Chapter 13 Liana
I make it home at two in the morning, slipping through the front door as quietly as possible.
The house is completely quiet, wrapped in that particular silence that only comes in the deepest hours of night. Dark hallways stretch before me, every light extinguished. Everyone's asleep, tucked safely in their beds, unaware of my late return.
The last thing I need right now is questions I can't answer.
I slip off my heels in the marble entryway, wincing at every small sound, then carry them carefully as I climb the grand staircase to the second floor. My legs feel shaky and unsteady beneath me, whether from the heels or from what just happened, I'm not entirely sure.
My dress is wrinkled beyond any hope of repair, the fabric creased and disheveled. I can still feel him on my skin, in my body.
Everywhere.
I reach my bedroom and close the door behind me with a soft click, then lean heavily against the solid wood, letting it support my weight.
What did I just do?
That's the wrong question. I know exactly what I did. The question that's actually haunting me is why it felt so impossibly good when it's supposed to be part of my plan to make him miserable, to drive him away, to save myself from this arrangement.
I shower in my private bathroom, standing under the hot spray for what feels like hours.
I scrub away the physical evidence of what happened in that car, washing my skin until it's pink and raw.
I try desperately to scrub away the memory of his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he looked at me when he slid deep inside me.
Stop. Just stop thinking about it.
I wrap myself in a soft towel and sit on the edge of my bed, my mind a chaotic mess of thoughts and feelings I don't want to examine.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Santino: We need to talk about what just happened.
I stare at the message, reading it over and over. He wants to talk. To analyze what happened between us. To make this mean something significant, to turn it into more than what it was.
I can't let it mean something. I can't afford for this to become real.
Me: What do you mean? We already talked at the poker game. Everything's fine! Sleep well!
I turn off my phone completely before he can respond, before I have to see his reaction or answer any more questions.
Then I lie down on top of my covers and stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as dawn gradually breaks through my windows, painting the room in shades of gray and gold. I don't sleep at all.
At six-thirty in the morning, there's a soft knock on my door.
"Li?" Gia's voice comes through, tentative. "You awake?"
"Come in," I call out.
She opens the door carefully, already dressed for the day in casual clothes. She takes one look at my face—at the dark circles under my eyes, at my exhausted expression—and closes the door firmly behind her for privacy.
"You didn't sleep at all," she observes, sitting on the edge of my bed.
"Not really. Couldn't stop thinking."
She waits patiently, giving me space to speak when I'm ready. "What happened last night?"
"I tracked him down. I interrupted his poker game with some very dangerous men. Important business associates." I pull the covers up higher, seeking comfort. "Sat in his lap in front of everyone. Caused a scene that I'm sure everyone will be talking about. Then we had sex in his sports car."
Gia's eyes go wide with shock. "You what?"
"You heard me correctly the first time."
"Liana—" She starts, concern clear in her voice. “This isn’t like you at all. You’re never this impulsive.”
"It was just physical," I say quickly, defensively, needing her to understand. "It doesn't change anything about the plan. It doesn't mean anything."
"Are you sure about that?" Her tone suggests she doesn't believe me.
"Yes. Completely sure." I sit up, meeting her eyes. "It was just sex. People have sex all the time without it meaning anything deeper. It was physical release, nothing more."
"You had sex with your fiancé in his car and you're telling me it doesn't mean anything?"
"Exactly. That's exactly what I'm saying."
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "Did he want you to go home with him after? To his apartment?"
"Yes," I admit.
"And you didn’t?"
"I have to volunteer this morning. You know Dorothy gets genuinely upset if I'm late or don't show up." It's a weak excuse, but it's the one I gave.
"Liana." Gia's voice is gentle but firm. "That's not why you said no. We both know that."
I don't answer, because she's right and we both know it.
"You said no because you're scared," she continues, hitting exactly what I don't want to acknowledge.
"Because if you went home with him, if you stayed the night, it would mean something real.
It would cross a line you're not ready to cross.
It would make this whole situation more complicated than you can handle. "
"I'm not scared," I protest automatically.
"You're terrified," she corrects softly.
"I'm committed to the plan," I insist, clinging to what I know. "There's a significant difference between fear and strategic thinking."
"Is there?" She stands and walks to my window, looking out at the estate grounds. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're running. You slept with him and then fled before it could mean anything, before he could make you feel anything more."
"That's the smart move strategically."
"The smart move would be not sleeping with him at all," she points out logically.
She's absolutely right. I know she's right.
"It was a mistake," I admit quietly, the words bitter. "A moment of weakness."
"Was it?" She turns to face me, her expression serious. "Or was it inevitable?"
"It can't be inevitable. I can't—" I stop, struggling to articulate the fear. "I can't let this be real, Gia. If it becomes real, I lose everything I've been fighting for. The plan falls completely apart. He wins, and I lose myself."
"What if you both win? What if there's a middle ground?"
"That's not possible in this situation."
"Why not? Why does someone have to lose?"
"Because he wants me to be his wife. His possession.
Another thing he owns and controls." I throw off the covers abruptly, standing and pacing.
"And I want to run this family. To be more than just decoration on his arm.
To matter beyond being someone's wife. Those two things can't coexist in the same reality. "
"Have you asked him?" She challenges. "Have you actually asked him what he wants?"
"Asked him what specifically?"
"What he actually wants from you. Beyond the arrangement, beyond the contract. Beyond what tradition dictates."
I think about last night—about the intensity in his eyes, about the way he looked at me.
"He wants control," I say with certainty. "That's what all men like him want. Power, control, dominance. It's in their nature."
"Maybe," Gia acknowledges, walking to the door. "Or maybe you're assuming the worst about him because it's easier than finding out the truth. Because if you find out he's different, you'll have to face what you're actually afraid of."
She leaves me alone with that thought.
I get dressed mechanically, choosing something casual and appropriate for volunteering. Simple jeans, a plain top, nothing fancy. I pull my hair back into a ponytail.
By seven o'clock, I'm at the neighborhood bakery, buying Dorothy's favorite pastries, the ones with the ricotta filling she loves. By seven-thirty, I'm walking through the doors of the senior center where I volunteer twice a month.
Dorothy is waiting in her usual spot by the window, exactly where she always sits. Ninety-four years old, sharp as a knife despite her age, with strong opinions about absolutely everything and no filter whatsoever.
"You're late," she says immediately when I arrive, not bothering with pleasantries.
"I'm actually two minutes early," I point out, checking my watch.
"You're usually five minutes early, which makes you three minutes late by your own standards," she counters with impeccable logic. She eyes me critically, taking in every detail. "You look tired. Exhausted, actually."
"I had a late night," I admit.
"Doing what exactly?"
"Things." I keep it vague.
She snorts, not buying it for a second. "When I was your age, 'things' meant sneaking out to meet boys. Secret rendezvous. Is that what you were doing? Meeting a boy in the middle of the night?"
"I'm engaged, Dorothy. The boy-meeting stage of my life is over."
"Engaged doesn't mean dead," she points out with a knowing smile. "Was it the fiancé keeping you up all night?"
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. "That's none of your business."
"Ha! It was him." She takes the pastry bag from me triumphantly. "Good for you. A woman should enjoy her man. Life's too short not to."
"Dorothy—" I start to protest.
"What? I'm old, not dead. I remember what it was like perfectly well." She waves her hand dismissively. "That feeling when you can't stop thinking about someone. When they make you feel truly alive for the first time."
I sit down across from her at the small table. "What if feeling alive is actually the problem?"
"How could feeling alive possibly be a problem?"
"What if I'm not supposed to feel that way? What if letting myself feel that way ruins everything I've been working toward?"
Dorothy studies me for a long moment, her sharp eyes seeing far too much. "This engagement of yours. It wasn't your choice, was it?"
"Not exactly. It's complicated," I hedge.
"It always is with these arranged marriages." She takes another bite of her pastry. "My marriage was arranged too. 1951. I was twenty years old. Married a man I'd met exactly twice before the wedding day."
"Did you love him?" I ask.