She leads me up the next staircase and gestures to the space in front of us. “Here we are. The owner’s deck houses your suite as well as a private aft deck and pool area. Would you like me to show you the features before you settle in?”
“I think I can manage.” My eyes drift to the additional staircase. “Where does that go?”
“The Skylounge,” she says. “It has a beautiful view over the bow. Perfect for sunset cocktails.”
Or throwing disagreeable guests overboard.
I nod, and she removes the tablet tucked under her arm and presses a few buttons, adjusting the lighting in the suite. “This controls your lighting, shades, and entertainment system. Should you need anything else, you can contact our butler service twenty-four hours a day, just there.” She shows me the messaging system before handing it over to me. “I’ve unpacked the luggage that was sent ahead for you, Mrs. Vitale, and there’s a chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot and strawberries on the bar. Is there anything else I can get you right now?”
“No, thank you, Veronica. I appreciate you helping me get settled in, but I think I’m going to retire for the night.”
“Of course.” She nods. “Enjoy your rest, Mrs. Vitale.”
After she retreats, I waste no time stripping off my clothes inside the suite, discarding them in the first trash bin I find. With that done, I head to the bar and pop the bottle of champagne, pouring a hefty gulp into my mouth and chasing it with three strawberries.
Veronica went to the trouble of bringing them for us, so the least I can do is eat them. That’s what I tell myself as I carry the platter and champagne into the bathroom with me. But the sweet fruit quickly sours in my stomach when I get a look at my blood-stained skin in the mirror.
Discarding the tray of fruit, I turn the shower on hot and step inside with my bottle of champagne. I stand beneath the sprayand drink away the memory of Matteo’s lifeless gaze as his blood washes down the drain.
I’m too broken to cry anymore, and I don’t know what that says about me. Matteo protected my secret up until the bitter end, even as he watched me betray him.
Guilt is too heavy a weight to carry, my mother once said. She was conditioned not to blink an eye or lose sleep over any carnage she witnessed during her marriage, and she made sure her daughters were too. It’s the only way to survive this world.
I’m not sure I’m as good at that as she was. Because as I stumble from the shower and set the empty champagne bottle on the counter, I don’t feel so detached anymore. I just feel the crushing weight of sadness and terminal exhaustion.
I don’t bother with a towel or clothes. It’s all I can do to make it to the fluffy, king-size bed, where I face plant into the pillow. And there, I close my eyes and slip off into oblivion.
20
ABELLA
Iwake with a groan, my temples pounding as I open my eyes and blink up at the ceiling. It takes me a moment to orient myself, and then all at once, the events of yesterday come flooding back in vivid detail.
The wedding. The tattoo. The sex. The death. And then finally—the now regrettable champagne shower.
I cringe at the vague memory of collapsing onto the bed naked. I don’t think I even managed to pull the covers over myself. I’m still on top of the bedspread, but it appears someone did cover me with a blanket at some point. The space beside me is lightly indented, and I briefly wonder if Angelo slept in here with me last night.
I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself upright, glancing at the tablet on the bedside table. I use it to open the shades in the room and discover that we’re out to sea.
Next to the tablet, there’s a glass of juice and some Tylenol, along with a handwritten note. I recognize Angelo’s penmanship, the words neat and concise. He left me a message to inform me that the waterproof film on my tattoo has been changed and to leave it on for today.
I’m surprised I didn’t feel him doing that while I slept. I guess that means he probably covered me with the blanket, too.
For a moment, I find myself retracing the lines on his note with my finger. I stare at the spaces between each word, as if there might be something else there. Like why he cares if I’m sore or I get cold at night. But I’m searching for something that shouldn’t matter.
In thirty days, it won’t.
I take the pills and juice with the hope I might be somewhat functional today. My entire body feels stiff, overworked, and overstretched. I ache in places I didn’t even know I could. I swing my legs over the bed and definitely feel the demolition job Angelo’s cock did to my virginity last night. But out of everything, what hurts the most is my face.
I wander into the bathroom and grimace when I see my reflection in the mirror. My cheek is swollen and bruised where my father hit me, and so is my lip. There’s also a handprint-shaped imprint on my arm from when he forcibly dragged me down the aisle.
No amount of makeup is going to cover those marks today. On top of that, I look pretty terrible in general. My eyes are shadowed with dark circles, my hair is a rat’s nest, and my whole face is puffy from the alcohol I drank last night.
“Madonna Mia,” I mutter.
What a way to start married life. Then again, it could always be worse.
I blink rapidly and try to forget Matteo’s lifeless body.Compartmentalize. This is how we survive.
