We pull through the gates at 3:15. An hour and fifteen minutes late.
The hair and makeup people are already there—I can see their van in the driveway. Which means Dante's been waiting. Probably seething.
I climb out of the car and head for the door, trying to prepare an explanation that won't sound like an excuse. I don't make it twosteps inside before a hand wraps around my arm and slams me against the wall.
Dante.
His face is a mask of cold fury, his body pinning me in place, one hand flat against the wall beside my head.
"You're late," he says, his voice dangerously soft.
"I know. I'm sorry?—"
"An hour and fifteen minutes late." His other hand comes up, fingers closing around my throat. Not choking. Just holding. "After I explicitly told you to be here at two."
"There was a student who needed?—"
"I don't care." The words are clipped. Precise. "I told you what time to be here. You agreed. And then you deliberately defied me."
"It wasn't deliberate! Alex, a student who has a difficult situation at home, was sick and his mother wasn't answering and I couldn't just leave him?—"
"Yes, you could have." His grip tightens slightly. "You chose not to. You chose your student over my explicit instructions. Do you understand what that looks like? What message that sends?"
"That I have priorities beyond being my boyfriend’s perfect accessory?"
His eyes flash. "That you don't take this seriously. That you think you can disregard my orders whenever you feel like it."
"They're not orders. I'm not your soldier?—"
"No. You're mine in every way that matters. And what's mine obeys." He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. "Do you remember what I told you about disobedience?"
My heart is hammering. "Dante?—"
"Answer the question. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"Then you know what happens next."
"I'm not going to apologize for helping a seven-year-old?—"
"I'm not asking you to apologize for helping him. I'm telling you that defying me has consequences." His hand slides from my throat to my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Whether you think those consequences are fair is irrelevant."
"So what? You're going to punish me? Right now?" I shove at his chest, but he doesn't budge. "The hair people are waiting. We have a party in three hours. What exactly is your plan?"
"My plan," he says, his voice dropping even lower, "is to remind you exactly who's in control here."
"You're always in control. That's the problem."
"Is it?" His hand drops to my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Because from where I'm standing, you're the one making choices. You're the one deciding when to obey and when to defy. That's not me having control. That's you testing boundaries."
"Maybe I'm tired of boundaries."
"Maybe you want to be punished." His eyes search mine. "Is that it, Bianca? Do you want me to bend you over my knee again? Make you count while I remind you what happens when you disobey?"
Heat floods through me despite my anger. "No."
"Liar." His hand slides lower, to my hip, fingers digging in. "Your body gives you away every time."
