Chapter 7
KARINA
Dinner last night was a tense, mostly silent affair. I suppose I might have felt more uncomfortable if most of the dinners at my uncle’s house weren’t exactly like it. Afterward, I went to the library to read until finally dragging myself to bed just before midnight.
Marco was absent from our bed once again. Not that I expected him to suddenly return after the ground rules I set earlier.
As I laid there, sleeplessly staring up at the ceiling, I began to second-guess myself.
Speaking up is foreign for me, and maybe I’d only made things worse.
In fact, I was sure that I had. What husband wants to be told by his wife that sex is off the table?
But at the same time, I reasoned, Marco married me on false pretenses, so our entire relationship is a lie.
Why should I have to continue giving up my body freely in this situation?
Unsurprisingly, I barely slept.
Waking up today, my insides feel twisted up, my body humming with restlessness.
This house is very quickly becoming yet another cage for me.
Considering I’ve been mostly confined to this bedroom, the library, or the dining room, I’m dying to get out of here.
I need to move, to get some air. To take some space for myself.
This huge house feels completely claustrophobic.
I tug my leggings on under the same V-neck I borrowed from Marco yesterday, but as I’m getting ready to go to the dining room for breakfast, the bedroom door opens and closes with a bang. I watch in the bathroom mirror as Marco crosses the room and then comes to stand in the doorway.
“We’re going to talk terms. I’d like to clarify some things,” he says.
He sounds bored. Tension snaps between us and it sucks. Things have always felt so open and easy before, but now, I feel like I’m looking at a stranger.
“Like what?” I say, fussing with my hair just to give myself something to do.
“Bedroom situation, ground rules, however you want to do this,” he says.
Working to keep the wobble out of my voice, I say, “Okay.”
I can’t stand to look him in the eye right now. I don’t want to be swayed by his presence, his steely gaze, his scent. Marco leans a shoulder against the frame and lets out a long breath.
“Look, I’m happy to play along with your demands, but I don’t understand why you’re punishing both of us, considering the fact that you want the sex as much as I do.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks. I can’t deny the truth of that. But I’m going to anyway.
“Everything about us is a lie, Marco. Sex isn’t just a…a physical act for me, and even if it was, I’m not the kind of woman to let a man disrespect me and use me for my body just because it feels good.”
A sound comes out of him that sounds a bit sarcastic.
“Jesus, Karina. I do respect you. It’s not about that.
But listen to yourself, getting on your high horse.
Shit, before I met you, you’d never even been kissed.
And now you’re telling me you want to throw away the connection we have, the pleasure I can give you, and for what? To make a point?”
“Sounds to me like you’re pouting because you won’t be getting your dick sucked,” I snipe back, letting all my pent-up anger and humiliation and—yes, fine—sexual frustration get the best of me.
He smirks. “Oh, that part won’t be a problem. I’d just rather get off at home.”
His words hit me like a slap. Damn him. Enough.
I rip my eyes away from the mirror and turn to scowl at him.
He’s smug, his hands shoved loosely in the pockets of his dress pants.
I might be na?ve, but I’m not oblivious to what he’s implying.
That he’d be happy to cheat on me. I don’t respond as I move past him and stalk into the bedroom, past the bed, over to the window where I sulk. He follows me.
“You’ve said your piece, now I’ll say mine,” he says, grabbing my upper arm firmly and turning me toward him.
“You’re not to leave the property without my permission.
This is your only safe zone. Since you’ve decided to stay, you’ll obey the rules I’ve set to guarantee your protection and well-being, and you won’t question them. ”
All I can do is glare in response. So this is what our shitty marriage looks like going forward: not unlike my old life.
I’m trapped. Confined, yet again, for my own “safety.” Except this time, I don’t know if I’ll even be granted allowances to leave the Bellanti grounds.
At least my uncle let me out semiregularly, even if it was with chaperones and personal drivers.
Knowing I chose this particular cage for myself doesn’t make it feel any less restrictive.
“Do you agree?” Marco prods.
“Fine. Yes. I agree.”
Without warning, he grabs my other arm and pulls me tight against him. I gasp, my hands going flat against his chest. The warmth of his breath washes over my neck as he dips his head down, his lips brushing my ear, his hips lightly grinding against mine.
“You sure you want to give this up?” he whispers.
Desire floods me instantly. My tongue can lie but my body can’t. I don’t want to give it up. He’s only just introduced me to pleasure, and now I’m going to deny myself. But it’s a small price to pay to keep some semblance of pride and self-ownership.
The bulge in his pants presses against the apex of my thighs. Little tingles burst in my center at the contact. Stay strong, I silently tell myself.
“Yes,” I lie, pulling away from him. “I’m positive.”
Still breathing quicker than I’d like, I cross my arms over my chest.
Marco just shrugs. “Your call. And by the way, this house doesn’t need to be your prison. It’s your home. But it’s up to you what you make of it.”
I let out a disgusted huff. “What am I supposed to do all day? There’s nothing here for me but the library, and most of those books are crumbly and old, not to mention nonfiction.”
Marco’s lips twitch, as if he’s holding back a laugh. Bastard. How dare he find amusement in my suffering.
He clears his throat. “The vineyards are lovely for walking. There are various trails. There are horses. The pool is heated. You may garden, as I mentioned before, and—”
“So I can walk or ride or plant flowers in endless circles, essentially?”
Marco doesn’t respond. His expression shifts, hardens. Reaching into his back pocket, he withdraws his wallet and opens it. He pulls a thick, metallic black card out and all but shoves it into my hand.
“Here. Why don’t you go ahead and amuse yourself by shopping, like every other woman does,” he says.
“Where am I even allowed to go shopping?”
“I have no doubt that the world wide web can easily provide you with whatever you might dream of,” he says dryly.
The credit card is heavy, the feel of it almost uncomfortable, but not more so than the cruel, condescending tone of Marco’s voice.
He is very quickly turning into somebody I don’t recognize.
“One more thing. We are having a small gathering here tomorrow to unveil my new race car. I’ll arrange for somebody to take you into town to find something appropriate to wear.”
With that, he leaves.
Pissed off at Marco and determined to treat myself, I flop onto the bed with my cell in hand and use my new black card to order all of Jane Austen’s books online from an independent bookstore in Portland that I love.
With express shipping and all. Then I do a little Google research before buying a bunch of heinously expensive chocolate from an artisanal shop in Switzerland.
Having blown through a few hundred dollars in less than twenty minutes, I get an instant high.
But once the heady rush tapers off, I realize that I haven’t improved my situation much at all. I don’t know what else to even buy.
With a sigh, I slide the card and my phone into the top drawer of the nightstand and head to the dining room.
The scent of bacon wafts down the hall and momentarily makes me forget my misery.
I’ve been too stressed to feed myself properly lately, and I’m delighted when I see plates of rolled French crepes, still-steaming bacon, and sliced fruit waiting on the table.
None of the Bellantis are here this late in the morning, but I know the single place setting is mine because the kitchen staff is still cleaning up and clearing away used dishes, and one of them smiles and nods at me when I gesture questioningly toward the clean plate.
“Coffee for you as well, Mrs. Bellanti?” she asks.
“Yes, please. And thank you,” I say.
I’m on my second helping of crepes heaped with juicy blackberries and pure, smoky maple syrup when the sound of the door swinging open behind me makes me freeze mid-bite.
But when I turn around, heart pounding, it’s Frankie standing at the door. Her face is etched with tiredness and worry and her eyes are glassy when she catches my gaze, but she smiles at me through her pain anyway. It only strengthens the kinship I feel with her.
I want to ask about her sister, but I’m sure if there was any good news about Livvie, someone would have told me by now.
“Morning! Marco said I might find you here,” she says.
“Good morning,” I say cautiously, mentally preparing to be summoned to my husband’s office—or worse, Armani’s.
But what Frankie says instead is, “I almost hate to ask, but if you’re not busy today, I was wondering if you’d be interested in helping out at the vineyard? We’re harvesting varietal grapes this afternoon and I could really use another pair of hands.”
My eyes widen. Frankie seems to read this as a no.
“Oh, no worries if not, though. I just thought—”
“No, no, I’d love to!” I interrupt. “That sounds really fun. Except…what exactly does this entail? I have no, um, grape skills to speak of. But I’m game.”
She laughs and then eases into the chair next to mine to explain more.
Through a bit of technical jargon, I gather that one of the varieties is at peak ripeness and needs to be picked, all hands on deck, which leaves a deficit of workers on the line to sort the bad grapes from the good.
I’m curious about the whole process, and excited that Frankie is offering to mentor me.
But I also get the sense that she’s trying to stay busy to keep her mind off her sister.
“That all sounds amazing. I can’t wait,” I tell her.
“Great. We can head over now, except…do you mind if I have a little snack first?” she asks, sliding the plate of crepes toward her.
“Oh, of course not—please help yourself,” I say. “Nothing wrong with a second breakfast.”
“Thanks. It’s just, the baby smelled food and has gone on a ravenous kicking rampage.”
She puts her hands on her belly and a serene smile crosses her face. I’m about to pass her the syrup, but before I can, she loads a crepe with sliced bananas, bacon, and a river of chocolate sauce and then folds it like a taco. She shrugs as she catches my eye and takes a huge bite.
“Mmm,” she groans through the mouthful.
If I wasn’t so full already, I’d have to try a chocolate bacon crepe taco myself.
Minutes later, the baby apparently sated, Frankie takes me to the building where the grapes are sorted.
Workers are already busy unloading trucks that contain baskets of grapes and dumping them on the sorting line inside.
Frankie stays close to me, explaining more in detail about the different types of grapes and why the particular variety they are harvesting today is so special for the upcoming vintage.
She’s thrilled to answer all my questions, from how they know when the grapes are ready to what the stages in the winemaking process entail, from harvest to bottling to aging.
The whole thing is fascinating. Frankie is very adept in her knowledge of the vineyard and what needs to be done, and I watch her direct the process with warmth and efficiency. I could easily be intimidated if she didn’t make me feel so welcome.
An hour into helping sort the grapes, I find myself really enjoying it. Some of the other workers chat quietly, joking and laughing as if this is a genuinely good time and not just work.
“Well, what you think?” Frankie says as she sidles up to me.
“I love it. This whole process is so interesting, especially getting to actually take part in it. And actually, I’m kind of embarrassed to tell you this, but I’ve never had a real job before. This is all so, so cool,” I gush.
She raises one eyebrow and then smiles. “Well then, you’re hired.”
I smile so hard, my cheeks hurt. Glancing shyly down at my hands, I realize my fingers are tinted purple.
Frankie said something in the beginning about not wearing gloves because feeling the grapes is important for knowing which is good and which is not, but she forgot to mention that I’d end up with grape-stained hands.
“Don’t worry, I have a trick for getting that off with cornmeal and lemon juice,” Frankie says. “I’ll make sure you’re all cleaned up before we go shopping later.”
“Shopping? I couldn’t ask you to take me, Frankie. You have so many other things to worry about.”
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. I need to stay busy right now. There’s no other way for me to keep my head on straight while my…while all of this is going on.”
“Then I accept. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You can thank me in grape labor,” she teases, and then walks away.
I can’t help admiring Frankie—she’s smart and kind and tougher than I could ever imagine being in her place.
I’m so glad she took me under her wing like this.
I’ve done something useful with my hands and my time today.
Not only that, but I feel…welcome. Like I’m making a true friend here at the Bellanti estate.
Maybe I chose the right cage after all.