‘Itmust.Don’t make me keep repeating myself!’ Against his will he could feel his own tension rising.
‘There’s no “must” about it! It’s totally unnecessary!’
‘Ariana—’ There was warning in his voice.
In hers, there was grim objection. ‘I’m not marrying you! Luca, listen to me—’
‘There is nothing for you to say! So don’t waste your breath saying it!’ His voice was harsh, impatient. He wanted her to stop protesting, objecting—arguing. There was nothing to argue about—no alternative to what had to happen.
But she was insisting on speaking. Protesting, objecting—arguing. The way his mother always had...
‘Luca,listen, damn you! I am not marrying you! I am not marrying you now or ever!Ever!Do you hear me?Ever!’
Her voice was rising. He could hear anger in it...felt anger rising in him as well. This was not what he needed—not now! He heard his own words again—It has to happen—he didn’t want her arguing about it, making difficulties, making a scene.
Out of nowhere, memory flashed. Decades old. A car journey with his parents, himself in the back seat, his father fuming in the driving seat, his mother sulking beside him. Angry about something. Taking it out on his father, sniping at him with her vicious tongue. His father’s face darkening as he refused to rise to it. The building tension like a cloud in a thunderstorm. His mother’s fury breaking...her shouting at his father, angry and denouncing.
He’d put his hands over his ears, but it hadn’t blocked her out.
He slammed the memory shut.
‘Enough!’The harshness in his voice was rough, angry. ‘This is going to happen, Ariana—it’s not open for debate!’
He would not look at her, would not listen. Unconsciously, he accelerated—as if to get to the wedding he didn’t want but had no choice about even faster.
‘I saidlistento me.’ Fury was boiling in her voice, along with frustration and protest.
The yank on the sleeve of his suit jacket, took him by surprise and his head whipped around.
‘I am not marrying you!’
Her words were vehement, her face contorted, her fingers digging into his sleeve. Angrily, he shook his arm, dislodging her grip, and accelerated again, his face set, jaw clenched. Not bothering to speak because he’d already given her his answer. The only answer that was possible. Deny it all she wanted.
‘Do you hear me, Luca?Listento me!’
The yank on his sleeve came again, and this time his movement to dislodge her was more violent. He let go of the steering wheel with one hand to shake her off. With only his left hand steering his grip on the wheel was skewed. The imbalance made the tyres screech, the powerful car swerve, and he swore.
‘Ariana—stop!’ His head whipped around again, and fury was blazing in him now, as he felt her grab at his sleeve once more.
His eyes flashed forward. A tunnel was coming up—one of many along this winding, narrow lakeside road set between sheer mountain and deep lake. She was still gripping his jacket sleeve, dragging at his arm, and he gave it another violent shake to get rid of it. She was distorting his steering. He felt the tyres screech again.
‘You can’t make me marry you! I won’t!I won’t!’
Her cry was vehement, but he ignored it. Ignored the dragging grip on his sleeve...pulled at the steering wheel sharply as he felt the powerful, speeding car move diagonally—dangerously—across the carriageway. Urgently, he twisted the wheel to compensate, to get back to his own side of the road.
But not in time. A lorry, headlights blazing, was emerging from the approaching tunnel.
He did not even have time to swear before the crash came.
Ariana’s eyes were opening and closing, making sense of nothing. Lights, far too bright. Voices, far too loud. Her hands were flailing uselessly as the trolley she was strapped on was rushed forward. She tried to speak but could not. No one was paying attention to her. Only to each other.
She could hear words, medical terms, spoken urgently, orders given. She tried to move, but her head was immobilised in some kind of padded frame. Then the trolley was moving again, through doors swinging wide, and she could see the rounded arch of a CT scanner ahead of her. Alarm filled her and she tried to speak again.
She must not have a CT scan, it would be dangerous for her baby—she had to tell them.
And where was Luca? Wherewashe?
She tried to say his name, but that was hopeless too. The medics were sliding her into the scanner and she was told to stay still, quite still. It took only moments, and then she was being slid out again. A doctor was leaning over her. He was smiling.