Page 13 of Mafia King's Bride

I exhale, regretting already that I so clearly threatened her.

“My order stands. Your father isn’t to step anywhere near this house, and you’re not to see him. Until I change my mind.”

With that, I leave her standing there and head to my room. I’ve had enough for one night. Hell, I already regret ever proposing this marriage agreement. I should’ve raised hell, crushing and damning all of them.

FIVE

ANA

I hesitate to open my eyes, even though the sunlight has already flooded the room, casting long beams of warmth across my face. I’ve been lying here, awake, for what feels like hours, but it’s probably only been fifteen minutes. Still, I don’t want to move. There’s no reason to.

In my old life, weekends meant something. I would’ve called my father, maybe spent the day at his house helping him with the legal tedium of his business. Or I’d have gone grocery shopping and stocked up on things I enjoyed. My weekends had a purpose back then.

But none of that matters here. Not in this empty, echoing house. Not in this cold, new life where the rooms are too big, silent, and suffocating.

I sigh, throwing the covers off and rolling out of bed with the grace of a sloth, letting myself collapse onto the floor with a dull thud. The pain is minimal, just enough to remind me I’m alive. I drag myself upright, rubbing the spot on my arm that hit the ground harder than intended.

“Why did I do this?” I mutter to the empty room, even though I already know the answer. It wasn’t a choice. Not really.

In the bathroom, I brush my teeth like a robot going through the motions, then step into the shower. The water is too hot, scalding my skin, but I stay under it until I feel like I might start peeling away. I guess I’m hoping to scrub off the sense of regret that clings to me like a second skin. But it doesn’t work. It never does.

Afterward, I throw on soft cotton shorts and an oversized plaid shirt. Comfortable. Easy. And utterly devoid of any significance. I sit on the edge of my bed, running my fingers through my hair, staring at nothing.

I could go to the office. At least that would give me something to do. But my bosses have been insufferable ever since I got married. They’re convinced I should be using my time for some kind of romantic honeymoon bliss.

“Why don’t you go home? Enjoy this period while it lasts. Marriage becomes a chore after the first year—though I’m sure yours will be different.”

My boss said that to me just last night, not bothering to hide his confusion at why I was still in the office at nine p.m.

If only he knew.

My stomach growls, interrupting my thoughts. Great. Another reminder that I’ve been living on scraps for weeks.

Dragging my feet, I head downstairs, gripping the railing as if the steps might give out beneath me. The house is eerily quiet. Dmitri has been AWOL for almost three weeks now, and while I should probably be worried—or at least curious—I’m not. If anything, his absence is a blessing. The less I see of him, the fewer chances there are for my blood pressure to spike dangerously.

In the kitchen, I open the pantry and pull out a loaf of bread and some eggs. I make myself toast and an omelet. I eat in silence at the kitchen island, and then clean up after myself. The monotony is numbing.

And then it hits me.What now?

I can’t just go back upstairs and stare at the ceiling. I need something to occupy my time, to fill the hollow hours that stretch endlessly ahead of me.

Shopping.

The idea pops into my head out of nowhere. I’ve never been one for retail therapy, but it’ll kill a few hours. I change into a summer dress, throw on a knitted sweater, slip into some flats, and grab my bag. Before I leave, I scribble a note for Janet, letting her know where I’m headed. Not that it matters. Not that anyone cares.

Bloomingdale’s.The one place that has everything I could possibly need, though I hardlyneedanything. Clothes, shoes, cosmetics—they’re all distractions, but at least they’re distractions that don’t talk back or expect anything from me.

I wander aimlessly through the aisles, stopping at the cosmetics section. Perfumes. I need something that will soothe my mind, something to help me forget that I share a house with a man who makes my skin crawl.

As I browse, one of the sales associates recognizes me and approaches with a smile. “Good morning, ma’am. Welcome back. Looking for something specific today?”

I tap my chin, pretending to consider. “I need something that puts me in a Zen mood. You know, the kind of Zen where no one, not even the most insufferable person in your life, can bother you.”

The woman’s smile falters slightly, her confusion evident. I quickly realize I’ve said too much.

“I’m joking,” I add with a forced laugh. “Just something new and fun will do.”

She nods, pointing out a few options—Spring, Agua, Chanel. I end up choosing Sol de Brazil and place it in my cart, eager to move on from the awkward exchange.

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