An older woman dressed in a beige uniform approached us, and Gian stepped closer. “This is Gabriela. She will show you to your room.”
I balked for a second and frowned in question. “My room?”
He placed a hand in his pants pocket and grinned. “Yes, Daniela. Your room. Is there a problem?”
“No. I just thought—”
“You thought that since we just walked out of a church as man and wife we’d be sharing a room? A bed? To do what, Daniela? To consummate our marriage?” He took a step toward me, his voice low and stare intense. “To fuck?”
I swallowed, hardly able to take a breath. “That’s not—”
“This arrangement,” he bit out between clenched teeth, “is just that. A fucking arrangement.”
“A business transaction, you mean.” My voice was soft but filled with hatred.
He paused for a second and straightened, his six-foot-four body and broad shoulders towering over me with a looming threat. “I do not want to be your husband. I do not want to share my home with you. And I sure as hell have no desire to share my bed with you.”
“Your kiss—”
“Was nothing but a show. I just gave our guests what they came for. A show.”
I hardly knew this man, but for some reason his words stung. Especially after that kiss felt like so much more than just a show. But shame on me for reading too much into it.
I squared my shoulders. “Good. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to sharing a bed with you either.”
“Great. Now, feel free to settle into your own bedroom and fucking stay there.” His sharp words sliced through the thick atmosphere as he turned on his heel and walked in the other direction as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. All he left behind was the echo of his heavy footsteps.
Gian disappeared around the corner, leaving me in the foyer with Gabriela. As a woman who had to marry a man she didn’t know, I had dreaded this day not just because of the daunting concept of an arranged marriage, but also the knowledge of what was expected on a couple’s wedding night. But for now, it seemed I was spared that duty, which allowed me a moment’s reprieve. Yet I refused to let my guard down by thinking this would be easier than what I had expected. As I’d learned so many years ago, things could change within the blink of an eye, and your life could change, knocked off its axis so nothing made sense anymore.
“Right this way, Mrs. Silvestro.” Gabriela’s mention of my new name sounded wrong and felt out of place. I wasn’t a Silvestro. I was a Moretti, yet there was a signed and binding document that stated otherwise.
I followed Gabriela up the spiral staircase, my every step adding more anxiety to the pit of my stomach. The unfamiliar walls were as inviting and welcoming as its owner, the weight on my shoulders increasing with every passing second. If it was any other day under different circumstances, I would have stopped to admire the rustic paintings against the walls or take the time to look at the view from the windows. But all I wanted was to lock myself away and pretend none of this was real. Not even the light through the windows, the beams of white which illuminated the impressive interior design could ward off the dreaded feeling of darkness that loomed over me.
“This is your room.” Gabriela opened the door, and I followed her in. The click of my heels went from sharp to dull as I stepped from marble onto dark wooden floors. I glanced across the room, the old-world charm accentuated with wooden ceiling beams, luxurious over-sized furniture, and rich, bold colors. Red silk sheets with filigree patterns draped over the king bed, the dark wood headboard carved with an exquisite and delicate design. Accents with colors that ranged from dark orange tones to soft neutral hues decorated the stucco walls. It was like I had stepped from the modern world into the vintage era of Italian style and finery.
I tried not to gape while admiring the spacious room. “This is incredible.”
“Mr. Gian has good taste,” Gabriela said with a thick Italian accent and smiled as she watched me admire the room.
“Um,” I turned and glanced around, “did my suitcases arrive?”
“Mr. Gian requested your things to be placed in storage. You should find everything you need in the closet.”
“Excuse me, but—”
“Dinner will be ready in an hour.” She nodded and walked out, closing the door behind her, and I sighed, wondering why the hell he would have placed my stuff in storage.
“This is insane.” I exhaled in disbelief, placing my palm against my forehead.
I walked over to the closet doors, not knowing what to expect, and opened them, revealing a walk-in closet I wouldn’t have been able to imagine in my wildest dreams.
“Jesus,” I whispered, clutching the doors in my palms, staring out in front of me. Rails of dresses, blouses, and skirts spanned along the wall on the right. Shelves with bags and shoes were lined up to my left, and dark chestnut drawers spanned along the wall across from me. I stepped inside, my mind unable to make sense of what the hell was happening. I moved slowly around the area, subtly touching the fabric as I passed, brushing my fingertips across the wooden drawers. Everything was color coordinated, tidy, and immaculate. A vintage Italian-style armchair with embroidered gold-leaf fabric was placed in the middle of the area, and I sat down, completely speechless.
Again, if under different circumstances, I would be in Heaven right now. Many women could only dream of a closet like this with an expansive wardrobe that catered for every season. But given the arrangement I found myself in with Gian Silvestro, I knew not to fall for expensive and pretty things. Just like a firefly that shouldn’t trust the glistening spider’s web, because once you were caught in the middle of it, your fate would be in the poison of a venomous spider.
“No,” I said to myself. “This is bullshit.”
I stormed out of the walk-in closet only to come to an abrupt stop as Gian stood in the doorway, clutching a tumbler in his hands. “Settled in?”
“Hardly. What is this?”
He stepped in, and I gave him a warning look, the walls closing in with every step he took inside the bedroom. “This is one of the best rooms in my house. I thought it fitting for my wife.” The word slipped from his mouth as if it burned his tongue.
“I’m talking about the clothes. Where are my things?”
He shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “I had Gabrielle place your things in storage.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t sure whether you’d have the appropriate things, so I decided to make sure you had an abundance of it. I’d hate to be embarrassed by my wife’s choice in attire.”
I bit my tongue, the words ‘fuck’ and ‘you’ raging to come out, but I grabbed hold of every shred of self-control I had. “Where is my stuff?”
He cocked a brow. “Storage. Are you deaf?”
“No. Dumbfounded,” I bit out. “You just assumed my wardrobe wouldn’t be fitting as a Silvestro wife?”
“Well, you are a born Moretti. I could hardly expect more of you.”
“Excuse me?” Anger simmered in my veins, my fear gradually morphing into annoyance.
He smirked, the arch of his lips momentarily distracting me. “The sooner you forget your Moretti ways, the better. It’s bad enough I have to live with Moretti blood under my roof. I’d hate to be reminded of it every day simply by watching you be…you.”