The tumble of dark locks flows down her shoulders. She tucks a lock behind her ear. I thought that was the style, but it seems to be something she does out of habit.
I put out my hand to her, and she takes it. My hands swallow hers right up. She feels small next to me.
We leave the room. I realize this is the first time we walk together in this hall. Manni brought her here on Saturday night, and the only interaction we’ve had is in that room.
Despite the hold I have on her, the dullness in her mood, and the way I tainted anything we shared last night, she seems taken with the place.
She looks at the design and the décor of the corridor. On this side of the house, I have a balcony that overlooks the ground floor, and the entire ceiling is made of glass.
The floor is marble throughout the whole house but changes to stone when we step out to the terrace.
As we step into the night, the cool night air lifts her hair, and it caresses her skin.
The long dinner table by the fountain is set. Both Priscilla and Candace are standing by, waiting to serve us.
The feast on the table looks amazing. It’s all my favorites. I hope Emelia doesn’t give me any hassle tonight.
Priscilla smiles when we approach, and Emelia does too. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile. It’s a pretty sight.
“Wow, look at you,” Priscilla beams. “You look absolutely stunning,” she adds. Candace nods her agreement.
“Thank you,” Emelia replies.
They both look like they want to continue conversation with my bride-to-be, but when they see the stern expression on my face, they know they mustn’t. The mood shifts instantly as they both look at me.
“Well, if there’s nothing more you need, we’ll go,” Candace says.
“There’s nothing more I need. You may take your leave,” I dismiss them, and they leave us.
I pull out a chair for Emelia to sit. She does. I won’t give her the ring yet.
“Thank you,” she says but doesn’t look at me.
I sit at the head of the table right across from her. It’s too far away, but it works. I want to look her right in the eye when I talk to her and tell her what’s happening next.
She scans her surroundings and gazes over the sea. In the moonlight it looks like one of her paintings. I wonder what it is she sees when she looks at it. Ma used to say that a real artists see the world through different eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, startling her.
She returns her focus to me and shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“No? You look like you saw something.”
“I did. I just don’t wish to share my vision with you,” she answers and sits back in her chair.
“Eat.”
She starts to serve herself food. It’s not a lot, but at least she’s taking it.
When her plate is full, she sets down her fork and looks to me, her lips parted, readying to ask me a question I know I probably won’t answer.
“What did my father do to you?” she says.
I was right. I won’t answer that question. “That’s a matter for another night.”
“Why? Don’t you think I should know why I’m here? I think I deserve to know why my life was stolen from me and why I deserve this. You know stuff about me, don’t you? You know who I am and what I am. You know who my friends are. Heck, you knew I was heading to Italy last Sunday and stopped me in my tracks. I worked so hard to get into the Accademia. I worked so hard… and the best thing happened to me when they accepted me. You took it all away. I want to know why.”
As the words fall from her lips, I ask myself that question again. Of who I am and what I’ve become. What kind of man have I become to do this to an innocent?