8. Vasilisa
Chapter 8
Vasilisa
T he office shouts a group greeting as we walk in, everyone happy to see my father, clapping his back and shaking his hand. My mother immediately goes into her role of perfect wife, never leaving my father’s side. My sister makes a beeline for the appetizers, and I scan the room for Santo, but I don’t see him anywhere. Slipping away from the crowd, I trail through the halls, my gaze catching on my father’s old office—only now, the name on the door isn’t his. Santo Amato.
I hesitate on whether I should knock or not but decide against it and simply open the door.
Santo is seated behind a sleek, large glass desk with metal drawers attached. The city skyline forms a striking backdrop behind him. He’s focused on something he's scribbling on a notepad, partially hidden by his computer monitor, and doesn’t notice me enter. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loosened, giving him a relaxed yet undeniably sexy look. A tendril of hair falls into his face from his otherwise perfectly tousled style, and his strong jaw is shadowed with stubble.
My eyes linger a second too long.
“Are you going to keep staring, or do you plan to say something?” Santo’s voice cuts through the silence, his eyes still on the notepad.
I choke back a response, unaware that he even noticed me. “I just wanted to get away from the crowd. I didn’t think anyone would be in here,” I lie, forcing my voice to stay even.
His stormy gray eyes flick up to meet mine. My breath catches. A smirk tugs at his lips.
“Well, surprise. I’m here.”
I feel like prey under a predator’s gaze, but I refuse to let him see that. Keeping my movements unhurried, I walk toward the bookcase, running my fingers casually over the spines. I recognize quite a few titles.
“You have an extensive collection,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly. “Do you actually read them?”
Santo leans back in his chair, his eyes still following my movements, “I do.”
His voice, smooth and deep, reaches my ears and sends a thrill down my body.
“Tolstoy is a favorite of mine,” I say, sliding the book from the shelf.
“One loves because one loves. To reason about it is to destroy everything,” Santo says quietly.
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face as my fingers brush over the worn book. “You read Anna Karenina?”
“I have,” he replies, his gaze never wavering. “You seem surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” I manage, my voice softer than I intend. “Just… impressed.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his face a mixture of curiosity and amusement. “Why?”
“The characters,” I say, tracing the book’s worn spine as I gather my thoughts. “They’re flawed. Messy. Real. Tolstoy makes you feel them—their desires, their regrets. It’s tragic and beautiful all at once.”
Santo studies me for a moment, his expression stoic. “I appreciate the complexities,” he says at last. “But to me, it’s a story about passion—and how it destroys.”
His words linger in the air, heavier than I expect, and I realize I’m holding my breath. It feels as though we’re no longer talking about the story, but something deeper. Something closer. His reply startles me—it’s unexpected, disarming.
“And you?” he asks abruptly, interrupting my thoughts. “What is it about Tolstoy that brings you back to this book?”
The question hangs between us, charged with something I can’t quite name. I glance down at the book in my hands, searching for the right words.
“The honesty,” I answer truthfully after a moment. “Tolstoy doesn’t shy away from showing us the brutal truth of human nature. The flaws, the pain, the moments of redemption—even when they’re fleeting.”
His gaze sharpens, as if he’s dissecting my response, peeling it back layer by layer.
“Brutal truths,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not everyone can face those.”
I look up, catching the faintest flicker of something raw in his expression, and I know, without him saying another word, that we’re no longer talking about Tolstoy at all.
I place the book back on the shelf, desperate to shift the energy in the room, and turn toward the painting hanging on the wall. “Is this an original Monet?”
His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face.
“You know art.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, just a simple statement, his voice steady and sure.
I flush under his gaze, my fingers fidgeting at my sides. “I… I like to paint from time to time,” I admit softly.
“Do you?” His voice is steady, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze. He rises from his chair, moving toward me with an unhurried grace that makes the space between us shrink too fast. His presence is everywhere—suffocating, magnetic, inescapable.
“I do,” I whisper, but my voice is thinner than I intend. He’s too close now, his heat wrapping around me, unraveling my thoughts before I can catch them.
Santo doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze lingers on my face, then trails deliberately down to my now clasped hands.
“I would love to see your work,” he says, his voice quiet but certain, like it’s already decided.
The honesty in his words surprises me, catching me off guard, and I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.
“Sure,” I manage, the word trembling with a mixture of nerves and something warmer, softer.
The air between us shifts, the heavy tension giving way to something quieter, more familiar. And yet, his presence still weighs on me, impossible to ignore, impossible to escape.
He lifts his hand, almost unconsciously, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is feather-light, but it sends tremors through me.
The height difference apparent even with my heels, makes me feel insecure. I step out of his orbit and toward his desk spreading my hands across the top.
“My father got rid of it,” I say, the words tumbling out—anything to fill the silence between us, anything to shake off the lingering heat of his touch.
I feel Santo behind me, “The desk?”
“Yes, I’m surprised he let it go,” I turn around and Santo is still in my space, his eyes roam over my face, slow and deliberate, as if he’s memorizing every detail.
I resist the urge to shift under his gaze. The weight of it making me feel exposed, unsure if he sees too much. Then his eyes lock back onto mine, steady, pinning me in place.
“I didn’t see a use for it, I prefer the glass desk over wooden,” he states calmly. Although all the tension in the room is choking me, he seems unfazed.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “When I was little, my father used to tell me a story—that the desk was carved from a tree where a princess and a prince etched their initials into the bark. Their love became part of the wood, immortalized forever.”
I stammer the last bit and chuckle nervously wishing I knew when to shut up.
My cheeks burn, his eyes are on me quiet and assessing, but my mouth won’t stop, “I carved my initials under the desk while I was hiding one day as a child. I don’t think he ever knew about it.”
Santo nods and leaves my space, sitting behind his desk again.
I’ve spoken myself into a corner and embarrassed myself in front of him.
For what seems like an eternity, Santo remains silent, his gaze fixed on a distant point over my shoulder. A multitude of questions dance in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overstepped some unspoken boundary.
Yet all he does is glance down at his glass desk, his fingers drumming a rhythmic pattern against the smooth surface. Finally, he looks at me, a newfound curiosity etching his features.
“Vasilisa,” he says, his voice smooth, like melting chocolate as he tastes my name, “that’s quite a story.”
“It’s just a silly fairy tale my father used to tell,” I reply hastily, wishing I could take back my confession.
It seems too immature, too personal now that the words had been said out loud.
There’s a brief flicker of something in Santo’s eyes - recognition? Empathy? - but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Fairy tales can tell us much more about ourselves than we think,” he says thoughtfully.
His eyes meet mine once again, and this time they’re softer - less the predator on the hunt and more... human.
He leans back into his chair and folds his arms across his broad chest.
“It shows,” he begins slowly, “that you are an optimist. That you believe in love and magic.”
A blush involuntarily heats my cheeks as I lower my gaze, overwhelmed by him.
The room falls silent once more, save for the distant hum of the party outside and the tick-tick-tick of an old clock mounted on the wall behind me.
“Were you waiting for your prince to find it?” Santo’s voice is low, almost like he’s asking a question he doesn’t want the answer to.
Taken aback by his question, I look up to find him observing me with an intensity that immediately sets my heart racing again.
“I... I don’t know,” I admit. “I suppose part of me always hoped so.”
“Silly girl,” Santo murmurs, his eyes still locked on mine. There’s no mockery—just warmth, edged with something else. Something that makes my pulse trip over itself.
Even with his eyes boring into mine, I find comfort in his gaze. Maybe Santo isn’t a cold, distant man like I feared he might be, but I could be just another na?ve girl swept away by a handsome face.
“I can’t offer you a desk made from enchanted wood,” Santo says, his voice measured as he pulls open a drawer. From inside, he retrieves a slender metal tool, its tip gleaming under the low light.
I watch, curiosity prickling at my skin as he leans forward and begins carving something into the glass desk with deliberate, steady strokes.
“I don’t have fairy tale trees or immortalized love stories,” he murmurs, his focus still on the desk. “But maybe… we could make our own.”
With a final swipe of his hand, he brushes away the lingering dust and places the tool back in the drawer. Then, he motions for me to come closer.
I hesitate for only a moment before stepping forward, standing beside his chair. When I look down, my breath catches.
Two initials, intertwined on the glass surface. V & S.
My heart stumbles at the sight, warmth blooming in my chest and spreading outward until I can feel the heat creeping into my face. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his. He’s watching me closely, his expression neutral.
“I—” I begin, but the words tangle on my tongue. He has taken my childhood story, the one I had just clumsily blurted out in nervous embarrassment, and turned it into something real.
Santo rises, the space between us closing in an instant. Towering over me, his presence is undeniable. The tension from before still lingers, but there’s something softer now, something quieter.
He stands there in silence, waiting for me to speak. But I don’t know what to say. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, its pounding echoing through my ears, filling the silence between us.
Desperate to focus on something— anything —else, I glance down at his desk, my eyes sweeping over the surface. And then I see it.
A framed photo.
It’s of me. Dressed in my favorite yellow dress.
My breath stills.
That photo was on my phone.
I school my expression quickly, but it’s too late. Santo catches my reaction. His throat bobs as he clears it, a fraction too late.
“Your father left that behind,” he says.
He’s lying.
The photo was never printed. Never shared. It was on the phone Luca took.
“Oh. Okay,” I murmur, stepping back—from the desk, from him .
Santo watches me for a moment longer before lowering himself back into his chair. He picks up his pen and returns to his notes, as if the moment never happened. “I should get back to work.”
I nod, hesitating at the door even though I’ve clearly been dismissed. I should leave. And yet, something in me lingers.
I steal one last glance over my shoulder, but Santo doesn’t look up. His focus remains on his notepad, his pen moving in smooth, practiced strokes.
My future husband is a contradiction. A man who carves initials into glass like a lover and steals photos like a thief.
I’ll unravel the mysteries of Santo Amato after the wedding.