Goodness fucking help me.
"I told you?—"
"I know what you told me." Her eyes flash. "You told me a lot of things today, Dante. About how you own me. How I'm your responsibility. How I need to do what you say, when you say it, no questions asked. That I should leave a sick boy alone becauseyou said so."
"That's the arrangement?—"
"Again, this arrangement doesn't include dressing me up like your personal sex doll and not being a decent human being." She yanks her arm again, harder. "I wore a dress. A beautiful, appropriate, expensive dress. If that's not good enough for you, then maybe you should've been there to supervise instead of running off to handle business."
The fury in her voice matches mine. And underneath it, hurt. Real hurt that she's trying to hide behind anger.
I should be focused on the dress. On the disobedience. On what this means for tonight.
But all I can think about is how close she is. How her chest rises and falls with each breath. How her lips are parted slightly, flushed from anger or arousal or both.
Fuck me.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" I move closer, backing her against the car. My hand slides to her waist, fingers digging in hard enough to make a point. "This isn't a fucking game, Bianca. Every detail matters. The dress, the hair, the jewelry—all of it sends a message."
"Then what message does this dress send?" She doesn't back down. "That I have taste? That I'm not some toy you parade around?"
"It sends the message that you don't listen. That you think you know better than me."
She scoffs. "Maybe I do."
I laugh, low and without humor. "You think because you won at poker that you're suddenly my equal? That you get to make decisions?"
"I think because I'm a human being with my own mind, I get to choose what I wear."
"Wrong." I lean in until my lips are at her ear. "You gave up that right when you signed the contract. When you agreed to this. Every choice you make now reflects on me."
“Why do you have to control your girlfriend?” Her breath hitches. "I'm not your doll."
"No." My hand moves from her waist to her hip, possessive. "You're my girlfriend. My responsibility. Mine. And when we walk through those doors, you're going to smile and be charming and make them believe this is real. You're going to make Caterina Bellandi jealous. You're going to make my father think I've found someone worthy. Are we clear?"
"And if I don't?" Her voice is breathless now, the anger shifting into something else. "What are you going to do, Dante? Punish me? Threaten my mother again?"
"I don't need to threaten your mother." I pull back just enough to look at her. "You'll behave because you're smart enough to know what's at stake. Because despite this little act of defiance, you understand that I'm the only thing standing between her and the street."
The color drains from her face slightly. Good. She needs the reminder.
But then she does something unexpected.
She smiles.
"You know what I think?" She leans closer, her voice dropping to match mine. "I think you're not angry about the dress. I think you actually like it. I think you're angry because I didn't do exactly what you wanted. And you hate that you can't control me the way you control everything else."
The accuracy of that statement hits harder than it should. I clench my jaw so hard I’m half afraid it’ll crack.
"Careful, Bianca." I growl.
"Or what? You'll?—"
"Dante!"
The voice cuts through the moment like a knife. I step back immediately, releasing her, and turn to see Luca standing at the entrance.
"Your father is asking for you," he calls. "And he wants to meet her."
