“If my husband wishes to use a surrogate and donor eggs, I have no problem with that.” I smile so wide my teeth are probably visible from the moon, knowing full well he won’t want that. He’s already told me it’s not an option.
“Thank you for your input, Doctor Hammond. I can see that my wife and I need to sit down and chat about our options.”
The doctor makes polite noises and presses a button to call the nurse to show us out. I snatch a boiled sweet from a glass dish on a side table and pop it in my mouth. It tastes of mint, which helps settle my stomach.
Angelo is silent until we’re safely back in the car with the privacy screen raised. The tension between us is palpable, but I am unrepentant. I told him I wasn’t interested in being a broodmare. Unless he rapes me, it’s not fucking happening.
And if he wants to try raping me, he better be prepared for me to fight back.
Memories of the trucker who tried to rape me flash through my mind, and my stomach revolts in earnest. Bile surges up my esophagus, and I swallow hard, but it’s no use. I’m going to hurl all over my shoes any second now.
“Can we stop the car, please?” I beg as Angelo opens his mouth to speak, or more likely, yell at me.
“For fuck’s sake, Chiara, I’m not letting you out of the car so you can run off,” he snaps.
Sweat prickles down my back. My face goes numb. I grip the seat and focus on not throwing up. The idea of puking all over Angelo’s Italian leather brogues is mildly amusing, but it would be his poor staff that had to clean the car, not him.
“If you don’t stop the car, I’ll throw up in your lap,” I grit out through fresh bile.
A vision of the trucker’s hand groping me hits hard and fast.
If I hadn’t been carrying a knife back then, he would have raped me.
Thank fuck he’d stopped for fuel before he got handsy with me, or I’d have been in dire straits. Fortunately, I escaped his cab after stabbing him and found a female trucker willing to offer me a lift. She’d literally saved my life that night.
“For fuck’s sake,” Angelo snarls, oblivious to my mental meltdown. He presses a button to lower the privacy screen and instructs his driver to pull over. The minute the car stops, I dive out and empty the contents of my stomach in the ditch.
A cool hand lifts my hair from the nape of my neck while I retch some more. When I’m done, Angelo gently pulls me to my feet and passes me a bottle of water. I crack the seal and swallow a mouthful before spitting it back out.
One minuscule measure of kindness does not erase all the fucked-up things his family has done, but the iron cage around my heart loosens a fraction.
13
Chiara
The sun sinks low over the trees behind the mansion. The sky is a canvas of pink and orange streaks. It almost inspires me to pick up a paintbrush. My mother apparently painted, or so my father once told me after I’d found a bunch of oil paintings stacked under a dust sheet in the attic.
When I’d asked why there were none displayed on the walls of our home, he’d shaken his head and told me not to mention them again.
It had seemed a shame to leave such lovely paintings covered. Even though I was only a kid, I could see my mother had talent, so the next day I went back into the attic, chose my favorite painting—a vase of pink roses—and dragged it downstairs.
Vivian caught me trying to hang it in my bedroom and lost her shit. She snatched it from me and slashed the canvas to shreds. I’d cried for the rest of the day and well into the evening.
Fucking bitch.
Dad installed a padlock on the attic door after that.
I stretch my legs out and wiggle a little to get more comfortable. There’s an open bottle of Muscat on the side tableand a half-empty glass. I raided the wine cellar before coming in here. After this morning, I figured I deserved it.
Compared to the humid heat of the last two weeks, the air feels cooler, fresher this evening. I’m wearing a cozy lounge set made from the softest cashmere wool.
A bunch of new clothes appeared in my closet the other day. All of them in my size, the sort of casual garments I love. A handwritten note told me they were from Fina.
She might be Angelo’s sister, but I like her. Any woman who gifts me cashmere lounge sets is a friend for life.
The wine slides down my throat as a warm breeze licks my skin.
Being here is a massive head-fuck. While I hate my new living arrangement, I don’t dislike my new clothes and the delicious food.
