I’m the queen of the house now, and none of them can tell me what to do, how to feel, what to say, or what to think.
Not even him.
The widower.
I drop my purse on his desk, remove my coat, and toss it on his chair in spite.
The place is neatly organized since he rarely spends time in here, and the maids clean it every Friday and Tuesday with the rest of the house.
Sucking in a long breath, I press my hand against my stomach and look around, trying to find something to ease my pain.
The gray, wet view lining the windows makes me scrunch my nose in displeasure.Please, winter, bring us some snow.I’m sick of this rain.
Like a flock of misguided birds, my thoughts move quickly to something else.I’ll skip dinner tonight and sleep like a baby, but first I need a drink.
Sure, I’m too young to drink, but who’s going to stop me?
My stare glides over the bar.
He may not spend time in this room, but the bar is stocked up as if he is.
Male voices echo in the house as I wrap my fingers around a heavy bottle of bourbon and grab the bottom of a clean glass, flip it over, and pour myself a drink.
A quiet rumbling moves through the air before my nostrils get filled with the spice of his cologne, and a hand I couldrecognize if only I had my touch to feel it wraps around my drink and tears it away from my lips.
His smoldering eyes meet mine.
“What are you doing?” I ask, outraged by his gesture.
How dare he?
I suck in another breath to move my chest up and make him look––it’s not working––before grabbing the glass he just put down, in defiance.
His eyes look like southern electric storms when he yanks it away from me, and with a short, powerful move, he sends it flying into the old art adorning the wall.
The glass shatters at impact, and a curtain of bourbon sprays through the air, the intoxicating smell flooding the room.
The booming noise is amplified by the room's acoustics, sounding even more terrifying.
I zap a glare at him, my lips pressed together in resentment, my eyebrows raised in protest.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I shoot at him.
His eyes could easily turn me into a crime scene.
He spends a second gauging my stance on the matter before heading to the door, slamming it shut, and walking back to me.
Shards of glass crunch beneath his Italian shoes.
No one, and I mean no one, would dare to walk into his office now.
He could kill me with his bare hands and dispose of my body in the morning hours if he wanted, and no one would lift a finger or try to stop him or call Giorgio.
It dawns on me that the enemy is inside.
Inside the house, inside this family, and inside their stupid arrangement.
What kind of deal have they struck with this man?
