Luca already has all the power here.
Besides, would that defiance be the catalyst for my father’s death?
I can’t take that risk.
So I put on the dress.
It fits perfectly, because of course it does.
He probably had someone steal my measurements from God knows where.
I wince as I zip it up, the movement pulling at my injured ribs.
At least the silk is forgiving enough not to press directly on the bruises.
The dress feels luxurious against my skin, cool and expensive, and I hate how beautiful it makes me feel. I don’twantto be beautiful for him.
I don’t want to beanythingfor him.
When Maria returns at 6:55 p.m. exactly, I’m standing by the window, watching the sun set over Lake Michigan and wondering if this is what the rest of my life will look like—beautiful views from inside a cage.
She leads me down the hallway, down the stairs, through a maze of rooms until we reach a formal dining room that probablydidbelong to Versailles.
A table that could seat twenty stretches down the center of the room, set with China and crystal and silver that catches the light from yet another chandelier.
Luca stands at the far end, near the head of the table, wearing a tuxedo like he’s about to attend the opera.
He looks impossibly handsome in the candlelight—dark hair perfectly styled, sharp jawline, those cold eyes looking me up and down.
It feels disgusting.
I want to get in the shower and scour my body.
Does he notice the bruises on my face?
The careful way I’m moving?
Or does he simply not care about the damage his orders caused?
“Giuliana,” he says, and I’m starting to hate my name. “You look exquisite.”
Oh, so he’s going to ignore my injuries. Nice.
I want to throw the compliment back in his face. Instead, I hear myself ask, “How’s my father?”
His expression doesn’t change. “He’s being cared for. You’ll see him when I decide the time is right.”
“I need to know if he’s okay,” I insist, clutching the back of my chair. “I need?—”
“You need to sit down and have dinner with me,” he interrupts smoothly, pulling out a chair. “We have much to discuss about our arrangement.”
It’s not a suggestion. Nothing he says is ever just a suggestion.
I sit, because what choice do I have?
He settles into his own chair, and staff members I hadn’t even noticed appear to serve the first course—something involving oysters and caviar that makes my stomach lurch.
“You signed the documents,” Luca says, swirling wine in a glass that catches the candlelight. “That was wise.”
