“It’s only me,” I offer with a faint smile. He doesn’t return it, but then I don’t expect him to. “What’s going on, exactly? What’s with all the faces and bodies around here?”
I should have known better. He smirks before turning his back on me. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
That sounds much too familiar. I’m getting sick and tired of being told what I do and don’t need to know about.
I straighten my spine and lift my chin, reminding myself he isn’t Enzo. He has no hold over me, this nobody. Some goon with a gun who Enzo would castrate if he ever hurt me. “I am Mrs. De Luca,” I remind him. “And I would like to know.”
“If you needed to know, the boss would have told me so. He’s the one who pays me, not you.”
None of these men are exactly what I would call geniuses. I wouldn’t want any of them performing surgery on me. But they know how to put a person in their place. I close the door quietly, feeling small and insignificant—especially after trying to put on an act like I was all big and bad.
And I’m angry. So damn angry. I don’t know if it has to do with the baby affecting my hormones or what, but something that would normally make me roll my eyes before trudging upstairs has me steamed. Fuck these guys. Who do they think they are, talking to me this way? Is this the kind of life I would have to look forward to if I stayed married to Enzo?
I forget all about my water, instead choosing to go through the house into the living room, where a man is posted by the front door. “Excuse me. Do you know where my husband is?” It’s past midnight, and he still hasn’t come back from wherever he went with Prince. Not that I was clued in or anything. I happened to overhear him making plans on the phone.
“If you don’t know where he is, why would I?” He snickers as I turn away, my face flushing with both embarrassment and rage. This is ridiculous. Do these men take courses on how to be cold and dismissive?
At least he said something to me. When I ask the guy posted in Enzo’s empty study, he doesn’t bother saying a word. He only stares out the window, his back to me, like a statue. A statue who would probably blow the head off an intruder.
There has to be a reason they won’t at least tell me where he went, like a meeting or something. They won’t even bother telling me they don’t know—maybe they don’t. Why would he keep them informed? But their egos probably won’t let them admit that.
I drag myself back upstairs, my heart as heavy as my feet. Where is he? He’s never out this late for any reason. If he’s working, it’s here in the house. If he has a meeting, which he hasn’t really had many of since we got back here, he’s still home at a decent time—unless the meeting is here, like it was a few weeks ago when I crossed paths with the beautiful woman whose name I’m still not allowed to know.
That woman. I pause at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister tight, staring down the hall but seeing her instead. She was so sophisticated, the kind of person who’s intimidating without having to say a word. Her presence alone was enough.
Her lipstick on his cheek. She kissed him on the cheek. That’s not professional. Am I supposed to believe the two of them don’t know each other in some other way?
I can’t believe I’m actually thinking like this, but it’s so clear now. He’s with her, I bet. Or some other woman. What difference does it make? He’s not with me. Why would he be? All I am is a means of getting himself an heir.
I’m pregnant, so that’s settled. But his needs still have to be met, don’t they? And I am a traitor, the person he blames for his grandfather’s death. Why would he turn to me? I’m only his wife.
Rather than close the door, I leave it cracked a little so I can hear if he comes in downstairs. It’s not like I’m going to be falling asleep anytime soon, not when I’m so freaked out. I pace the room, trying and failing to keep ugly images from flashing in my mind. The two of them together, having a great time. At a club, maybe, or a high-end restaurant. Cruising around, going back to her place or to some hotel somewhere. Fucking like a couple of animals while I sit here and wait for him to come home.
I guess it only makes sense if he doesn’t feel anything for me but hatred. Looking at it from his perspective, I can’t even blame him. He’s young, powerful, and, God knows, he’s hot as hell. There’s no reason for him to lock himself in this house with his pregnant wife, who he hates, when there are so many other women out there, women from his world, women who know the score. Not naïve little nobodies like me who only stumbled into this by mistake.
That woman, whatever her name is, she’s the kind of woman he should be with. I bet dear old grandad would love her. He probably wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hitting on her long enough to broker a marriage deal. Even now, when the man is dead, I find myself grimacing at the thought of him. I’m sorry he went the way he did, but that’s more for Enzo’s sake. I guess I don’t have it in me to quickly forgive somebody who threatened to have me murdered for not giving his grandson an heir on his schedule.
One o’clock comes and goes. Two o’clock. I sit down on the bed and try to concentrate on catching up with my reading, but it’s no use. I can get through a whole chapter and not actually absorb any of the information. Not with Enzo at the forefront of my mind. Not when I can’t help but imagine him rolling around in bed with that woman.
The house is quieter now. I tiptoe to the door and listen hard—there’s no pacing downstairs, no muttered conversations.
In fact… at first, I think I’m imagining the sound, so I creep out into the hall and peer down the stairs. Sure enough, the soft snoring I thought I heard is for real, coming from the guard posted by the door. He’s now seated on the couch, his head hanging low. I bet he wouldn’t be so dismissive if I threatened to tell the boss he fell asleep on the job. He’s supposed to be guarding me. Well, the baby, and I just happen to be the person carrying the baby, so I’m included.
He couldn’t even bother to stay awake. Yeah, he might soon regret talking to me the way he did.
That’s childish—worse than that, it’s a distraction from what I need to be thinking about. Here I am, wanting to get these guys in trouble when I should be concentrating on how to use this to my advantage.
I could leave. I could sneak right past that guy. He’s out cold, the way I’m sure most of the other guys are by now. It must be boring, just standing or sitting there with nothing to do but wait for something that probably won’t ever happen. The house is quiet as a tomb. I would probably fall asleep, too, if I wasn’t so busy imagining the various positions my husband is twisting that strange woman into right this very minute.
I need to get out of here. This is my chance. I sure as hell don’t want to look at Enzo, not if he’s been with somebody else. Even if it wasn’t her in particular, what else would he be doing right now? At this time of night? I back away from the top of the stairs as silently as possible, then just as silently close the bedroom door before turning on the lights and pulling my tote bag out from under the bed.
I shouldn’t be crying. It must be the hormones. Enzo does not deserve my tears; I’ve known that all along. So why can’t I stop myself from weeping as I throw things into the bag?
Especially the bracelets I take from the top drawer in my dresser, under my socks. I asked to look at them the other day, and he never took them back which just happened to work out in my favor. I don’t have anywhere else to put them—there’s no safe or anything that I’m aware of, and I don’t even have a jewelry box. I don’t have anything really, nothing to make this room or this house my own. I had to put them somewhere. I’m surprised Enzo even let me keep hold of them rather than holding on to them himself.
I wrap the box in layers of clothing until it’s cocooned and very carefully tuck it into the bag before stacking more clothes, then toiletries on top. It’s not lost on me that I’m carrying many thousands of dollars by the time I zip up the bag, and it’s a little nerve-wracking. Those bracelets alone could probably have put me through school, and then some. I wouldn’t have had to worry about anything. I could sell them now, I guess, and have enough money to live off while I think about what to do next.
He’s never going to let you go. Are you crazy? What do you think you’re going to do once you’re out of this house?I don’t know the answer to that, and I’m sure he’s not going to let this go. But damn him, I’m not going to sit around here and wait with my heart in my throat all the time. And I’m not going to let him smirk in my face when I ask where he was tonight. I’m not going to let him do that to me. I’ve already let him do too much as it is.