With his other hand, he pulls out his phone and, with a few taps, calls someone. I frown at the device, and after five seconds, a man's voice comes through the speaker.
"Mr. Kaminski, is there a problem with the ring?"
"No, Leopold. I just wanted to make sure you wrote down the correct name of my wife, for whom I commissioned this ring, for future pieces," I hear Damien say, and the air is knocked out of my lungs.
After a few moments, the man on the other end of the line replies, "Roxanne. We have Roxanne Kaminski noted down. Is that correct?"
I stare at the man in front of me, who has the widest smile on his face as he says, "Yes. That is more than perfect."
After he hangs up, I'm too ashamed to look at him.
"One day, when you're ready, I'll explain why I feel everything I feel for you. Until then, if it helps you sleep better at night, just think of me as a man with resources. And I'm damn determined to lay them all at your feet."
Without waiting for another response, he takes my hand, slides the ring onto my finger, and turns back to the steering wheel.
I don't know how many minutes pass, minutes when I just stare at the jewelry that I'm sure cost as much as a luxury apartment in Chicago, before I find myself answering him.
"Yes. I want to be your wife."
My voice is weak, but I know he heard me by the way his breath hitches.
You don't deserve this much attention. You don't deserve for someone to go to this much trouble.But when I look at the man to my left, that annoying voice falls silent.
Chapter 20
Roxy
The moment we step into the house, we're greeted by a young woman with light brown hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
"Roxanne, this is Tirana. She'll help you with whatever you need to get settled in," Damien says.
"A pleasure, Miss Roxanne."
"Roxy is fine," I tell her, my eyes still trying to take in the sheer scale of the house.
I’m a sucker for mid-century modern, and this is probably the exact style I would have chosen for my own home, if I could ever have afforded one. Even though it's clear he had help decorating, everything is seamless, a perfect blend of taste and function. The sleek lines of the furniture and the carefully chosen color palette soothe some of the anxiety coiling in my stomach.
I could live here, a voice I’d locked away whispers. It’s the same voice that held out hope every time I did something right, praying my father would finally notice. The voice that told me they didn't wait for me for dinner when I had practice because they were just too tired. The voice that insisted they simplyhadto work all those times I was sick and had to take care of myself. A voice that let them walk all over me, again and again, because I thought that was how I could earn my place in their family. A sad laugh escapes me at my own naivety.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and I hate how perceptive he is.
"I am now," I say honestly because, for a fleeting moment, I wonder what it would have been like to have him in my life back then. I can be cruel to him, I can joke, but I canfeelthat he cares, and for me, that’s a dangerous realization.
"I wish you were always okay, Roxanne." He takes my hand in his. "Come on, let me show you the bedroom and the office, in case you need to work from here."
"My bedroom?" I ask, freezing at the base of the stairs.
He stops short and turns around, his face a mask of contrition.
"Damien, I hope we have separate bedrooms. Otherwise, you'll be sleeping on the floor."
"Okay," he answers quickly.
"What do you mean, 'okay'? It's not okay. You need to sleep in a bed, just not in the same one as me," I say firmly.
He glances left and right, checking that we're alone before taking a step toward me.
"I don't know who I can trust these days. If anyone on the Council finds out that my fiancée, my future wife, is sleeping in another room, they'll suspect this is just a maneuver for votes. And I can't afford that right now, sweetheart. If I have to sleep on the floor for you to agree to this, I'll embrace the hardwood with open arms."
