The thought makes me a little sick.
Yes. That’s what I have to do. I push the sheets and my doubts aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
The floor is cool, and a slant of light spears across my foot. I curl my toes a little, then brace myself and get up. My legs wobble for a second, and I steel them.
I look around. My clothes are likely still downstairs somewhere. My cheeks heat again at the thought of a housekeeper finding them scattered across the kitchen. Then I’m mortified at the mess we left down there.
I never leave a kitchen messy. It’s a point of pride with me. I think about the state I would have to be in not to care.
I feel that stab of shame again as the image of me on my knees in the shower crosses my mind. The way I eagerly took his balls in my mouth. The way I begged him with my eyes to fuck my throat because I couldn’t form any words. The salty taste of him as he came in my mouth, demanding I swallow every drop. And I did.
But it didn’t stop there.
I cover my face and nearly whimper with embarrassment at the things I let him do to me in this bed last night.
My pussy is sore, my knees, even my wrists, from when he used his belt to tie them to the bedpost…
I drop my hands. I have to get the hell out of here before he comes back. I can’t face him. Not again. Not in this room. The shame might actually kill me.
I look around again, but this time, I spot a robe draped over the end of the bed. Not the same one that Giovanni put me in after the hot tub or the shower. A different one.
It’s the kind of robe you see in glossy magazines–a dense, weighty material with a velour hand on the outside and a soft lining inside, collar wide and shawled, cuffs bound in a silky piping. When I lift it, it drapes with that expensive heaviness that says the thread count makes it worth more than what’s in my bank account. Even the belt is substantial, not the limpribbon most hotels pretend is a belt. I slide my arms in, and the lining kisses skin still tender.
It smells faintly of cedar and whatever they use on good linens—clean, not perfumed. The seams are perfect; the pockets are deep. I catch myself rubbing the edge of the cuff between finger and thumb, because my body recognizes quality even though I haven’t been able to afford it on my own. It’s more luxurious than anything I’ve ever handled that didn’t belong to someone else’s kitchen, and the difference makes something inside me go very still.
Then the thought hits hard and mean: how many other women have stood right here in this robe, in this room, doing this exact mental math? How many other mornings were a repeat of this one? The meal, the wine, the hot tub, the look in his eyes.Mia, he said. But did he mean it?
The idea makes my stomach turn to lead. My face heats again, not from last night this time, but from the ache of being replaceable in a story I want to pretend is singular.
I shake my head once, sharply. Stop. That way lies a spiral with no bottom. I don’t know his history, and I don’t need to write it for him.
None of this is relevant. Whatever happened last night happened, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. All I can do is focus on the future. The debt, the work, my mother’s name, my nonna’s legacy.
I cinch the belt tighter, like I can tie those truths in place.
I tuck the cuffs up one turn so my hands are free and check the pockets as if they’ll yield courage. Nothing. Just really expensive fabric. I square my shoulders, inhale the clean cedar of the collar, and tell myself—out loud, barely—“Move.”
I cross to the door. My heart is ridiculous. I rest my palm on the latch and count to three. Then I count to three again because my hand won’t move. God, pull it together. I choke back the stupid, hot edge of tears and twist.
The door swings inward.
I jerk back hard enough that the belt bites my waist, a half-yelp caught in my throat. Giovanni fills the doorway, one hand on the latch he’d been turning, the other steadying a wooden tray.
He takes me in without rushing: robe, hair, the heat in my face, the way my hand is still curled against my chest, as if the latch burned me. His mouth curves, not exactly a smile. More like he knows what’s going on in my head.
I hate that he does that.
His eyes do that soft-focus thing that turns my spine into goo.
“Good morning,” he says, voice low.
“Hi,” I manage. Brilliant. Fluent. Stunning display of language. My voice sounds like sleep, and last night, and the shame that won’t decide if it wants to fight or hide.
He shifts the tray, not to fidget—he doesn’t fidget—but to bring attention to it.
The tray is like a still life: a steaming pot of coffee that smells like salvation, two cups and a little pitcher of hot milk, two short glasses of orange juice so bright they look fresh-squeezed, thick slices of last night’s bread with pats of butter tucked into waxed paper. Two plates sit under domed lids; smoky and savory scents leak from under the edges.
A bowl of glossy cherries sitting in their own dark juice. They make memories of last night creep into my mind, and I shove them away.
