention as he exudes confidence and allure. He has pulled his shoulder-long hair back into a sleek man-bun, adding a touch of rugged charm to his appearance. Each strand falls perfectly into place, framing his chiseled features and drawing attention to his intense, dark eyes.
Dressed in a tailored dark green suit that fits him perfectly, Sawyer cuts a striking figure. Every detail of the suit highlights his body, from the sharp lines of the jacket to the perfectly pressed trousers that hug his bulging frame.
His long beard is neatly combed and trimmed, adding masculinity to his otherwise polished appearance. And fuck me, the way it accentuates the contours of his jawline is… it’s turning me on, and making me want to lick his cheekbones.
As our eyes meet, I can see desire burning in his gaze, and I’m pretty sure the same lust is reflected in my eyes. “You look stunning,” Sawyer says, his voice low and husky, his dark eyes lingering on me with a mixture of admiration and desire.
I want to laugh since he doesn’t know what I’m wearing under the coat, and he already saw my hair and makeup when he was here only an hour ago. “Thank you,” I reply, licking my lips.
With a nod, Sawyer gestures toward the stairs. “Shall we?” he asks, his tone casual yet tinged with an undercurrent of anticipation.
The words sound so oddly stiff and formal from him that I let out a nervous giggle. I quickly pull myself together and nod as I take the first step. When we reach the bottom, Sawyer takes my hand, squeezing it. Though it’s nothing more than what I’d expect, it doesn’t feel like a role he’s playing when he looks at me. And when he squeezes my hand a second time, it almost feels like a reassurance that we’re in this together. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.