Page 14 of Fatal Sloth
My father goes on to tell him of my stellar upbringing, college degree, and many charity projects. I tune them out until I hear Don Antonio’s last question. “Is she still pure?”
Can the floor please swallow me now?
Without skipping a beat, my father answers him as if it's the most natural question in the world.
The knot in my stomach only intensifies when my mystery hunk from the dance floor casually strolls in. Panic sets in, and I hope he doesn't mention it in front of my father. I'll be in so much trouble if he finds out.
Of all the husbands, he wouldn't be the worst one to look at every day, and he definitely looks better in the daylight. I'm thrown out of my daze when I hear, “Plastic bitches don't do it for me. The deal is off,” and then he waltz off with Don Antonio hot on his heels.
Still shell-shocked from this whole situation, I don’t even notice Karen seething back at me before saying, “I told you to wear the red dress, Mia.”
She turns to my father, her lips curling with disdain, her eyes betraying her annoyance. "She isn't cut out to be a don’s wife," she mutters, her voice dripping with contempt. "I told you not to get your hopes up."
I feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck as her words hit me like a slap in the face. The sharp edges of her criticism pierce through me, leaving me raw and exposed.
"He would have loved her if she wore the dress I picked out for her," she continues, her tone laced with bitterness. "Instead, she wears this ugly frock that makes her look like a nun."
The urge to retort burns hot within me. I want to tell her that the dress she picked out would make me look like a clown and that her taste is as tacky as her attitude. But I know better than to engage in such a futile battle.
Instead, I clench my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I fight to contain the torrent of emotions swirling inside me. My jaw clenches in an effort to hold back the words that threaten to spill out, sharp and cutting like knives.
I remain silent as a statue, rooted in place by her judgment and the knowledge that any response from me would only fan the flames of her anger. It takes all my willpower to keep my composure, to resist the urge to lash out and defend myself against her unwarranted criticism.
When Dad turns to me, his gaze is piercing, his expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. I brace myself for the onslaught of criticism, knowing that I'm always the one who bears the brunt of his anger. It's a familiar pattern, one where I'm always the target of his wrath.
I try to maintain my composure as he begins to lay into me, his words like daggers slicing through the air. But my silence only seems to stoke the fire of his anger, fueling his frustration until he's shaking me for a response that I can't provide.
"Get your fucking hands off her!" The words slice through the tension like a knife, and suddenly, I'm being pulled out of the office and into another room.
The abrupt change in scenery catches me off guard. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting, and when they do, I realize that we're in a bathroom. But not just any bathroom—this one is larger than my entire apartment back in New York. And is that a clawfoot tub?
Before I can fully take in the opulence of my surroundings, I find myself face to face with him––the mystery hunk, better known as Sebastiano Morelli. He stands tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored suit, casting a shadow over my more petite frame. His dark gaze holds me captive, and I can't help but feel breathless as I take in his sculpted features and the way his chocolate locks frame his face with an air of authority. He's a man who commands attention without saying a word, and he has my full, undivided attention right now.
“Please don't tell my father about last night,” I blurt before he can get a single word out.
Blue eyes meet brown eyes––so dark they almost look black.
He steps back, and I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Anything else I shouldn't say?" His response is laced with sarcasm, and I can feel the tension crackling between us.
The warmth of his breath on my face adds to the charged atmosphere, creating an electrifying energy that seems to have some sort of magnetic pull on me.
"Do you really want to marry me?” he asks, breaking the silence and running a hand through his hair. “I’ll give you an out right now. Just say the word?”
Taking a deep breath, I reply, “I have to. I don't have a choice.” I shouldn’t have told him that, but I guess he should know the truth.
“You do have a choice. I’m giving you a choice now.”
My shoulders slump, my father's words echoing in my mind. I have to do this. Not just because I'm afraid of what he'll do if this marriage falls through, but because this could be my out, my ticket away from them. Sure, I'll be trading one jailer for the next, but anyone is better than Karen, right? Both because I'm afraid of what will happen if I return to that office with no soon-to-be husband and selfishly because this is my way to get away from my father and Karen. The alliance will be ruined, and I will be punished every day for defying my father. Pressing further, he asks again, “Are you sure you want to marry me? I won't love you, and I won't be faithful- you won't have a fairytale ending. I can only offer you protection and assurance that you'll be taken care of.”
A loveless marriage or returning to a loveless home and facing my father's wrath - the mere thought sends shivers down my spine. I'll choose the former and endure a loveless marriage.
"Are you safe at home?"
My breath catches in my throat. His question catches me off guard, leaving me unsure of how to respond. "I'll take the blame for this if that's what you're worried about." he continues.
That was the least of my worries, but I still don't respond to that question.
His sincerity catches me off guard, and there's a glimmer of understanding in his gaze before he presents me with the second proposal I wasn't expecting today.