“What do you want?”I say coldly.
I’m instantly on edge as Armani walks into our room and quietly closes the door behind him. But instead of answering, he breezes past me and Mr. Sprinkles—dozing through a National Geographic series on the sitting area’s cushy sofa—and goes into the bedroom’s en suite.
Seconds later, I hear the shower turn on in the bathroom. I turn up the volume on the TV and try to ignore the fact that my very hot, very asshole husband is stripping naked in the next room. Who cares? The only reason I’m even here at the Bellantis’ house is because I haven’t figured out my next steps yet. And if I’m honest, it’s probably safer for me to be here than anywhere else. Maybe I can move into one of the guest rooms temporarily, just until I come up with a more long-term living situation for my tiny little family—myself, my cat, and my baby.
I snuggle deeper under the throw blanket and close my eyes again. My body aches, and my chest feels bruised from all the smoke I inhaled. My throat is less scratchy thanks to the tea I’ve been sipping, but my anxiety is causing more of my current discomfort than the trauma of the fire. At least I know what’s causing my nausea now.
It still doesn’t feel real. The baby. I just can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m going to have a child. My emotions are all over the place, and the way Armani reacted to the news only makes me feel worse. And on top of that, I can’t stop worrying about Juliana.
She had to have made it out alive. She’s too smart and too stubborn and too…tooJulianato be gone. She would have fought tooth and nail to get out of that bakery. I’m sure she managed to escape. But why haven’t I heard anything from her yet?
Is she in a hospital somewhere, healing from her injuries? Or is she hiding out, lying low somewhere to avoid any further assassination attempts? That would explain the lack of contact. There’s no way she’d use her phone if she was holed up in some safe house. Orloff could have even smashed it so she couldn’t be tracked, wherever she is.
Or maybe her phone died, or got destroyed in the fire. I don’t know. All I know is that as long as Juliana’s fate remains uncertain, my mind won’t stop overthinking this. I just can’t understand why she hasn’t reached out. She could have called me from another phone, or found a way to send a text or an email. Something. But she hasn’t. Isn’t she just as worried about me as I am about her? Or does she somehow blame me for the fire?
And what about Orloff? Did he make it out with her, or was he killed in the fire?
Something else strikes me then: maybe he died, and Jules is in mourning.
I pick up my new phone and navigate to her contact (my old phone wouldn’t turn back on after the heat damage it suffered, but one of the Bellantis’ staff got me a new phone and transferred my latest iPhone backup to it, so I haven’t lost any of my data). But when I try to call her, it goes straight to voicemail. Just like the last three times I called.Juliana, where are you?
With a heavy heart, I drop the phone back on the coffee table. I don’t know what to do with all my sadness and anxiety. The chaos of everything going on right now is almost too much for me to handle, and Armani’s presence definitely isn’t helping.
As if he somehow senses that I’m thinking about him, the bathroom door suddenly swings open and Armani saunters out with a towel around his waist. I pretend not to notice him, but he walks straight from the bedroom into the sitting room and stops right in front of me, so I have no choice but to look him in the eye.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I direct my gaze toward the TV screen. I’m not feeling any grace toward my husband, that’s for sure.
“Not good. But I’d be feeling a lot better if I had any idea what happened to my best friend. Are you going to tell me what you know?”
He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t know anything yet.”
“Right,” I say sarcastically.
“We’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. We’re trying to find her.”
Finally, I look at him again, studying his eyes for signs of deceit. I think he’s telling the truth. But I can’t be certain.
“You’ll let me know as soon as you hear something,” I say. It’s not a request.
He nods curtly and then goes back into the bedroom. I can feel myself relax as I watch him walk away. Not because I’m afraid of him…but because I’m afraid of what I’ll do if he keeps parading around in front of me half naked with those delicious drops of water rolling down his chest and that tantalizing bulge under the front of his towel.
Down, girl.
Annoyed at myself for still being attracted to someone so grossly unworthy, I grab the remote and click the volume up a few more notches on this old house renovation show. I won’t let Armani get to me. He doesn’t deserve my attention.
But through the bedroom doorway, I can see him pacing back and forth like he does when he’s agitated or thinking through a problem. First he goes into the closet, then seems to change his mind and goes back into the bathroom. A few seconds later he comes out dressed in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, the ones that make his ass look temptingly grabbable. Of course.
He paces around the bedroom a few more times, driving me absolutely batshit. I wish he’d chosen to sleep somewhere else tonight. He’s usually so good at not coming to bed, and then the one night that Idon’t want to see him, he decides to appear.
“How long will it take to know for sure if she survived?” I ask through the doorway.
Armani pulls up short, directly in my eyeline. “I can’t predict that, Candi.”
“A day? A week? Next month?” I prod. “You can’t even give me a ballpark guess?”
He spreads his arms wide. “It’s not up to me. What do you want me to say?”
