They're the only thing that has my interest anymore, those letters. Everything else is hopeless.
The morning after our three-day-long punishment is over, a breakfast feast is delivered to my quarters. Eleanora gorges herself, but I merely pick at my food, not finding it in me to keep going.
But when we're done eating, Adrian arrives and after him, two servants carry in gift boxes.
I watch the whole parade with zero interest. I just don't care about what he's got up his sleeve now. Although, I can't deny the electric current running under my skin when we see each other. It's been three days, and with a start, I realize how much I missed seeing Adrian.
"I got you some more painting supplies," he tells me.
I wordlessly start opening the packages. My heart jumps, but only a little. I expected more skimpy dresses, more items to humiliate me with. But this is almost... innocent. Almost.
"I want you to paint me again."
"Why?" I ask, uncertain of his intentions.
"Because I said so," he growls. "And because I hung the other portrait in my study. Now you need to make one for yourself."
I can't imagine having a portrait of my captor hanging somewhere in this room, taunting me for not being able to escape. I feel both annoyed and turned on and it pisses me off. "Fine," I hiss in response. "Just leave me alone."
He does, and the door locks behind him. There's still a guard outside the door, not to mention the two cameras in my quarters that turn as I walk to capture my every move. Not to mention the anklet which weighs down every step I take.
I set up my easel in the salon, with the window behind me so I have good light. I start painting, not really caring about the outcome on canvas but just about Adrian laying off me. In front of me, his features come to life.
It seems like I've been painting for hours, because when I pull back, the sky has gone dark. It's nighttime.
I turn around, getting ready to wash the paint off my hands and gasp when I see Adrian sitting on the loveseat behind me. "What are you doing here?" I demand.
"I've come to see your masterpiece." He rises up and strolls closer, leisurely examining the canvas I poured all my emotions onto. "I like this one better. I look different."
I follow his gaze to the portrait. It's similar to the first one I did, but Adrian's right. This time, I painted him like a human—bone, flesh, and real emotions hiding behind those eyes.
"I'll have it put up on the wall." He nods. "Tomorrow, while you're getting ready."
"Fine." I shrug carelessly. The thought excites me, which is a welcome change from the numbness I've been feeling for days. It's so hopeless in the Estate. The lack of human contact is killing me. I miss people, talking to someone, saying hello, good morning, good night. I've been sectioned off like an infectious patient. The loneliness is killing me. I turn to Adrian to explain all this and more, but I can't bring myself to speak.
"What is it?" he asks, seeing my expression.
"I'm lonely," I blurt out.
"What?"
I flush, shaking my head as if that can get rid of my embarrassment. "I can't stand being locked in here by myself. It's killing me, Adrian."
"But you were locked in your room at your parents' house."
"Yes, and you know how I got by?" I stare right into his eyes. "By knowing, hoping, that when I got married, things wouldn't be this way. And that I wouldn't have to go from one gilded cage to another. But that's exactly what's happened now."
"How am I supposed to trust you?" he demands. "You ran the last time you had a chance. How am I supposed to know you won't run again?"
"You could take my word for it."
He laughs at my words.
I scowl at him. "You know, like you took your father's word that he wouldn't viciously attack me again."
"I can trust him," Adrian says. "But can I trust you?"
I shrug. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see." I turn to walk away from him.
He grabs my arm and pulls me back. "You're not going anywhere, bambina. Not before we deal with your feelings."
"Since when does Adrian Bernardi care about feelings?" I laugh drily. "Don't kid yourself. You don't care about anyone, least of all me."
"Don't say that."
"Why not? We both know it's true..."
"If I didn't care about you at all," he grunts, digging in his pant pocket. "Why would I have kept this?" He pulls out the golden necklace with my grandmother's wedding ring.
"Technically, you owe it back," I remind him. "You've done me a favor now, just like I did you one. So it's mine."
"You can have it." He hands it over to me.