Chapter 11
11
ARIA
I still hate Nicolas— a.k.a, my husband. I hate his guts. I hate the cruel things I’ve heard about him and the brutal words he’s said to me. I hate the way he acts like he’s the boss of the whole world, and I hate that he’s a selfish jerk who cares about no one but himself.
But… I don’t hate his touch.
I should’ve known Nicolas had an ulterior motive for sending me a dress with such a high slit. But even knowing that, I don’t hate it. I don’t hate the feel of his hands on me. Even though he’s touching my legs, I feel it everywhere. His touch is electrifying, and without a doubt, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
At first, it felt like a game—his hand beneath the table, a silent challenge. But now, as his fingers move higher, my thoughts scatter. The entire room fades away. The clink of silverware, the low murmur of voices—it all blurs into the background.
I don’t want him to stop.
When his finger grazes the fabric of my panties, I fight the urge to close my eyes and tilt my head back. He runs it along the seam again, his grip tightening on my thigh. I can feel him watching me, and I know he’s fully aware of the havoc he’s wreaking on my body.
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
I bite my lip, trying to stay composed. But then he leans even closer, his finger brushing against the seam again, and I almost moan.
What the fuck.
He grins. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his tone teasing.
I can’t answer. I want to, but the words don’t come. My body betrays me, leaning into his touch. My thoughts swirl with things I shouldn’t be thinking.
Nicolas has long fingers. If he slid one inside me, how deep would it go? If I feel like this just from his touch now, how good would it feel when?—
Before I can even finish the thought, I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. Marco just walked in.
I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight. I won’t deny the relief I felt when I didn’t see him earlier; a small part of me had hoped he wouldn’t show up. But there he is, striding into the restaurant with his shoulders high and chin squared.
I noticed on the day of the wedding—the wedding he forced me into—that he started holding his shoulders a little higher. He already walked and acted like he owned the world before. Now, the arrogance has tripled.
He’s wearing a peach suit so loud you can spot it from miles away, and he doesn’t bother acknowledging the people greeting him as he makes his way across the room.
I think I stare at him for too long, because suddenly, his head turns. The second his eyes lock on mine, he winks, and that smug grin spreads even wider across his face.
The second I see that smile, the spell I was just under shatters.
I shift my legs away from Nicolas’s hand, and the sudden loss of his warmth feels colder than I expected. I glance at him; his jaw is tight, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. But he doesn’t say anything.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I mutter, pushing my chair back. When I stand up, my knees are weak, and I have to grip the table for support for a few seconds.
Nicolas notices the stumble, his dark eyes following my every move, but he doesn’t comment. It‘s like watching the mask slip, the asshole I know creeping back into place.
I walk as steadily as I can, trying not to think about Nicolas or Marco or that my entire body is still on fire from Nicolas’ touch.
When I finally reach the bathroom, I step inside and shut the door behind me. But before I can even lock it, it swings open again.
Marco steps inside, his broad frame blocking the light from the hallway. His sharp eyes scan me from head to toe.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his tone deceptively casual. “You’re as red as a tomato.”
I glance at the mirror and realize he’s right. My cheeks are flushed.
“I-I’m fine.”
“Good. So, how’s married life treating you?” he adds, leaning casually against the doorframe.
For some reason, I think he’s asking because he actually cares.
I cross my arms, leaning back against the sink, ready to tell him how hard it’s been, how Nicolas brought up our father. How cruel he’s been. “After the ceremony, I?—”
But Marco cuts me off, his expression hardening.
“Don’t forget why you’re here, Aria.”
His voice is sharp, a warning cloaked in charm. He winks, adjusts his tie, and walks away, leaving me alone, the weight of his words sinking into my chest.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The flush in my cheeks has completely faded, and the tingling sensation from Nicolas’ touch is long gone. Uder the harsh fluorescent lights, my face looks pale, almost ghostly. My heart feels heavy, like it’s slowly sinking into the pit of my stomach.
I take a deep breath, smoothing down my dress with trembling hands. Whatever warmth I felt at the table, whatever fleeting connection Nicolas and I shared—it doesn’t matter. It was an illusion.
And if I want to avoid breaking my own heart, I need to remember that.
When I step out of the bathroom, I almost collide with someone.
“Aria.”
The voice stops me cold—familiar, low, and paired with a perfume I recognize instantly. I look up and see Elena.
Her black dress clings to her elegant figure, perfectly tailored. Her glossy, wavy hair cascades over her shoulders, gleaming under the soft hallway lighting like polished glass. She smiles, red lips curving upward with an effortless confidence that’s almost intimidating in its perfection.
“Elena,” I manage
“Hi pretty girl,” she says, her smile widening like she’s greeting an old friend. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”
“You have?”
“Of course!” she beams. “I mean, who wouldn’t? A Rossi marrying a Paolo—it’s the kind of news that shakes the room. And so fast, too! It should’ve been the wedding of the year. But what happened? Why the rush?”
I pause, unsure how to respond. I’ve never been good at these kinds of exchanges. Small talk with women like Elena feels like walking on a tightrope—one wrong step, and I’ll fall. Is this how friendships with women are supposed to work? You meet once, and suddenly you’re diving headfirst into gossip and personal questions?
I force a laugh, trying to sound as casual as she does. “I guess we were just so madly in love that we couldn’t wait another day.”
She laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder. It’s impossible to tell if she buys the story, but the truth is, I don’t care.
“Well, the why doesn’t matter anyway. Congratulations on the marriage,” she says, her smile finally reaching her eyes. But even then, it doesn’t feel entirely genuine. I can’t figure her out.
Then again, when have I ever been able to figure anybody out? Not even myself.
“How’s it going so far?” she asks, her gaze never leaving mine.
“It’s… fine,” I say, unsure of what else to say.
“Fine?” She arches an eyebrow, tilting her head, clearly unconvinced. “You don’t sound convinced.”
I force a small smile, my throat tightening slightly. “It’s just… new. A lot to get used to.”
Her expression softens, just a fraction, She sighs, as if reflecting on something deeper. “That’s understandable. Marriage is… complicated, especially in our world.”
I nod, not sure how to respond. What does she mean by ‘our world’? Is she married too? I don’t even know her last name.
Elena leads me back into the restaurant, her heels clicking softly on the floor, and gestures toward the bar at the far end of the room. “Want to grab a drink? I could use the company.”
I hesitate, but her tone is so effortless and inviting that it feels impossible to say no. Plus, when I glance at our table, I notice Nicolas is no longer there. “Sure,” I say, my voice sounding more uncertain than I intended.
We walk toward the bar, and Elena orders a glass of wine with a casual ease. I opt for water, needing the clarity.
“How are you adjusting?” she asks, her tone still light, but I can feel her eyes studying me closely, reading me in a way I’m not used to.
I take a sip of my water, stalling for time. “It’s different,” I admit, my voice hesitant. “But I’m managing.”
She leans casually against the bar, her arms folded with a nonchalant air, but her eyes stay sharp. “Nicolas must not be the easiest man to live with.”
I let out a small laugh, surprising myself. “You can say that again.”
“I heard he’s not as bad as he seems. Just… complicated.”
I nod, unsure if I agree. To be honest, I have no idea why I even agreed to have this drink with her or why we’re having this conversation.
I’m just tired of being surrounded by people who don’t actually care about ‘how I’m adjusting,’ like Elena just asked. They only care about what I can give them and nothing more.
Elena finishes her wine and glances at me. “You’ll be fine, Aria. You’re stronger than you think.”
Her words catch me off guard, unexpected in their sincerity. But before I can respond, she straightens. “We should get back before your husband starts wondering where you are.”
When we return to the table, Nicolas is there, exactly where I left him—sitting, almost as if he never moved. But he doesn’t look at me.
He’s leaning back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping on the armrest. His face is unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on something across the room, distant.
I sit down quietly, smoothing the fabric of my dress, deliberately avoiding his gaze.
And though I try to ignore it, the weight of Marco’s words gnaws at the back of my mind. This is just a game. Nothing more.
After a few more introductions, dinner finally ends, and we head home.
The house is silent when we return. The quiet pressing down on me. The dinner left me drained, and I don’t remember much after crawling into bed.
But now, I’m awake, my eyes snapping open in the dead of night. The air in the room is cold, and it settles in my bones, a chill I can’t shake.
I turn my head.
The space beside me is empty. The sheets lie untouched, cool to the touch. Nicolas isn’t here.
My stomach tightens, unsure of how to process his absence. It's a strange mixture of curiosity and unease as I glance around. I throw back the covers and stand, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon seeping through the curtains.
I grab the robe draped over the chair, slipping it on as I move.
I check the bathroom—Nicolas isn’t there either.
The house is eerily quiet, and I can’t help but hope he’s not around. The guards will most likely be stationed outside, leaving me the perfect opportunity to search the house for any clues.
I open the door as silently as possible, stepping into the dim hallway. My bare feet make no sound on the hardwood floors, and I tread lightly, cautious, my heartbeat picking up with each step.
The mansion feels different at night. The grandeur that seems so luxurious by day now feel cold, empty, almost ominous. The shadows stretch long across the walls, giving the space the vibe of a horror movie set.
I’m about to open one of the doors when a sound halts me in my tracks.
A thud. It’s coming from downstairs. I freeze, my pulse quickening as I drop my hand from the door.
Another thud.
What’s that?
The comparison to a horror movie makes me uneasy, a chill creeping up my arms as I hear the sound again.
I take a slow, steady breath and head toward the noise, my steps more deliberate now. As I descend the stairs, the sound grows clearer. Someone is struggling to speak, their voice broken, and I think I hear ‘ Please… I’m sorry.’
My fingers grip the banister tightly as I reach the bottom of the stairs.
The sound is coming from behind a closed door at the far end of the hall.
I move closer, my heart thudding so loudly I swear it’s trying to escape my chest. The air here feels different, heavy, charged with tension.
I reach the door and pause, pressing my ear against it. The voices are clearer now. One of them is Nicolas’s.
My hand trembles as I grip the doorknob. I hesitate for a moment, then slowly turn it, easing the door open just enough to peek inside.
What I see steals my breath.
A man is kneeling on the floor, his hands bound behind him. His face is bruised, and blood drips from the corner of his mouth. He looks terrified, no, beyond terrified.
Nicolas stands off to the side, his expression unreadable. Another man, one of Nicolas’s, holds a gun, the barrel pressed against the kneeling man’s temple.
My body freezes, my mind struggling to comprehend the nightmare unfolding before me.
Then, without warning, the gun goes off. The sound is deafening, a violent crash that tears through the silence like a clap of thunder. A burst of warmth hits my face.
I glance down at the body on the floor, then touch the warm liquid on my cheek, bringing my fingers up to my face. It’s blood.
What the hell?
I don’t even realize I’ve screamed until the echo reverberates in the air around me.
My legs move on their own, carrying me away from the room, up the stairs. I don’t stop until I reach my bedroom, then the bathroom.
I slam the door behind me, my back pressed against it, my chest heaving as I gasp for air.
The kneeling man. The gun. The blood.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes wide with shock. When I see the blood smeared across my face, streaked along my cheek, staining the edge of my robe, I shudder. My knees buckle, threatening to give way beneath me.
I stumble toward the sink, turning the tap on full blast. The cold water rushes out, and I scrub at my face, my hands moving frantically. The water turns pink as it washes away the blood, but it doesn’t feel like enough.
I claw at the robe, tearing it off and tossing it to the floor. Then I strip off the rest of my clothes and step into the shower, cranking the water up to its hottest setting. The spray hits my skin like needles, but I don’t care. I scrub at my body, my nails digging into my skin, desperate to wash away the feeling of the blood, the image of what I just witnessed.
Tears stream down my face, mixing with the water. My shoulders tremble, and sobs wrack through my body.
I can’t stop seeing it. The fear in the man’s eyes. The moment his body crumpled to the floor. The gunshot still echoes in my ears.
Then another sound jolts me out of my thoughts, and I whirl around, heart hammering in my chest.
Nicolas is standing there.