But that was a month ago, and he hasn’t said a word to me since. He’s nothing but shadows now. And Roberto… Roberto is a real solid presence.
Maybe it’s time I stop chasing ghosts.
I look up at him. "What if I say I want more than comfort? More than security?"
He considers me for a long beat, then answers honestly. "Then I’ll do my best to be more."
It’s not romantic. It’s not poetic. But it’s more than I expected.
"We'll get to know each other before the wedding, yes?" He tilts his head as if asking permission, and I nod.
"How about I take you out for dinner tomorrow?"
"I would like that," I answer the way it's expected. My heart doesn't skip a beat or do a small dance. I don't have any butterflies in my stomach like I do when I catch a glimpse of Raffael. And I realize how unfair I am being. Raffael has never shown any kind of interest in me. None. So he rescued me. So he kissed me. But any of my father's men would have done that had they happened to be there that night—well, not the kiss part. I need to quit this stupid, schoolgirl pining and become the woman my mother would have wanted me to be.
Roberto takes my hand and kisses it, "I'm honored to become your husband. You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, and from what your father said, you are very intelligent too."
I suppress a snort. What would my father know about that? He's never shown any interest in my schooling. Not once has he asked about report cards or grades. He's more invested in making my next hair appointment than my homework. My looks are all that matter.
Fine.
"He did?" I don't have to feign surprise. "That's very flattering."
"Were you planning on going to college?" Roberto inquires, as if he's genuinely interested in me. I feel a slight flutter inside, gratitude for any attention being paid to me, outside of fists and harsh words.
"I like playing musical instruments. I would have liked to study music." I confess. Music has been my escape whenever the voices in the house got too loud or the fists were hitting too hard. With music, I could express my feelings, loneliness, anger, and pain. It's all in the notes.
"Oh yeah, what do you play?"
"My favorite is the piano," I feel myself relaxing around him; he's making it easy. "But I can also play the violin and cello. My mother thought every young lady should master at least three instruments, like it was some kind of proof I was cultured enough to be sold off someday."
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too raw. Too honest.
I glance at Roberto, expecting offense, but he just tilts his head slightly, studying me like he’s learning a new shape. Like maybe he didn’t expect me to be sharp under all the silk.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asks, not missing a beat. "The music, I mean."
I look down at my hands, the fingers that once danced over keys and strings.
"I used to," I say softly. "Before everything started feeling like a performance."
"I would love it if you'd play for me one day," he says. He's still holding my hand, and his thumb caresses my palm. And for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like to give someone else a chance. Not because I want to. But because the one I wanted walked away.
I nod slowly, my voice barely audible. "For you, I will."
"God, you're beautiful," he murmurs, exhaling like he means it.
His hand lets go of mine, and his fingers gently find my chin, grazing upward to touch my cheek. They’re careful and practiced. Meant to reassure. "I know I shouldn't," he adds, voice softer now. "You're barely eighteen, yet..."
He stops there, but the rest of the sentence hovers between us.But I want to.
My heart pounds louder than it should. Not from desire, but from dread. If it weren’t for that night, I wouldn't have known what it meant to be kissed. I wouldn't have known how intimate it could be. How you had to have feelings for the other person. Kissing Roberto is the last thing I want to do right now, or ever, I fear. I don’t know Roberto. Not the way a woman should know the man she’s supposed to give herself to. I don’t know how he fights, or if he has a temper. I don’t know if he prefers red wine to scotch, or if he’ll ever raise a hand to me when I displease him, like Cammie warned.
"I’m sorry," I say quickly, stepping back just enough to break the spell. "I-I should check on my father. He doesn’t like it when I’m gone too long."
His hand drops to his side. He doesn’t stop me, and he doesn’t follow. He just nods once, like he understands, but his eyes narrow just a little. Not cruel. Not disappointed. Just… calculating.
"I’ll see you tomorrow," he says.
