His eyes widen a fraction. “Stay here,” he repeats.
“Yeah. It’s closer to the city. Easier for me to get to class and to work. It would save your driver a ton of?—”
“No.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Suddenly, I realize Petyr’s jaw has tightened. “We’re not staying here,” he says coldly. “And you’re not going back to class. Or to work.”
My eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not safe.” He rises, his cup crumpled in his fist. “You’re my wife. That makes you a target.”
“I’m not a porcelain doll.” I stand up, too. “I can handle myself. I’ve handled myself for years, in case you missed that.”
“Believe me, nobody could miss the shithole you used to live in.”
“That was my home,” I say, shaking with anger. “That so-called ‘shithole’—it was my first and only real home. So excuse me if it doesn’t live up to this—” I gesture around us. “—but at least it was fuckingmine.”
“Yeah. Your fucking coffin, if any of the spaced-out junkies or drug dealers on your street had decided to come squat it in and give you the boot.”
“But that’s exactly my point, Petyr! I lived there for years and handled it. You think I never got junkies trying to kick down my door? Crazies trying to slip in through a crack in the window? I slept with a baseball bat next to me! And now, you want to talk to me about howsafeit is or isn’t to go back to my job and my classes?”
I watch his throat work. He doesn’t like that I’m pushing back on this. Well, too fucking bad, ‘cause I am.
“You’re my wife,” he says again, like it means something. Like it makes me hisproperty, too.
“That may be,” I concede. “But I’m still my own person. And nowhere in our deal did it say that I had to put my life on indefinite hold for you.”
“You want to back out?” He takes a threatening step towards me. “Is that what this is about?”
“No, Petyr.” I take a step, too, meet him right in the middle. Stare him up head-on. “But I do want my freedom. I’m willing to make concessions, but I’m not willing to lose everything. So if you want this, you’ll learn to compromise, too.”
His nostrils are flaring like a bull’s. For a second, I feel like he’s going to hit something. Me, possibly.
But then he walks back behind the counter.
“Compromise,” he repeats.
“Yes.” I soften my tone. I may be right about this, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy putting more on his plate. Stressing himout more when he’s already worn so thin. “You said you’d take care of me financially, right?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course.”
“Then I don’t have to go back to work.” I search for his gaze, try to show him I’m serious. I mean it when I say I’m in. “But I’m not quitting my classes.”
He seems to consider it for a bit. “What classes?” he asks eventually.
“Business.” I can’t quite keep the pride out of my voice. “I picked up a few of them at NYU. It’s not a degree, but it’s enough to teach me what to do.”
“For what?”
“My wedding planning agency.” I realize it’s the first time I’ve said that out loud to someone who isn’t Jemma. “I’m tired of working for others. I want to build something of my own.”
For a second, I think I see a flash of admiration on his face. But then his brow knits again. “Why weddings?”
“What?”
“You hate them. The very institution of marriage, if I’m not misremembering.”
