“He also wants to move the wedding up to the end of June,” Michael announces.
“But that’s right after graduation,” I wheeze.
“Yeah, well, that’s his prerogative.” Michael shrugs. “Just be glad he’s letting you finish school. These high society types like to have their women educated so they can brag about it. It’s a waste of money if you ask me.”
“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” I swallow.
I’m about two seconds away from breaking down, and I don’t want Michael to see it. He’ll just yell at me and tell me what a disappointment I am.
“Yeah, that’s it. Don’t forget you have dance practice with Riccardo this weekend, and your cousin Val will go over wedding plans with both of you.”
I give him a stiff nod, and Michael presses the button for the elevator.
“Riccardo also wants weekly dinners with you from here on out,” he says as he steps inside the carriage. “I’ll let you two figure out the details.”
I stare through him as the elevator doors close, and only once he’s gone do I let the hot tears burning my eyes leak free.
“Miss Bianchi.” Julian appears a minute later as I’m still standing there, frozen. “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I choke out. “Thank you, but I just want to go lie down.”
He nods, and I walk to my room in a daze, Beppe trailing after me. I scoop him up into my arms and crawl into bed, holding him as I cry it out. We stay like that for a long time, until all my tears have dried, and numbness settles in.
When I reach for my phone and check my messages, Eros still hasn’t texted me back. I really wish I could talk to him right now.
As I’m thinking about it, my phone rings, and I’m hopeful—until I see Riccardo’s name on the screen. He never calls me, but I’m assuming this must be about the weekly dinners. I don’t want to talk to him, but I know it will only make things worse if I don’t answer.
Against every instinct in my body, I accept his call.
“Hello?”
My voice sounds awful, but Riccardo doesn’t seem to notice, as usual.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Umm…nothing.”
An awkward silence follows before he sighs.
“Did Michael talk to you today?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes, trying to suppress my growing hatred for this man.
“I’m sure you can understand after last weekend’s performance why this is necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“You embarrassed me,” he sneers.
I’m tempted to tell him I wasn’t the one who shit my pants, but I refrain.
“I didn’t realize,” I answer numbly.
“I get that you’re socially inept or whatever, but you need to learn how to talk to your man in a public setting.”
I’m not sure what disgusts me more—him calling himself my man, or the fact that he’s so insecure he has to cut me down to make himself feel better.
“I don’t want you dancing with other men again either,” he decrees. “It makes you look like a slut.”
