Chapter 1 #2
“May I go to the bridal suite to use the restroom?” I ask, my voice barely making it out.
God, listen to yourself—begging like a child. A lifetime spent asking my father for permission to breathe, and now here I am, begging someone even worse.
His grip loosens, and he releases my arm. “Go, but don’t take too long.”
I glance up at him cautiously. “I need to take off my dress and put it back on. It might take a while.”
His gaze sweeps over my body, quick and impersonal. Then he gives a curt nod and walks off.
I turn around and hurry up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. The bridal suite is grand, dripping with extravagance, but I don’t care about any of it. I close the door shut, lean against it and take a deep breath of relief. Finally, alone.
My fingers curl into a fist over my chest as I silently berate myself. “What were you expecting? For him to pamper you? Treat you like a princess? To magically stop being a monster and turn into some prince charming?”
I’m still catching my breath when a sound suddenly draws my attention, a moan. Soft, and breathy. My senses sharpen, and I realize it’s a woman’s voice, tangled with the steady thud of something hitting a wall.
I may still be an innocent virgin, but I know exactly what I’m hearing.
I zero in on the sound, searching for its source and find a door at the far end of the room, one I hadn’t noticed before. It must lead to the adjoining suite.
Something compels me, a mix of dread and curiosity, as I press my ear to the door. I can hear them better now, bodies colliding, a man’s deep, guttural moans, and the woman’s breathy, desperate cries. Then the rhythmic pounding of a headboard hitting the wall.
My mind starts to fill in the blanks, painting a vivid picture of what’s happening on the other side of the door. Pure, raw lust between two people. It must be thrilling.
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I jerk away from the door.
Years of Catholic school hammered into my head that any pleasure outside the sacred bonds of marriage is a mortal sin.
Even thinking about it is a sin. A proper girl, a girl with dignity, doesn’t give in to the sinful cravings of her body’s desire.
I make my way to the bathroom, fumbling with my dress. The one redeeming thing about this heavy gown is that I can manage to take it off on my own. When it finally slips to the floor and I step out of the voluminous skirt, I feel lighter than I have all day, almost like I could float.
I shut the bathroom door behind me, but the sounds still linger in my ears, reminding me of what’s waiting for me tonight.
I’m scared. Growing up in a sheltered, closed-off world, avoiding boys my entire life and never having access to media, has left me clueless. I have no experience, no frame of reference for what’s about to happen. All I know are the mechanics of it, the basic formula of man and woman.
But my body… it stiffens at the thought every time.
I’m no stranger to the idea of pleasure. No. Ever since I hit puberty, I’ve sensed a need growing inside me, a longing to be touched, to be kissed, to experience something I didn’t fully understand back then.
And then I saw Tony.
It was a sunny day in the middle of spring, when I was sixteen.
He wore a navy-blue suit, and the scent of his cologne filled the garden, mingling with the fragrance of blooming flowers.
One look into his eyes, and I fell hard; an idiotic, childish kind of love.
But that love became my only escape from the prison of my home.
At night, when everyone else was asleep, I built a tunnel out of that love, a passage to a dream world far away from my father and brothers.
A world where Tony and I were lovers. A place where, every night, I fell asleep imagining his hands stroking my hair, his lips brushing my face, and I dreamed of him until morning.
That love only deepened when I overheard my parents’ conversations and learned that a promise of marriage had already been made between us.
The first time I touched myself, it was while thinking of him. I experienced the greatest pleasure I had ever known.
But now, even thinking of Carlo’s hands, his body, his violence, his reputation makes my skin crawl with dread.
I want to splash cold water on my face, but it would ruin my makeup, and that wouldn’t sit well with the Bruni family’s image. Instead, I wet a towel and press it against my heated face and neck, letting the coolness soothe my skin.
I’ve wasted enough time. It’s time to go back.
The moment I step out of the bathroom, my heart sinks. The door connecting the two rooms is open, and I can feel the presence of someone else in the room.
It doesn’t take long to spot him.
He’s standing by the liquor cabinet, bent slightly forward as he inspects one of the bottles, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. The muscles rippling across his back and thighs leave no doubt, this man is anything but ordinary.
I’m wearing only a delicate lace thong beneath the gown, with no bra due to the dress’s design. And now I’m alone in a room with a half-naked stranger who reeks of alcohol.
The white dress lies crumpled on the floor. There’s no time to put it back on and slip out unnoticed, and I can’t exactly rejoin the party like this, bare-chested and completely exposed.
Perhaps I should retreat into the bathroom and wait him out. But that’s a risk too. What if he decides to use the bathroom?
The idea of locking myself in there until someone finds me isn’t much better. No one in this family would believe that a half-naked man and I were alone in a room together and nothing happened.
The man grabs a bottle of whiskey and straightens up. God, he’s huge. Way too tall. If he comes for me, I don’t stand a chance.
He picks up a glass, pours himself a drink, and downs the first shot in one go, like it’s nothing.
It’s now or never.
I don’t give myself time to think. Grabbing my dress off the floor, I make a run for the door. But before my hand reaches the handle, I’m yanked off my feet. The dress slips from my grasp, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
My mind blanks out, replaced by pure panic. I try to scream, but a strong hand covers my mouth.
He’s got me.