Page 83 of Coerced Wife

“Oh.” She bats her eyelashes. “Did I upset your little Anya? Why, Sav. You didn’t tell her. How naughty of you.”

I close the distance, stopping on the other side of the counter. “I asked you not to be a bitch to Anya. We had an agreement, and I kept my end of the bargain.”

“Did you?” she asks with a small smile.

“Did I break your lover’s fingers?”

“What do you want from me, Sav?”

“I already told you what I wanted. As you can’t be anything other than a bitch, I’m going to put this in a different way for you.” Leaning in, I say in a menacing tone, “Stay away from Anya. Don’t come near her. Don’t talk to her, and don’t as much as look her way. Am I clear?”

“Jesus.” She laughs, but it’s nervous. “You need to get a handle on your possessiveness. Don’t make the same mistake you made with me. Don’t keep her on a leash like a lapdog.”

“No one kept you on a leash. You always liked to stray.”

“Fuck you,” she says through clenched teeth.

I put emphasis on every word. “Stay away from my fiancée.”

“Or what?” she taunts.

“Don’t make me embarrass you by getting a restraining order.”

Her dark eyes flare with indignation.

Yeah. That’ll be quite the scandal. Her pride will take a serious knock.

“Get out,” she yells, pointing at the door. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“With pleasure.” I walk backward, taking in the woman I once loved. Now? I only feel relief that it’s over. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Uttering a frustrated cry, she grabs the glass from the counter and hurls it at me. Luckily for me, her aim is shit. It shatters against the wall, breaking into pieces on the snazzy varnished concrete floor.

I turn around and walk to the door, crunching glass under my heels. When I grip the handle, she says in a rush, “I’m pregnant.”

Good for her. I push down the handle.

“I’m expecting Archie’s baby,” she adds, the words like barbed wire, but their hooks have no effect on me.

I look over my shoulder. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” I mean that, and for the first time in my life, I can say it to her without bleeding red from the black hole I call my heart. I motion at the glasses with wine sediment in the bottom and lipstick stains on the rims. “Perhaps you should lay off the alcohol and the weed.”

Her angry scream follows me through the door as I close that chapter of my life once and for all.

CHAPTER

NINETEEN

Anya

Saverio bulldozes ahead with the preparations for the wedding. It’s difficult to plan a ceremony when you don’t have a date. It’s like doing everything in reverse, deciding on the decorations and flowers and cake without knowing when it will take place. He shortlisted a few venues so that he has options if one or more aren’t available. Every day, he asks me for a date, and every day, I tell him I’m not ready.

While he meets with caterers and event organizers, I continue my search for three-cylinder tubular keys. I refuse to get involved in Saverio’s plans. Instead, I leave all the work to him. He may be forcing me into matrimony, but I won’t submit willingly by acting like a bride even though that’s what he wants from me. Let him do whatever the hell he wishes. This wedding is for him, not for me. We could’ve just as well gotten married by a marriage officiant,but as this is my first and only wedding—his words—he insists on giving me a reception with all the bells and whistles.

Despite my disinterest, he shares all the details over dinner with me, telling me which caterer he approved and what the menu will be as well as the flowers he’s importing to go with the color scheme.

I bear everything in silence, unable to focus on much more than the Braxton Hicks contractions that keep me up at night and the constant ache in my back. It’s difficult to move and impossible to bend. I can’t even tie my laces, so I’m wearing slip-in shoes or ankle boots.

It feels as if the skin of my stomach is stretched beyond its limits. It’s itchy and uncomfortable. Sleeping is a challenge unless I lie on my side with a pillow between my knees and another one beneath my belly. My nightmares are also getting worse. Sometimes, I dream I wake up with flames leaping around the bed and my mother throwing a lit match into the kitchen where gas is leaking from the stove. On those nights, I jerk awake with sweat-soaked pajamas.

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