Charming.Genuinely, breathtakingly charming. This man laughed in the dark a few hours ago and now he cannot manage a complete human greeting. Fantastic. Great marriage so far.
"I'm listening," I say.
He folds the newspaper and sets it aside, which I'm learning means whatever comes next has his full attention and I should pay the same.
"Public appearances," he says. "Functions, dinners, events. You'll be beside me. You'll be convincing." He pauses. "Composed. Present. Respectful of the alliance in public." He looks at me. "Not throwing slippers."
"The slipper was a private matter."
He ignores my words completely. "Functions are twice a month usually, sometimes more. Carla will brief you on the schedule."
"What else."
"This marriage is political," he says, and he says it the way he says everything, like it is a fact of the universe that was always true. "That's what it is and that's how it operates. You appear beside me when it's required. We present what needs to be presented to the world. In private we are two people sharing a house." He holds my gaze. "No performance required when there's no audience."
I sit with that for a moment.
Two people sharing a house. No performance in private.
My father told me to convince him and consume this marriage and Rafael is sitting here telling me it's a political arrangement and nothing more. I don't know if that's a relief or a problem or both simultaneously.
"The household," I say. "My autonomy within it. What does that look like."
"We'll discuss that later," he says.
I blink. "That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting right now." He picks up his coffee. "There are things that need to be established before we have that conversation."
Established. Things need to be established. So, I am sitting here in a marriage I didn't choose, in a house I've never been in and the man across the table is telling me my own autonomy is a topic for a later date that he will decide when to schedule.
I want to push. Every part of me wants to push.
I look at his face. The absolute, unmovable calm of it. The green eyes that are watching me with that steady patience that means he has already decided how this conversation is going to go and is simply waiting for me to arrive at the same conclusion.
I let it go.
For now.
"Fine," I say. I pick up my coffee, I drink it and I look out the window at the grounds of an estate that is enormous and manicured.
The silence between us settles.
He picks up his newspaper, turns a page and he does not look at me again.
Controlled and cold and I don't know which parts are real.
I think about the burner phone sitting in my jewelry box upstairs.
I think about my father's voice.
Be convincing.
I look at the side of his face over the rim of my coffee cup.
I am in so much trouble.
CHAPTER SEVEN
