Chapter 7 #2
When the thirty-minute timer went off, and I felt like the human equivalent of an open, pulsating wound, I washed myself and stepped out.
I braided my hair into two boxer braids, applied the perfect amount of makeup that a man would never notice, and sat down on the rower Dom has in a pocket corner, perfectly placed in front of the guest room’s door.
I can’t tell if he’s up, but I haven’t heard anything from his room yet, so I’m sure he’s still in bed.
Thankfully, the rower isn’t electronic, so I grab the handles and start rowing.
After a few minutes, my heart’s pounding and my legs are fatigued, but I keep at it.
I’m at my lowest weight since high school.
I’ve slept like shit over the past few weeks, and I haven’t exercised in as long.
These are basically the worst possible conditions to start an intense cardio workout, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
I want to make Dom see me.
After fifteen minutes of heaving over the rowing machine, his shadow finally floats under the door. I tap into an unknown energy reserve. With each stroke, my thoughts get louder and louder.
What does he expect me to do all day?
He can’t just leave me by myself like this.
I am his wife.
Dom swings the door open and steps through.
His gaze snaps to mine, and my world freezes for a split second.
I track the sight of his muscular thighs filling out his jeans and a black button-up that exposes a shiny gold chain buried in his dark chest hair.
The fur-trim coat he wore on our wedding day adds another thick layer of bulk to his already considerable frame.
His dark hair, laced with silvery greys, hangs loose and damp around his face.
I’m thankful I’m already on the rower, or I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands.
“Dom,” I say breathlessly. I don’t know if it’s because of the sight of him or the exercise.
Instead of answering, he gives me a look of mild disgust that spears an arrow into my heart before he starts toward the stairs next to me.
“I need to ask you something,” I blurt out.
Dom doesn’t turn toward me, doesn’t acknowledge me in any way except to stop in his tracks.
“What do you want for Thanksgiving dinner? It’s next week.” I’m grasping for straws. I already know exactly what he likes—he loads his plate with the same heaping servings of calorie-dense foods every year.
Just his profile is visible, and he looks annoyed.
“I don’t need you to make anything,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“Well. I want to make something. For us.” I hesitate. “And I’ll need money. To buy groceries.”
He places his left hand on the banister, and if I weren’t paying so close attention to his movements, I would’ve missed it. The flash of a gold wedding ring on his left hand, with a band thicker than Dad’s wedding ring. He bought a new one.
The rower’s handle slips from my sweaty palms, cracking against the machine. Dom snaps his head toward the sound, and his gaze lands on me.
His eyes flick down. He takes in the sight of me, sweaty, in my black leggings and sports bra, my chest rising and falling with each deep breath.
For a moment, a hopeful balloon swells in my chest. I’m able to fake confidence as I pick up my hand towel off the ground, and with Dom’s eyes glued to my every movement, I run it over my face, to the back of my neck, and down to the space between my breasts.
I leave it over the top of the machine, and his gaze flicks to the folded fabric.
The tendons in his hand flex as he squeezes the banister, his wedding ring winking at me again.
I lift from the machine fluidly, silently thanking Mom for always keeping us in ballet, and take a step toward him.
Without taking his eyes off me, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his leather wallet. He passes me a black credit card.
“Spend whatever you want,” he says.
I take the card and look up at him, my lips parting.
“What do you want?” I ask in a low voice. “Is there anything I can do for you before you leave for work?”
His expression is stoic, but his voice is crushed gravel when he asks, “Like what?”
I swallow. A man like Dom would appreciate the direct approach.
“I would love to suck your cock.”
Dom’s eyes blaze and, for a second, I think he wants that too, but then he grins and laughs in my face.
“I don’t want a fucking blowjob from you, Serafina,” he says.
He knows.
My eyelashes flutter. He grins, shakes his head, and walks down the stairs.
When he disappears around the corner, I fly back to my room, slamming the door behind me. I lay a flat palm against my racing heart as I suck in a steadying breath. Then another.
Fuck.
I undress quickly, goose bumps rising across my skin from the drying sweat in his freezing cold bedroom.
Fuck!
Dom knows I’m not Serafina. What else could his tone have meant?
And if he knows, he’s going to tell Turi, and if he tells Turi…
well, I don’t know what’ll happen exactly, I just know it’ll be bad.
I don’t know Turi all that well, but even I know he doesn’t like liars.
And if he finds out Dad, who’s supposed to be his trusted advisor, has been lying to him?
I walk quickly to the bathroom, set a timer on my phone, turn on the shower, and step inside.
The water’s so cold, I suck in a shuddering breath, my stomach caving in, but I don’t leave the icy spray.
I scrub my face with my palms, tears already leaking from my eyes.
I’ve trained my body—showers are for crying, although the embarrassment of being rejected so completely is plenty of fuel on its own.
New plan. I stay as far away from Dom as possible. I don’t give him any reason to suspect anything different about me, and I cook delicious meals every night to build up some goodwill in the meantime.
And if he changes his mind and comes into my bedroom?
Hot and cold spiral inside me. I wouldn’t deny him, if that’s what he wanted. But for now, I’m nothing. I’m a mouse, living in the walls of his home. I won’t give him any reason to dislike me.
A sob wracks my chest. I can’t hold the tears in anymore. Hot and ashamed, I cry my humiliation under the water until my timer goes off.
Then, I pull myself together and get dressed.
A few hours later, the elevator door dings, and I stand at attention.
I’m wearing my best black skirt and a cashmere sweater, and my makeup is tastefully done just like Serafina used to do. After my second crying session, I took a long nap, only stirring when Mom called to say she was headed over.
Mom sweeps into the penthouse in a pair of cream wide-leg trousers, a mauve sweater, and a trench coat that couldn’t possibly be warm enough in this weather.
Behind her, a tall woman about my age with a bob of black hair struggles forward with several grocery bags.
I vaguely recognize her face from family events, although I can’t place her name.
I remember her brother, though—Stefano, an ambitious asshole who hangs around my brother Carlo sometimes.
“Serafina,” Mom says. “You know Valeria? She’s going to be helping with your grocery deliveries.”
I smile blandly at her.
Valeria eases the groceries onto the kitchen counter and takes a step back.
She’s dressed stylishly in a black Nirvana T-shirt, jeans, boots, and a big black coat.
She’s pretty, but she always looks at people like she just heard their favorite food is stale bread, so I’ve never tried to get to know her—I get enough judgment at home.
She measures me for a moment before cracking her cold, uninterested expression with a tiny, surprisingly warm smile.
“Let me know if you need help figuring out where anything goes,” Mom calls over her shoulder.
Valeria’s smile disappears, and she sets herself to putting up the groceries.
Mom wraps me in a hug, then pulls me back for a good look. Her eyes, hidden by sunglasses, catalog my appearance. She touches my hair briefly.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says approvingly. Over her shoulder, I see Valeria freeze for a split second before she continues pushing a bag of sugar into the pantry.
Just a few hours, and I can crawl back into the warm bed.
“Thank you,” I say, trying my best to inject some sincerity into the words. But by the way Mom’s mouth twists in frustration, my best isn’t very good.
With a sigh, she pats my shoulder and turns to the kitchen. She sheds her coat and folds it over one of the stools before she walks to the refrigerator and opens the door. “Did you feed Dom last night? There’s a lot of leftovers in the fridge.”
She points to the single square of leftover focaccia that I picked anchovies off of. “Oh, sweetheart, he likes extra anchovies.”
I suck down a retort and join them in the kitchen to help Valeria unpack the groceries.
“Valeria,” Mom says in a too-casual tone. “Your mom was telling me you’re going to be the event planner for your dad’s celebration.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Barbara,” Valeria says in a flat tone.
“While you’re going to school and working as a bartender? Your parents raised a hard worker!”
“Thank you.”
“You know,” Mom says, “Serafina’s very passionate about floral arrangements, and she’ll need something to keep busy while Dom’s at work.”
My stomach sinks.
Mom turns away from us to rummage in the cabinets. Valeria and I glance at each other behind her back.
“Your mom said you could use another set of hands with the preparations. Serafina would love to be able to help out anyway she could.” Mom smiles at Valeria. “What do you think? She’s great with people. I think she’d be a wonderful helper.”
Valeria pours a bag of apples into the fruit bowl on the kitchen island. She tucks one hand into her coat pocket and leans back, her impassive face trained on Mom. “It’s okay, Mrs. Barbara. I have it handled.”