After an hour of what I'm sure looks like brooding contemplation, I begin preparing for bed. I brush my hair carefully, select a silk nightgown from the armoire. It’s ivory colored, elegant but modest. All performed for an audience of one man.
But I don't sleep. Instead, I sit by the window and wait.
A little after 2 AM, I hear soft footsteps in the hallway. He's checking on me, making sure I'm not using those weapons he left me on myself.
I remain perfectly still, gazing out at the moonlit lake like a melancholy princess in a tower. In the window's reflection, I see the door open just wide enough for him to observe me.
I don't turn around. Don't acknowledge his presence. Just continue my tragic vigil by the window.
After a full minute, the door closes again with the softest click.
Round one to me.
The next morning, I'm already dressed and composed when his key turns in the lock. I've chosen my outfit carefully this time. A white cashmere that brings out my coloring, black pants thatsuggest understated elegance. Hair pulled back in a style that looks effortless but took twenty minutes to perfect.
"Good morning," I say before he can speak, accepting the coffee he offers. "Beautiful day. Perfect weather for travel back to the city, don't you think?"
He sets down the tray, and I catch the slight surprise in his expression. He expected to find me anxious about my impending return to the Rossis, or perhaps plotting some desperate last-minute escape.
Instead, I'm calm and pleasant. Almost cheerful.
"Sleep well?" he asks, settling into the chair across from me.
"Well enough. Though I kept thinking about our conversation last night."
"Which part?"
"The part where you called me an opponent." I take a sip of coffee, noting its perfect temperature, its expensive quality. "I've been wondering what you meant by that."
His dark eyes study my face. "I think you know exactly what I meant."
"Maybe. But I'd like to hear you explain it."
"You think strategically. You adapt to circumstances instead of breaking down." He leans back in his chair. "You’re looking for opportunities to exploit." His gaze travels over my face, my carefully chosen outfit. "You’re willing to use whatever tools are available to get what you want."
"And what do you think I want?”
“I'm not entirely sure."
I smile, letting him see that I'm pleased by his assessment. "Most people assume they know what women want. Security, protection, someone to take care of them."
"And you don't want those things?"
"I want to choose my own life. Make my own decisions. Not be passed from one man to another." I meet his eyes directly. "Strange concept, isn't it?"
Something flickers in his expression. Understanding, maybe, or respect.
"Your fiancé wouldn't have given you those things?"
"Lorenzo?" I almost laugh. "Lorenzo would have locked me in a different cage. Prettier, perhaps, but still a cage. At least you're honest about what you are."
"And what do you think I am?"
"A man who takes what he wants without pretending it's for my own good." I set down my coffee cup. "There's something refreshing about that kind of honesty."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between us. I can see him processing what I've said, trying to figure out if this is manipulation or genuine sentiment.
It's both, of course. But that doesn't make it less true.
