Page 24 of Gilded Saint

“No, thank you,grazi,” Leo answers.

I flinch at the rudeness of his response. Even Papa would have been gracious and allowed the man five minutes.

Leo locks the door behind him and turns to me. “We’ll order room service. I’m assuming you’d prefer to change into something comfortable?”

“I would love to get out of this dress.” I’m not hungry, but he might be.

“Luggage should be in the bedroom.”

The suite is done in a belle epoque style with a mix of modern and classic Roman elegance. The sitting area overlooks the piazza high above the city, and sepia leather sofas sit atop a white marble floor. Eighteenth century landscape art adorns the walls.

I step into the bedroom and take in the king size bed with what I suspect are Rubelli fabrics. The door to the ensuite bathroom is open, but I barely glance at the black marble and soaking tub. I’m stuck on one aspect of this suite.

“There’s one bed,” I announce to Leo, who has taken residence on one of the leather sofas. “I didn’t think?—”

“I didn’t make the arrangements, remember? Nick’s aware of the arrangement. He’s just fucking with us. Don’t twist your knickers. There’s an ensuite study with a fold-out sofa. I’ll take that.” He sounds annoyed and tired. I didn’t mean to insult him. I’m simply confused. And I’m uneasy because there are so many unknowns, the biggest being is why he agreed to this arrangement.

He toes off a black tuxedo shoe and looks up, one shoe on, one off. “What?”

“Can you help me with my dress?” There’s a zipper, but there are a million tiny buttons over it, and they all must be undone.

“Oh, right.”

He removes his other shoe and, in black trouser socks, steps up behind me, kicking the hem out of the way.

He jerks my body, fumbling with the back.

“Damn. These buttons are small.” One goes flying across the room. “Fuck.”

Another button pops, but this one must fall directly to the ground.

“Fuck it.”

There’s a ripping sound, and the tightness around my ribcage loosens.

The dress falls in a pile around my knees. I stand there, shocked. He ripped my dress. From the top to the bottom, he ripped it.

“Why are you wearing that?”

I turn to him, dazed. My dress is a pile of fabric around my feet. My sore feet are packed into too tight heels, and he destroyed a dress that cost over twenty thousand euros.

He holds up his palm and steps back, clearing a view of my reflection in the framed mirror.

Pure white sheer thigh highs, a garter, a lace bra, and a barely there thong. This is the lingerie Mamma picked, and it’s too revealing. My hands fly to my lace covered breasts.

I’m mostly covered, yet I am bared, and still very itchy.

“Go change.”

His expression and tone strip me of confidence.

My heel catches on to the taffeta, and I crash to the ground. A sharp pain stabs my knees.

“You okay?”

I’m on my hands and knees, in a ridiculous get-up I would’ve never picked, straddling my ripped wedding gown, the most expensive garment I’ve ever owned, and probably will ever own.

Tears burn my eyes, threatening to break the dam. I’m tired, ashamed, and far too confused. The only thing I have to hang onto is anger because I am not to blame for this fucked-up world. These are modern times, and I shouldn’t be in this situation.

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