18. Chiara
18
CHIARA
“C hiara, where have you been all this time? And why do you look so flushed?”
Oh, my God. I’ve been caught.
Panic surges through me. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, and I know I must look guilty. My mind races, scrambling for an excuse that won't give away what I’ve really been doing—or who I’ve been with.
Please let him not have seen me leave the closet.
“Oh, Pyotr!” I exclaim, trying to inject the right amount of embarrassment in my voice. “I’m so sorry. I… I had a little accident.”
His brow furrows in concern, and I hurry to explain before he can ask any more questions.
“I spilled some wine on my dress,” I lie, gesturing vaguely at my gown. “I was so embarrassed. I’ve been hiding in the bathroom this whole time, trying to dry it and make sure it wasn’t noticeable.”
I force a self-deprecating laugh, praying it sounds genuine. “I must look a mess. I was just so mortified at the thought of everyone seeing me with a stain on my dress at our engagement party.”
I cover my burning cheeks with my hands, the gesture hiding my guilt as much as it sells my story of embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” I say again, my voice soft and contrite. “I only just found the courage to come back. I was hoping no one had noticed my absence.”
Pyotr's expression softens, his blue eyes warm with understanding. He reaches out, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “Chiara, you have nothing to apologize for,” he says, his voice gentle and reassuring. “These things happen. And if it makes you feel any better, I only noticed because I’m constantly seeking you out in a crowd. I had started to miss you.”
His comment is so sweet, so genuinely flattering, that I feel a pang of guilt. Pyotr is being nothing but kind and understanding, while I’ve just betrayed him in the worst possible way.
“You’re too good to me,” I manage to say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the turmoil inside me.
Pyotr smiles, offering me his arm. “Shall we return to the party? I’m sure our guests are eager to see the beautiful bride-to-be.”
I accept his arm, praying that I don’t look as flushed and disheveled as I feel. As we start to walk back toward the ballroom, I’m hyper-aware of every detail—the slight tremor in my hands, the lingering scent of Dante on my skin, the way my dress feels slightly askew despite my best efforts to straighten it.
“You look lovely, by the way,” Pyotr says as we approach the doors. “No one would ever guess you had a wardrobe mishap.”
If only he knew.
I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “Thank you, Pyotr. You’re very kind.”
As we re-enter the party, the bright lights and swirling crowd momentarily disorient me. I cling to Pyotr’s arm, using him as an anchor while I try to regain my composure. All the while, I’m silently praying that no one looks at me too closely, that no one can see the truth written all over my face.
Because right now, I’m terrified that everyone will take one look at me and know exactly what—and who—I’ve been doing. The best sex of my life is still thrumming through my body, and I’ve never felt more exposed or more conflicted in my entire life.
At least Dante should have the opportunity to slip out of the closet and re-enter the party without anyone being the wiser.
Pyotr leans in close, his voice low and intimate. “I hope you’re feeling better now, Chiara. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
I force a smile, trying to focus on his words. “No, thank you. You’re very kind. I’m feeling much better now."
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back as another song starts up. “Perhaps we could share a dance? It might help take your mind off things.”
“That sounds lovely,” I respond automatically, even as my mind wanders.
As we move to the dance floor, I scan the room, searching for Dante. But he’s nowhere to be seen. His words echo in my head. “Because I can’t stand watching you with Pyotr any longer.” The guilt crashes over me in waves.
Pyotr's voice breaks through my reverie. “You seem distracted. Are you sure you’re alright?”
I blink, refocusing on his concerned face. “Yes, I’m sorry. I suppose I’m still a bit flustered from earlier.”
He smiles again. “There’s no need to apologize. Take all the time you need to feel comfortable again.”
His kindness only serves to intensify my guilt. Here I am, in the arms of a man who is nothing but considerate and caring, while my heart and mind are with another. Dante’s passionate kisses still linger on my lips, even as Pyotr holds me close.
“Pyotr,” I start, not sure what I’m going to say, “I?—”
“Yes, Chiara?” he prompts gently.
I falter, the words dying on my tongue. What could I possibly say? That I’m in love with another man? That I’m torn between duty and desire?
“I… I just wanted to thank you,” I finally manage. “For being so understanding.”
Pyotr beams at me, completely unaware of the turmoil raging inside me. “Of course, my dear. That’s what partners do, isn’t it?”
Ugh.
My eyes drift to the edge of the room. There, watching us with unmistakable pride, stand my parents. Papa’s arm is around Mama’s waist, and both of their faces are beaming with joy as they observe their daughter dancing with her fiancé.
The sight of their happiness hits me like a physical blow.
Over Pyotr’s shoulder, I can see Papa leaning down to whisper something in Mama’s ear, both of them smiling widely. The love and pride in their eyes is unmistakable.
And suddenly, I feel like the worst daughter in the world.
Here they are, so happy and proud, thinking they’ve secured a wonderful future for me. They believe they’ve found me a perfect match, a man who will provide for me and protect me once Papa dies. They have no idea that just minutes ago, I was in the arms of another man—a man they would never approve of.
The guilt is overwhelming. I’ve betrayed not just Pyotr, but my parents as well. Their trust, their love, their hopes for my future—I’m jeopardizing it all for my feelings for Dante.
I catch my mother’s eye, and she gives me a small, encouraging nod. The gesture, so full of love and support, makes me want to crumple right there on the dance floor.
How can I do this to them? How can I throw away everything they’ve worked for, everything they've dreamed of for me? The conflict between my heart’s desire and my duty to my family has never felt more acute.
As the music swells around us, I’ve never felt more torn, more conflicted, or more like a fraud in my entire life.
I’m also acutely aware of the impossible situation I’m in. Two incredible men are both offering me a future filled with love and respect, albeit in very different ways. And I’m no closer to knowing how to solve this impossible conundrum.
The guilt weighs heavily on me as I realize that no matter what choice I make, someone is going to get hurt. And I’m terrified that in the end, it might just be me who ends up losing everything.
As the evening winds down, Pyotr leans in close, his brow furrowed with concern. “Chiara, are you sure you’re alright? You seem quite distracted tonight.”
I force a smile, trying to appear more composed than I feel. “I’m fine, really. I think I could just use some air. It’s been a long evening.”
“Of course.” Pyotr nods understandingly. “Why don’t we step out onto the balcony together? The fresh air might do you good.”
Before I can protest, he’s gently guiding me toward the French doors. The cool night air hits my flushed skin as we step outside, and I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
As the doors close behind us, muffling the sounds of the party, I’m suddenly aware of how alone we are. The balcony is deserted, moonlight casting a soft glow over the gardens below. Pyotr stands close to me, his presence warm and solid at my side.
For the first time, I find myself truly alone with my fiancé, away from the prying eyes of family and guests. The intimacy of the moment catches me off guard, pulling me out of my troubled thoughts of Dante.
Pyotr turns to me, his blue eyes soft in the moonlight. “Better?” he asks gently.
I nod, finding myself unexpectedly captivated by his gaze. “Yes, thank you. It’s… peaceful out here.”
He smiles, and I’m struck by how handsome he is. Not in the rugged, intense way that Dante is, but with a refined elegance that suits him perfectly.
“Chiara,” he begins, his voice low and sincere, “I know this arrangement between us was not of your choosing.” He smiles at my startled look. “Yes, but please, don't be embarrassed. Arranged marriages aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. But I want you to know that I’m committed to making this work. To making you happy.”
His words, so earnest and kind, catch me off guard. For a moment, all thoughts of Dante fade away, and I’m acutely aware of the man standing before me—the man who is, for all intents and purposes, to be my husband.
As I look into Pyotr’s eyes, I find myself wondering what a life with him might truly be like. And I allow myself to consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I could find happiness with him too.
The realization both comforts and terrifies me, adding yet another layer to my already complex situation.
Pyotr steps closer to me, and I feel a shiver run through me at his close proximity. The cool night air brushes against my skin, but I’m not sure if that’s the cause or if it’s something else entirely.
Pyotr’s eyes meet mine, his gaze intense and admiring. “Chiara,” he says softly, “you look absolutely beautiful tonight.” His voice drops lower, taking on a tone I haven’t heard from him before. “It makes me really want to kiss you.”
My breath catches in my throat. Before I can fully process his words, Pyotr turns to face me fully. His hand gently captures my chin, tilting my face up toward his. I can see the intention in his eyes as he leans in closer.
Time seems to slow down. I’m frozen in place, a whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. Part of me wants to pull away, to run back to the safety of the crowded ballroom. But another part, a part I’ve been trying to ignore, is curious. Curious about what it would be like to kiss Pyotr, to give in to the role I’m supposed to be playing.
As his face draws nearer, I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure he must be able to hear it.
In this moment, caught between Pyotr’s approaching lips and my own conflicted desires, I feel more torn than ever. The guilt over my earlier encounter with Dante clashes with the unexpected flutter of anticipation I feel now.
I know I should stop this, that it’s not fair to Pyotr or to Dante. But as Pyotr’s lips draw ever closer, I find myself paralyzed, unable to move or speak, simply waiting for whatever comes next.