"The smart move would be not sleeping with him at all," she points out logically.
She's absolutely right. I know she's right.
"It was a mistake," I admit quietly, the words bitter. "A moment of weakness."
"Was it?" She turns to face me, her expression serious. "Or was it inevitable?"
"It can't be inevitable. I can't—" I stop, struggling to articulate the fear. "I can't let this be real, Gia. If it becomes real, I lose everything I've been fighting for. The plan falls completely apart. He wins, and I lose myself."
"What if you both win? What if there's a middle ground?"
"That's not possible in this situation."
"Why not? Why does someone have to lose?"
"Because he wants me to be his wife. His possession. Another thing he owns and controls." I throw off the covers abruptly, standing and pacing. "And I want to run this family. To be more than just decoration on his arm. To matter beyond being someone's wife. Those two things can't coexist in the same reality."
"Have you asked him?" She challenges. "Have you actually asked him what he wants?"
"Asked him what specifically?"
"What he actually wants from you. Beyond the arrangement, beyond the contract. Beyond what tradition dictates."
I think about last night—about the intensity in his eyes, about the way he looked at me.
"He wants control," I say with certainty. "That's what all men like him want. Power, control, dominance. It's in their nature."
"Maybe," Gia acknowledges, walking to the door. "Or maybe you're assuming the worst about him because it's easier than finding out the truth. Because if you find out he's different, you'll have to face what you're actually afraid of."
She leaves me alone with that thought.
I get dressed mechanically, choosing something casual and appropriate for volunteering. Simple jeans, a plain top, nothing fancy. I pull my hair back into a ponytail.
By seven o'clock, I'm at the neighborhood bakery, buying Dorothy's favorite pastries, the ones with the ricotta filling she loves. By seven-thirty, I'm walking through the doors of the senior center where I volunteer twice a month.
Dorothy is waiting in her usual spot by the window, exactly where she always sits. Ninety-four years old, sharp as a knife despite her age, with strong opinions about absolutely everything and no filter whatsoever.
"You're late," she says immediately when I arrive, not bothering with pleasantries.
"I'm actually two minutes early," I point out, checking my watch.
"You're usually five minutes early, which makes you three minutes late by your own standards," she counters with impeccable logic. She eyes me critically, taking in every detail. "You look tired. Exhausted, actually."
"I had a late night," I admit.
"Doing what exactly?"
"Things." I keep it vague.
She snorts, not buying it for a second. "When I was your age, 'things' meant sneaking out to meet boys. Secret rendezvous. Is that what you were doing? Meeting a boy in the middle of the night?"
"I'm engaged, Dorothy. The boy-meeting stage of my life is over."
"Engaged doesn't mean dead," she points out with a knowing smile. "Was it the fiancé keeping you up all night?"
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. "That's none of your business."
"Ha! It was him." She takes the pastry bag from me triumphantly. "Good for you. A woman should enjoy her man. Life's too short not to."
