Alessio
Damian has been odd ever since the day of the wedding. Since he left to talk to Eivor that night, actually. He never told me what it was about, and I haven’t had the chance to speak with him alone. Rosalie has been by my side the last couple days. It’s only at night that she goes to sleep in her own bed and leaves me to entertain myself.
Not that I mind. I’m just as interested in consummating our marriage as she is. Which is not at all.
Even at night, talking to Damian seems impossible. He’s always finding something to do, something to check, or he’s simply quiet.
Something isn’t right, and I need to find out what it is. It’s driving me up a wall not to know.
Unfortunately, Eivor has insisted upon my and Rosalie’s presence at a charity gala that’s been hosted in the ballroom of the hotel we’re staying at for another night.
It’s almost like the risk to Rosalie’s life is of no concern to him.
We still haven’t found more information about the shooter, nor if the Tulos are really the ones behind it, but no matter. We’ll go to the goddamn charity ball and act like a happily married couple regardless.
We have no other choice.
Cutting that son of a bitch driver’s fingers off a couple days ago should have given me the serotonin I need to get through all of this, but I just find myself falling deeper into the black pit that takes up what should be my stomach.
My wedding tux, that once had his blood splattered on it, is at the cleaners, but I know I’ll never wear the damn thing again. If I don’t have to see it again that will be fine with me.
Needless to say, I’m in mood tonight as I take the elevator down to the event with Rosalie and Damian. My suit is pressed and I have a tie that perfectly matches the dark coral tone of Rosalie’s dress. But my expression is far from what it needs to be for entertaining.
Each floor that we go down is another second that I’m trying to pull myself together. As the doors open to the corridor just outside the ballroom, I take a deep breath and look over at my wife.
Rosalie places her hand on my arm and clearly expects me to lead her out of the elevator. I do just that. I walk with her down the corridor and I can already feel the tightness in my chest. The drum of my pulse in my ears and throat.
This is our first outing since our wedding. I know photographers will be there. Waiting to take our pictures. People will want to ask us questions.
Do I have the answers to those questions? Yes, yes, I do. Are they the ones they want to hear? No, not even remotely.
The double doors into the ballroom open and the long, drawn-out drone of a classical symphony fills my ears. That and the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses.
I could really use a drink right about now.
Rosalie doesn’t let me go through nor does she seem to be headed toward the open bar. Instead, she leads me right toward the photographers that are practically drooling at the sight of us.
“Let them get a few pictures,” she says with a smile on her face. My own smile tugs uncomfortably at my mouth, and I struggle to keep it up without wavering. I wonder, briefly, if it even reaches my eyes. My eyes feel cold and distant.
I look beyond the cameras and see people looking at us, talking to each other. They look away quickly when they realize I’ve noticed them, but the smiles and laughter stay with them.
“How are you enjoying your married life?” someone asks as they approach us.
It’s almost like this entire charity gala was just an excuse to get us in a room looking pretty so people could ogle.
“Well, it’s only been a few days, but I can tell you it’s wonderful so far,” Rosalie says in a soft tone that’s meant to be endearing to those listening, but to me it just sounds fake as hell.
We’ve barely done anything together the last couple days, certainly not what a newly married couple should be doing. The sex doesn’t bother me. I don’t think someone could pay me to fuck Rosalie, but for some reason the fact that we’ve barely spoken the last few days causes my chest to ache.
There’s a part of me that wants to know her. If I’m going to be married to her, I should at least know her as a friend, shouldn’t I? We should at least speak to each other on a regular basis.
I can’t fathom the idea of being married to someone who I can’t even talk to.
My eyes burn, and I’m once again reminded that I’m stuck in this. Regardless of what I want or how it turns out. I’m stuck.
Someone is asking another question, but I can hardly focus on it.
“Excuse me,” I say suddenly, and pull away from Rosalie.
