20. Caelia
I thinkMattia stood me up. He instructed Domenico to take me to this fancy restaurant where I had been waiting for almost half an hour. I was told he had an important business dinner, and I was to attend. As a distraction. As a pretty butterfly with clipped wings in a glass box on display. But I’m done waiting. He’s not here, and neither is his business partner. Standing up, I grab my purse and head toward the exit. I’m not delusional enough to think that I will get very far. I’m sure Domenico is still around, watching every breath I take. I need a ride home, and I’m not that stupid to attempt to escape tonight.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Benedetti?” The ma?tre d’, a gentleman old enough to be my father, asks me. His eyes are kind and almost concerned. I’m sure he wants to avoid any bad press for the restaurant and is not worried about me.
“Yes, thank you. Everything’s fine. I need some fresh air.”
He nods, opening the door for me. I get out in the chilly air of the night. Sweat sticks to my body, making me shiver. I stare in the distance for a few seconds at the heavy traffic in New York beyond the parking lot, at people laughing and chatting, the lights blinding me. I’m still afraid that anything I might say or do will set Mattia off, so I put some effort into this. I’m wearing a long black dress with a one-shoulder long sleeve. It has a high-side split on my left leg. It made me feel beautiful for a few seconds—such a stupid feeling. I curled my hair and applied some make-up. Why did I bother?
I take out my phone, ready to call Domenico, and tell him I know he’s lurking in the shadows and it’s time to take me to the mansion. As I dial, a loud motorcycle sneaks through the incoming traffic, turning right into the parking lot. It parks a few feet away from me. I lift my gaze, watching the man riding it. He’s wearing a black suit and tie, brown boots, and a dark helmet. The last thing I need is to get myself in trouble for staring at a stranger, so I pretend to be busy on my phone.
“Going anywhere, Wildfire?”
Frowning, I look back up. Mattia removed his helmet and now is slowly pulling the leather gloves from his tattooed hands. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry, and my heart is beating too fast. I didn’t know my husband owned a motorcycle, let alone that he knew how to ride one. I try to lock the reminder of who he is in a dark corner of my mind and wonder how things could be different if this were our first encounter. If I were a single woman being stood up at a restaurant, he’d turn up to save the night. It’s the only thing allowing me to admit that he’s attractive.
“I’m sorry,” I smile. “Do I know you?”
I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’ve never played games with him, and he never allowed me to. When he grins, I see the hint of his dimples.
“I don’t think we’ve met, but you look stunning, Miss. How about dinner?”
Mattia throws his long legs off the motorcycle, placing the helmet on the seat. He takes a second to adjust his jacket before stepping closer to me. I feel like the earth quivers under my feet.
“It’s Mrs.,” I correct him. “And I don’t think my husband would like that.”
“Fuck your husband.” The dimples are on full display now.
Say it louder, Mattia.
A shiver runs down my spine when he approaches me, taking my hand. He lowers his head, bringing it to his warm lips. He doesn’t allow himself to smile often enough to reveal the sight of his dimples. It’s foolish that this is all it takes to keep me playing this game. A part of me that needs to be silenced wishes to see those dimples again. They make him look younger. Careless. They soften his features, fooling me into thinking I could come to care about this version of him.
“I don’t think he’d like that either.” I laugh, my hand molding into his. He rubs small circles on my wrist before intertwining his fingers with mine. “And you look like you’re married too.” I point to the ring on his finger.
It’s painfully similar to mine, but it bears a different meaning. It means nothing to him, while for me, it’s a death sentence.
“You’re right. And my wife is stunning.”
I still don’t know how to handle his compliments, and I’ve heard loads recently. He tells me I’m beautiful, that he can’t take his eyes away from me, and that he wants to worship my body. And I allow him. It makes my life easier.
“Then what are you doing here?”
“My wife also hates me,” he adds.
He’s not wrong.
“Maybe she’ll forgive you one day.”
The hell she will.
“No, she won’t.” He shakes his head, a dark expression crossing his face.
He places one palm on my lower back, the other at the back of my head, pulling me closer. He stares into my eyes before his mouth overpowers mine, forcing me to part my lips. My tongue has a mind of its own. He never kisses me with mercy. It’s always ruthless, taking possession of my mouth, claiming what he thinks it’s his. Crossing my arms around his neck, I moan. I should be ashamed of myself, but shame isn”t something I can afford. I do what I have to do to survive. It’s all part of the ruse.
“Hi.” His lips curl in a smile on mine. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up in something.”
It’s the first time he has apologized for being late, and he’s always been late. I’m a pawn on his board, easily removable and replaceable. I don’t matter enough to hear an apology from him.
“I think your associate is running late as well.”
“He’ll be here soon. Let’s have something to drink.”
I wish I wouldn’t be so reluctant to let him go. I wish I didn’t feel the absence of his body so deep in my bones when he takes a step back. He guides me back inside, the hand placed on my lower back still there. He holds the door open for me, walking so close behind me that I can feel him, his body close enough to irradiate warmth but not close enough to touch me. I could lean back into him and pretend he’s someone else. Someone I want to have dinner with. Someone I care about. This is just a trauma response. I’m bonding with my abuser to increase my chances of survival. Nothing changed.
It would suit me best to remember this.
We take a seat at a table set for four people. Mattia takes the seat next to me, leaving the other two free. To my surprise, he allows me to order what I want to drink for myself. He doesn’t bark orders at the waiter. He’s calm and relaxed, and it puts me on edge. His business associate arrives with his wife fifteen minutes later. He seems to be in his fifties, but his wife is younger than me.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife. She only speaks French.”
“C’est une joie de vous rencontrer.” I nod toward her, imagining how out of place she must feel.
“Enchanté, je suis Elise.”
“Je m‘appelle Caelia. Et c’est Mattia. Mon mari.”
“You forgot to mention that your wife speaks French, Mattia,” he says, taking my hand and placing a lingering kiss on my skin. “I’m Andre. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“She’s full of surprises.” Mattia smiles, pulling the chair for me.
Elise is nice enough, but Andre makes my skin crawl. He hasn’t stopped staring at me since he sat down. Mattia places his hand on my knee, squeezing it lightly, preventing me from bouncing it up and down. He doesn’t say a word, replying to something Andre said, but his fingertips dig into my skin. I can’t tell if it’s a sign of possession or reassurance. Is he trying to remind me I’m his, and I’m embarrassing him with my fidgeting, or that he notices the way Andre stares at me, but everything’s going to be all right? My husband is still a closed book to me.
Elise tells me about Paris and her life there before she met Andre. She’s full of life and innocent; oddly enough, she seems to be in love. I won’t be the one to tell her that any man who’s in business with my husband is not a good man.
Mattia’s hand slides up my leg, his fingers sinking into my skin. I press my knees together, trying to stop him from advancing. His eyes are still locked on Andre, replying to something he said. He squeezes my inner thigh, forcing my legs apart. Our knees touch, and my breath hitches. I lower my eyes to where the naked skin of my leg is pressed against the material of his slacks. I shake my head slightly, but he pretends not to notice. His fingertips graze the edge of my panties, moving lower. I bite my tongue as he presses his knuckles against my clit, my knee bouncing against the table. The cutlery and glasses rattle.
“I’m sorry about that.” I find my voice to apologize.
He smirks, pushing my panties aside. He took his jacket off at some point and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He does that very often. And I can’t help but stare. I can paint the contour of every vein on his arms by now. I can’t take my eyes away from his tattooed hand resting between my legs. The same hand that caused me so much pain. He rubs my clit in circles, pushing a finger inside me. The wetness he encounters makes him smirk wider. I grab his wrist, still trying to understand what Elise is saying. He doesn’t budge.
“And then, for the honeymoon, we went to Bali,” she says brightly.
“I’ve never been outside New York,” I answer her in French, my accent slipping.
Mattia pushes another finger inside me. The waiter brings our food. If he notices what’s happening, he pretends not to see anything. Mattia waits until all the food is brought to our table before he grabs the cutlery with his free hand, finger-fucking me with the other. The worst part is that I don’t want him to stop. It’s fascinating to see him so relaxed, possessing me in public. Something’s wrong with me. I watch him grab a little bite of his food. I watch him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I struggle to force my fingers to hold the fork, but I can’t think straight.
My body is at his mercy, and I’m not strong enough to fight this. Any of this. My resistance keeps crumbling day by day until I won’t be able to stop him anymore. My fingernails are sinking into his arm, but I don’t push him away. I do something way worse. I urge my hips into his hand, riding his fingers. He looks at me from the corner of his eyes, like he’s saying, take what you need. And I do. He keeps his hand still, fingers deep inside me, moving his thumb in circles on my clit. The pressure is just the right amount—so sweet and sickening. There’s not enough air in the room. My breathing is too shallow, and my lips are parted. I’m afraid that if I close my eyes, I will be caught forever in this moment. This is not something I can afford, but I can’t let go either. I hate him for how easily he makes me lose my mind and for how much control he has over my body. My inner muscles are clenching around his fingers, and my legs are shaking. Andre is watching me closely, his brows furrowed.
Mattia moves his fingers inside me, and I feel like I’m going to explode.
“Look at him, baby,” Mattia commands. “He’s been obsessed with you the entire night. Let him see the look on your face when you come all over my fingers.”
I want to say something, but no words come out. I want to scream at Elise to escape this life while she still can. Whatever Andre is providing for her, it’s not worth it. But I can’t; my body is submissive to Mattia’s touch. I want to look at Mattia to be defiant, but I can’t. Andre’s pupils dilate. He licks his upper lip, his chest rising quickly, and his cheeks flushed.
All it takes is Mattia pressing his thumb on my clit. I feel like a wave crushes against me, taking me under with it. I’ll never be able to breathe or think again. I’m biting my tongue for Eloise’s sake, trying to be as quiet as possible. My eyelids feel heavy; my body is too tense. The blood’s metallic taste invades my mouth, a whimper escaping past my lips as the orgasm rolls over me.
“You should see her when she comes on my cock.” Mattia smirks.
“I can only imagine.”
“That’s all you’re going to do, Andre. My wife is mine, and mine alone.” My pussy pulses around his fingers as he slides them out of me. With a discreet move, Mattia glides his thumb along his bottom lip, sucking his finger. “I won’t be needing desert after all,” he adds.
I want to bang my head against the table. I won’t be able to eat anything after this. Disgust and shame turn my insides upside down. The worst thing is that Eloise is oblivious to everything.