Page 15 of Coerced Wife

The older woman, whom I judge to be the housekeeper by the uniform she wears, exclaims, “You’re not supposed to see the dress before the wedding.”

Saverio winks. “At least we didn’t see it on the bride.”

He leaves promptly, letting them stew in their assumptions. They no doubt know what we did. Just like at the restaurant in Little Italy. It counts in Saverio’s favor, strengthening the illusion he’s trying to uphold.

I bet Elena will tell her cousin what happened. I cringe inwardly at the thought. Saverio doesn’t care about the opinion of others, but what will people think? I just can’t keep my head straight when Saverio goes directly into the attack, not giving me time to raise my defenses before he razes every one of my inhibitions to the ground. Despite my unfounded jealousy, I don’t want to damage my alreadyfragile reputation. It’s bad enough that Rachele thought I was a stripper.

Wait.

I pull on Saverio’s hand, hanging back on the landing. “Why did Rachele think I was a stripper?”

He looks over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “I used to fuck a few after the divorce.”

“How many?” I ask, not caring for that piece of information at all.

He shrugs. “I have no idea. It was an outlet at the time.”

“An outlet?” I parrot.

He stops at the staircase and sweeps me into his arms. “I had no intention of ever dating again.” Brushing the comment away with careless words, he says, “It doesn’t matter.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, balancing my bag in one hand, and hold on as he descends the stairs.

Oh but it does matter. Very much. He just told me in not so many words that he’ll never date me, that I’m nothing more than a stripper to scratch an itch. Someone to use on the rebound. I already knew that, so why does the verbal affirmation feel like a spear through my heart? The lie we left in the bedroom upstairs only makes the ache worse. What we fed Elena and their housekeeper is just a story, no matter how right it feels when he’s inside me.

I think about what Giorgio said, that he wouldn’t tell Rachele the relationship between Saverio and me is fake if I keep my mouth shut about Mr. Lewis’s murder. He’ll exchange one lie for another. He’d let me have that power, to let the world believe that Saverio loves me, but the illusion turns bitter in my mouth.

Saverio lets me down at the bottom of the stairs. Heoffers me his arm to lean on, escorting me back outside. As earlier, people stare and whisper, coming to their own conclusions as they take in my ruffled hair and swollen lips.

They may be right about what happened upstairs, but they’ll never guess how warped the story behind it is.

Rachele stands in the middle of the lawn, hanging on the arm of an attractive man with a blond ponytail. She stops in mid-sentence when she spots us, her lips frozen around the word she was about to say.

I steal a quick glance at Saverio.

If he notices her, he doesn’t show it. He weaves through the crowd, bringing me to a table where finger food is laid out.

“Hungry?” he asks, brushing his knuckles in a tender caress over my stomach.

My appetite is gone, but he’s right. I have to think about my baby.

I nod.

He gives me an appraising smile before busying himself with loading a plate with every hors d’oeuvre that contains tomatoes.

A breeze flirts with the blood-red leaves of the stewartia trees on the border of the lawn, sending goosebumps over my skin. It’s only then that I realize I left my wrap in Elena’s room. I rub my arms, trying to drive out the chill that comes from inside me.

“Cold?” Saverio asks with a smile that must appear caring for people looking on.

“A little,” I admit.

He leaves the plate on the table and removes his jacket.

“Here,” he says, hanging it over my shoulders.

His warmth and smell envelope me, wrapping me in beautiful lies. “Thank you.”

He selects a bite-sized quiche from the plate and brings it to my lips. “Eat. You need your strength.”

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