It's not a request.
I follow him through the French doors onto a stone balcony overlooking the gardens. The air is cooler here, fresher, but it doesn't help the tight feeling in my chest.
The second we're alone, his mask drops.
"Never," he says, his voice razor-sharp. "Do you understand me? Never."
"Never what?" I'm genuinely confused. "Dante, it was just champagne?—"
"I don't care what it was. You don't drink. Not here. Not anywhere."
The arbitrariness of it hits me like a sledgehammer to the stomach. "What the fuck is wrong with you? You don't get to decide that."
"Yes, I do." He steps closer, his presence overwhelming.
The anger is boiling over now, all the fear and frustration from the Richard encounter, from the dress confrontation, from everything. "Your mood swings from reasonable human being to barbaric neanderthal are giving me whiplash. I'm my own person. I have thoughts and feelings and the right to make my own choices!"
"Not when those choices reflect on me." His jaw is tight. "Not when we're here, in front of everyone who matters."
"It was one glass of champagne, not heroin!"
"The answer is no." Final. Absolute. "And if you can't accept that, then maybe this arrangement isn't going to work."
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me standing on the balcony, shaking with rage.
I'm my own person.
I'm my own person.
I'm my?—
Screw it.
I go back inside, find a server, and take a glass of champagne. And then another. Not because I even want it—champagne tastes like bitter bubbles and it’s too cold—but because he doesn't get to tell me what to do.
Not with this.
By my third glass, the edges are softer. The room is warmer. Alessia is telling a story about Matteo and a botched attempt at cooking that has me laughing harder than it probably deserves.
"You look like you’re having fun," Isabella observes.
"I'm making a point," I correct, raising my glass in a mock toast.
The champagne is making everything pleasantly fuzzy. The fear about Richard has dulled. The anger at Dante has transformed into something much more reckless and defiant.
I'm laughing at something Alessia says when a hand closes around my upper arm. Tight. Possessive.
It’s Dante. I know his touch.
"We're leaving," Dante says in my ear, his voice deadly quiet.
"But, I'm having a conversation?—"
"Now." He doesn't wait for an answer, just starts pulling me toward a side door, and suddenly we're in a empty hallway, and he's slamming me against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" His face is inches from mine, blue eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how you look right now? Laughing too loud, face flushed, practically throwing yourself at everyone?—"
"I was talking to the girls!"
