20. Simone
SIMONE
T he next afternoon, I find a package on my bed.
It's wrapped in expensive black paper with a silver ribbon, the kind of packaging that screams luxury boutique. For a moment, I just stare at it, until I see the small card tucked under the ribbon with my name written in Tristan's bold handwriting.
My hands shake slightly as I untie the ribbon and peel back the paper.
Inside is a dress—a stunning red cocktail dress that probably cost a fortune and is exactly my style—sleek, elegant, and simple.
The fabric is silk, cut in a way that will hug my curves while still maintaining an air of sophistication.
Beneath it are matching heels—a pair of delicate, strappy nude Louboutins that will make my legs look endless—and a small black velvet box containing a set of diamond earrings and a waterfall necklace that takes my breath away.
There’s probably fifteen thousand dollars' worth of gifts at least sitting on my bed. I stare at them, remembering our last fight. I wonder if this is Tristan’s new tactic. Punishing me hasn’t worked, and fighting with me hasn’t worked, so now… what? He tempts me with gifts? Tries spoiling me?
I’m tempted to throw it all into the trash and tell him to go fuck himself, until I see that there’s another note tucked inside the box.
Be ready by seven.
–Tristan
I let out a sharp breath, looking at the dress and heels and jewelry, and then at the note. He has something planned, and though my rebellious instinct is to ignore him, throw all this away, and decidedly not be downstairs by seven, my curiosity is already getting the better of me.
What the hell is he planning?
Two hours later, I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, fully aware of how perfect every choice that Tristan made was.
The dress fits like it was made for me, skimming over my curves with the perfect, sleek fall of the silk.
The diamonds catch the light and show off the lines of my throat and collarbone, drawing attention to the swell of my cleavage in the red silk dress, and the heels show off my legs, the split in the skirt finishing off the effect.
With my hair swept up in an elegant updo, I know exactly how good I look.
At the very least, this entire outfit is going to drive Tristan insane. If I have my way, he won’t get to touch me in it.
But I rarely get my way with him.
Tristan is waiting downstairs for me, when I walk down precisely at seven.
He’s wearing a perfectly tailored dark grey suit, his copper hair styled back away from his face and his green eyes gleaming with heat the instant he sees me, intense and focused on me in a way that sends a shiver down my spine.
"You look..." He stops, his gaze traveling slowly from my head to my feet and back up again. "Beautiful."
The compliment tingles over my skin, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. "What is this, Tristan?"
"Dinner," he says simply, offering me his arm. "Just dinner."
I don't take his arm immediately. "Why?"
"Because I want to take my wife out." His voice is carefully neutral, but I can see something flickering in his eyes. "Is that so strange?"
It is strange. Everything about this is strange.
The man who forces me to my knees and threatens to spank me when I disobey him doesn't strike me as the type to plan romantic evenings out.
But I find myself taking his arm anyway, because the alternative is staying in this mansion with nothing but my thoughts and the armed guards for company.
The restaurant he takes me to is the kind of place that requires reservations months in advance, extravagant and luxurious in the extreme, with a curated menu and wine list that costs more than some people’s monthly rent for a bottle.
We're escorted to a private table in the back by a gorgeous blonde in a skintight dress and high heels, but Tristan barely looks at her. His hand rests on the small of my back from the moment we leave the car—where, for once, he didn’t try to touch me, and I’m entirely on edge, waiting to find out what this is all about.
Tristan pulls out my chair for me, and I narrow my eyes at him as he sits down, picking up the wine list. “What is this, Tristan?”
He shrugs, his expression calm and cool. “Maybe I wanted a night out with my wife.”
“There’s always an ulterior motive. You’ve never taken me out.”
“I haven’t gotten a chance to.”
“Bullshit,” I say the word quietly, though I see the flash in his eyes, and I know the threat that’s about to come from his lips. “Don’t bother saying it, either. I know what you want to do with my mouth. What I want to know is what you’re plotting.”
“So suspicious.” His mouth curls in an amused smirk. “Why does there have to be an ulterior motive?”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. “Because this isn’t your style.”
Tristan’s gaze lingers on mine. “And what, exactly, is my style , célie ?”
I bite my lip. “Demanding things of me. Taking what you want. Putting me in my place. Stealing what doesn’t belong to you. Should I go on?” I smile sweetly at him. “Not spoiling your wife with tens of thousands of dollars in gifts and a luxurious dinner out.”
Tristan raises one shoulder in an elegant half-shrug. “Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
The words hang between us, making me shift uncomfortably in my chair.
He’s right about that, whether I want to admit it or not.
I don’t know him at all, not really. I know he has an overbearing father, I know he takes what he wants, and I know he’s both powerful and dangerous.
I know he makes me feel things that I can’t help but fight. But I don’t know him .
Just as he doesn’t really know me.
“It wouldn’t make a difference,” I manage. “Knowing you isn’t going to make me like you more, Tristan.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He pauses as the waiter comes by, glancing at me. “Red or white?” he asks me, and I pause, surprised he’s bothering to get my opinion.
“Red,” I say finally, and he nods to the waiter.
“I’ll take the sommelier’s recommendation. Your best bottle of red.”
He looks at me, across the flickering candles between us. “What do you want to know about me, Simone?”
“Nothing,” I reply tartly, but it’s lost a bit of its bite. Whether I like it or not, he’s piqued my curiosity. And I think he knows that, from the way he’s looking at me with that tilt at the corners of his mouth.
“Did you ever want siblings, Simone?”
The change in topic startles me. “No,” I reply, just as quickly. “But I think my father was always disappointed that he didn’t have a son.”
“Why didn’t he marry again?” Tristan asks curiously. “Most mafia dons wouldn’t be content to not pass on their name.”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “We never talked about it. We didn’t talk much, honestly. He had his expectations for me, and he’d ask me about how I was progressing in school, music lessons, that sort of thing over meals. But we never talked about anything… personal.”
“I see.” Tristan’s gaze holds mine, and I curl my lip with irritation.
“See what?”
“Why it’s so hard for you to relax. To open up.”
“Because you’re such a fount of personal warmth,” I snap back, and he grins.
“Ask me something. Anything.”
I let out a breath through my teeth, but for some reason, I’m inclined to humor him. I can’t really figure out why, but for once, I don’t want to fight him on something so simple. “How many siblings do you have?” I ask finally, and he smiles.
“See how easy that was? Two,” he adds. “A brother and a sister. I’m in between the two of them. The middle child.”
“That explains so much.”
Tristan chuckles, pausing again as the waiter returns with the wine. It’s rich and dry and smells earthy, and I breathe in the scent, savoring it.
“My father taught us that strength was more important than anything else,” he says a moment later, taking a sip of his wine.
“Me and my brother, at least. My sister was taught sweetness and compliance. My father is old-fashioned. He believes in tradition, in rules, in hierarchy. I’ve been raised with those beliefs all my life.
Had them drilled into me from a young age.
” He lets out a slow breath. “My entire life, I’ve wanted to prove to him that I’m more than just a second son.
More than just a spare heir and the child in between the two he can use for his benefit.
I always wanted to impress him. And it’s always felt like a Sisyphean task, like rolling the boulder up the hill only to need to start all over again. ”
I take another sip, setting my glass down gently. “And that should make me… what? Sympathize with how you took over everything my father built? Understand why you’ve treated me the way you have?”
Tristan lets out a slow breath. “I don’t expect sympathy from you, Simone. But I would like to work toward understanding. It doesn’t have to be like this—how it’s been between us. None of it does.”
“Why should it be different?” I raise my glass to my lips again. “Maybe I don’t want to make it easy on you.”
“Maybe I want it to be easier on you ,” he counters. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t hate you the way you hate me?”
I scoff. “I find that hard to believe.”
“ Do you even really hate me?” Tristan looks at me keenly, his green gaze holding mine. “Or do you hate the situation? The fact that all of this wasn’t your choice?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t try to act like it’s different. You’re the reason I’m in this situation. You are the situation.”
“No,” Tristan says calmly. “Your father is the reason you’re in this situation. I merely took what was offered to me.”
My anger surges back up, bright and hot. “I didn’t offer it to you.”
“No,” he agrees, and I see a flicker of emotion in his eyes, something that startles me. “No, you didn’t.”
The waiter comes back to get our appetizer orders—a kale salad for me and the calamari for Tristan—and Tristan refills our wine glasses.