It's like living in a museum where someone forgot to add the humanity.
I hate it.
The door at the far end of the dining room opens, and Dante walks in, still in that three-piece suit, looking like he just stepped out of a board meeting instead of whatever dirty girlfriend buying/mafia business he probably does.
His eyes sweep over me, taking in the new dress, my damp hair—I showered in a bathroom bigger than my bedroom back at home—and the untouched plate in front of me.
"Not hungry?" he asks, moving to the other end of the table. The far end. Like we're negotiating a treaty instead of sharing a meal.
"Not particularly." I lean back in my chair. "It's hard to work up an appetite when you've been kidnapped."
His eyes meet mine. Hot and cold at the same time. "You weren't kidnapped. You agreed to terms."
"Under duress."
"Same same." He pulls out his phone, starts scrolling through something. Not even looking at me.
The casual dismissal makes my blood boil.
"This is cozy," I say, gesturing to the cavernous room. "You eat alone in this palace every night? Or do you usually have your staff eat with you so you can pretend you have friends?"
Those eyes meet mine again and I have to bite my lower lip. Maybe I shouldn’t egg him in so bad.
"Careful." he purrs.
"Or what? You'll threaten my mother again? Already did that." I pick up a fork, examine it like it's fascinating. "Must be lonely, being you. All this money, all this power, and you're still eating dinner by yourself in a house that feels like a mausoleum."
"I don't remember asking for your psychological assessment."
"I don't remember asking to be here, so I guess we're both dealing with unwanted situations."
His jaw tightens. At least I can get a reaction out of him.
"I don't like being questioned in my own house," he says, his voice dropping to that soft, dangerous tone I'm starting to recognize. "About my choices. My lifestyle. Anything."
"Noted." I set the fork down with a deliberate clink. "I'll make sure to be more unbearable then."
The tiniest hint of amusement flashes across his face—but it's gone before I can be sure.
"You'll be presented to my family in a few days," he says, shifting gears like our confrontation didn't just happen. "My father's birthday. Big event. Lots of important people."
My stomach drops. "Already?"
"We don't have time to ease into this. You'll need to be convincing from the start." His gaze travels over me again, slower this time, and I hate the way my skin heats under his scrutiny. "Which brings me to your wardrobe situation."
"My wardrobe is fine." I glower.
"Your wardrobe looks like you're auditioning for a convent." He waves a dismissive hand. "Is there some religious objection I should know about?"
I want to throw a heavy fork at his head.
"I dress appropriately for my job," I say through clenched teeth. "Not everyone needs to look like they're headed to a nightclub."
"You're not a schoolteacher right now. You're my girlfriend. And my girlfriend doesn't dress like she's chaperoning a church youth group." He pulls out his phone again, types something. "I'll have someone bring options tomorrow. You'll pick what fits. We'll get the rest tailored."
"I don't need you to buy me clothes."
"Yes, you do. Unless you plan on showing up to meet my father in that." He nods at my dress. "Which would certainly make an impression. Just not the one I need."
