38. -37-
Nina
Mindlessly staring at the busy street through the restaurant window, I prayed for the torture to finally end. Arianna spoke to the catering company, selected the food, drinks, and desserts, but insisted I choose the wedding cake.
The sweet smell of vanilla, raspberry, and chocolate turned my stomach. My fingers clutched the menu, my eyes drifting over words I didn’t process.
I didn’t belong here. Shit! I would do anything to just evaporate into thin air and never look back.
Still, my mind wasn’t fully in this restaurant, at this table, anywhere near Arianna’s carefully crafted plan to fool her son into thinking that everything went by the book.
It lingered elsewhere. On a simple message sent by a man who occupied my mind so much that if my psychiatrist knew how deep my obsession ran, he would prescribe severe medication and isolation, maybe even a straitjacket.
Dorian. My precious Dorian with his playful smile and unimaginably skillful tongue.
I instinctively pressed my thighs together at the memory of his mouth between my legs, destructive fire igniting in my chest. I had to see him, at least for a second, at least a glimpse of him to get my dose and survive this nightmare.
But I couldn’t risk it. Not here, not in public, not with people watching and expectations pressing in from all sides.
Three hours later, I dropped my black purse on the floor in my apartment and threw myself on the cream sofa. The exhaustion and helplessness gripping me were palpable.
This wasn’t my life. It was a cage wrapped in silk, tightening around me with every second that passed.
I had to speed things up.
I had to end this agony and claim Dorian as my husband.
I had to…
My eyes landed on the papers scattered on the coffee table.
The marriage certificate, Lucas’s approval to become a wedding officiant, my notes about another kidnapping, and the medical report of the girl, bearing Dorian’s signature.
I stole it from his house, intending to forge his handwriting and deliver the certificate to the authorities, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I held the pen in my hand for almost half an hour this morning, but didn’t dare write his name next to mine.
How strange was that? I could kill a woman who touched him, but couldn’t sign a fucking paper on his behalf.
With a renewed determination, I knelt beside the coffee table and grabbed the pen. But instead of finally ending my misery, my hands snapped it in half in a surge of fury.
I wanted him to sign that fucking paper. Him. No one else. Not me, driven by desperation. Not Lucas, because he witnessed my fight.
Him. Dorian.
It would prove he wanted me, that he chose me despite everything.
Fuck!
My naivety was making me sick. Who, in their right mind, would expect anything other than a bullet to the head after everything I’d done?
I'd dragged mafia royalty into my reckless plan. They didn’t forgive and forget; quite the opposite. Zyon would happily make an example out of me and crucify me in the middle of Manhattan to send a message.
Still, death didn’t scare me. Since I was thirteen, when I first stepped into my father’s house, my grandfather made sure I was prepared to face the end at any moment. But why should it come right after I found my perfect match?
It wasn’t love, that much I knew. Love was soft, gentle, forgiving. It didn’t claw at your insides or set your bones on fire until you couldn’t think straight.
What I felt for Dorian was something else entirely, something feral, something that itched beneath my skin no matter how much I tried to get rid of it. A constant, burning presence that refused to be ignored, but instead demanded more, always more.
It was infuriating, making me feel like an idiot. Still, I would burn the world for him without hesitation. I would kill, lie, and destroy everything in my path just to keep him within reach. As pathetic as it was, I would do the unthinkable if it meant I got to have him.
But I couldn’t sign his name on that fucking piece of paper.
My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm as frustration coiled tighter in my chest. Of all the lines I had crossed, all the rules I had shattered without a second thought, this was the one thing that stopped me.
It wasn’t fear nor the consequences. It was him. Because crossing this one single line would mean nothing. It couldn’t give me his loyalty, his protection, his… heart.
The realization felt like a punch straight in the middle of my face. His heart, that’s what I craved. The obsession I tried to name twisted into something else entirely.
Feelings! Fucking feelings!
The foundation of my plan, the forced marriage that was supposed to save me, had turned against me like a rusted blade, ready to finish me off.
“Fuck,” I breathed, dragging a hand over my face.
When, in that chain of disasters, had I made such a fatal mistake?
When did I start to care?
My existential crisis was interrupted at the best possible moment by the very reason behind it. Dorian texted me. After hours of giving his attention to patients, he remembered my existence.
Handsome husband: Sorry, ma vilaine. Work got in the way. Is everything okay?
My fingers typed the stupid reply of their own accord, putting every ounce of my frustration into it.
Nina: I took care of it. You stay with your patients.
At least I didn’t write precious patients. That would expose my stupid jealousy and possessiveness.
Handsome husband: Is it just my imagination, or are you angry at me because I work?
I threw the phone on the sofa with a groan, refusing to entertain the question. Because yes. I was furious that he gave attention to others instead of me.
He was mine. He belonged to me. Why did they have him while I couldn’t?
Swallowing the urge to scream in irritation, I sat behind the piano. My fingers traced the keys, the familiar coldness seeping into my skin.
For a moment, I hesitated. It had been more than three years since the accident, since my dreams of becoming a world-renowned pianist were shattered.
I’d carefully built walls around my heart, hiding the pain of losing the ability to perform.
That barrier blocked everything that could hurt me, shielding me from the constant reminder of what I lost that night.
The silence around me stretched, as if even the instrument was waiting to see if I still remembered how to transform simple tones into full-blown acts.
Pressing the first key, a low, trembling note echoed through the room, vibrating deep inside my chest. Another followed.
Then another. Slowly, uncertainly at first, like testing the ground beneath my feet after years of standing still.
But it didn’t take long. The melody found me, or maybe I found the path to meet it halfway.
It started soft, mirroring the tight coil of frustration in my chest. The notes clashed like thoughts I couldn’t silence, like the constant pull of him in my mind.
Dorian. Always Dorian. Every chord carried his name, every shift in rhythm echoed the chaos I brought into his perfectly calculated world.
My fingers moved faster, ignoring the disability of my right ring finger. The music deepened, growing darker, heavier, the melody twisting into an obsessive, consuming surge. It burned through me, exactly like he did, relentless, impossible to ignore or to escape.
But with the thought of him, the tones softened. They weren’t calm. There was no calm with him. It was different. A dangerous, unfamiliar emotion that made my chest clench and my breath hitch.
Love.
The uncertain feeling bled into the melody, reshaping it into something I didn’t recognize anymore. My control slipped. My hands faltered for a fraction of a second before crashing back onto the keys, the sound rising, filling the apartment, swallowing every rational thought left in my mind.
There was nothing but the tune that burst right from my soul.
The genius in me, capable of creating ballads that would turn the audience into a crying mess, composed without my intervention.
The hibernating prodigy, admired by people who would cross the ocean to see me perform, woke up, pouring my heart through the instrument.
All my fears, pain, and despair were told through the music, complemented by touches of unwelcome emotions caused by the man who owned me. Even this piece, composed from nothing but pure irritation, belonged to him.
I didn’t finish it. Right before the grand ending, I cut it off. The last tones resonated through the space, and silence settled.
Reluctantly, I took a piece of paper to write down the notes.
With every move of the pen, I heard them in my ears again, replaying in my head over and over until a buzzing phone disrupted the trance.
My hand stopped, hovering over the paper, but the cell didn’t stop.
With a sigh, I walked to the sofa, reading the caller ID. Lucas.
“Where are you?” I barked into the phone, plopping into the decorative cushions. “I’ve been calling you since this morning.”
“I’m at Matilda’s place,” he answered calmly, ignoring my attacking tone.
“Matilda?” I echoed, my brows furrowing in confusion. “Matilda Santangelo?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “She asked me for help. Wanna join us?”
“Can I?” I put my feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. “I’m forbidden to contact her.”
Granny Santangelo visited me six months ago, after my grandpa’s actions against Zyon Zhumagulov were made public, and banned me from contacting her granddaughters.
We grew up together, and it was a low blow, but I couldn’t do much.
When I secretly contacted them, Diana Santangelo, Matilda's older sister, told me not to push my luck.
Every Italian family was against us. So, I kept my distance, hoping it would pass over time.
“Yes, you can come,” Lucas said, dispelling my concerns.
“I’m on my way.”
I ended the call, glaring at the marriage certificate lying peacefully on the floor. Like it wasn’t simultaneously the entrance into heaven and hell.
One afternoon with my friends couldn’t hurt, right? Everyone deserved a break.