Page 7 of Veiled Vows

I take another drag from the cigarette. Leverage. Connections. These are the things that matter. Not feelings, not emotions.

Since when has she become so cunning?

Anger simmers within me as I think about her using my father to try and influence me. The same man who thinks he has the power but is nothing more than the scum beneath my shoes. He doesn’t deserve to know a single detail about our life.

She is proving to be more devious than I ever imagined. As much as I hate to admit it, her persistence made me agree. Yet, I can't shake off the defiance, the fire. She’s different. And that difference is unsettling.

I grind the cigarette into the ashtray, the remnants of it crumbling under my touch. My gaze never leaves her, watching as she interacts with her colleagues. Her expressions are animated. She is so alive, so vibrant. And I hate how much I notice it.

I remember how, when Serena stepped out of the mansion to head to work, she caught sight of me, and instead of ignoring my presence, she smirked, a gleam in her eyes.

She was so smug. It felt like a million fire ants were flowing through my veins.

I curse under my breath, knowing that staying here, stalking her, will accomplish nothing. She already has a guard assigned to her, watching her every move. Lingering like a shadow outside her place of work is pointless.

As I drive to my office, frustration eats at me. Once there, I try to dive into the mountain of work waiting on my desk, but I can't focus on a thing.

Everything blurs together, overshadowed by thoughts of her. Why am I thinking about her so much? It is as if she has taken root in my mind, a constant, maddening presence. It’s like I am obsessed with her.

I scoff at my own thoughts. Obsessed with her? No, that can’t be it. I am probably obsessed with controlling her. That has to be it. The need to dominate, to bend her to my will—that is what drives me. It has to be.

I just want things to go back to how they were. I want her affection back, her beautiful smiles that she would give me. I never thought that I wanted these silly little things, but it turns out that couldn’t be further from the truth.

I miss the way we would have dinner together every evening. Despite everything, I do care for her—a lot.

But I can’t give her what she craves. Love. That word, that feeling, is beyond my grasp. My mother made sure of that. She deformed every opportunity I had to experience love, transforming it into something corrupted.

I care for Serena, more than I have ever cared for anyone, but love? That is something I could never offer her.

I pull at my hair, throwing the documents I was looking at to the side. Maybe I need to make the first move. She didn’t have breakfast this morning; she’ll come back starving. I could cook for her, and maybe then we could go back to having dinner together every evening, like we used to.

I rush to the mansion and hurry to the kitchen. I pull steaks out of the freezer to defrost them. As I work, Lucia, our live-in maid, enters the kitchen.

"Mr. Agosti, do you need any help?" she asks, her voice cautious, her eyes zeroing on the steak.

I shake my head. "No, Lucia. Take the day off," I say, waving her away.

She looks at me in shock. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I reply firmly. "Go."

Lucia hesitates for a moment before nodding and leaving the kitchen, bewilderment dripping off her. I stand there, rubbing the bridge of my nose, feeling utterly foolish.

What the hell am I doing? I am not the best cook, and this isn’t some grand romantic gesture. But I want to show her that I care, even though I can’t be the man she wants me to be.

I occupy myself with getting the food ready, my hands working mechanically while I spice the steaks and arrange the table. I want to show her that I am trying, that I am willing to make an effort, even if I can’t give her everything she desires. She doesn’t need to avoid me like I’m some deadly disease.

When she comes back, I feel my hands start to sweat. I don’t understand the way my body is reacting. I go to her, reaching to remove her blazer. Her eyebrows draw together in confusion as I do.

"How was your day?" I ask, clearing my throat.

Her eyes search mine before a frown twists her lips. "Why do you care?"

I sigh, my features hardening. "Listen, I know this is fucked up. I am sorry for the things I said that night," I say, wanting to smooth things over.

She rolls her eyes, moving past me, but I grab her arm and pull her tight against my body. She is breathing hard in my face, and I miss this—the closeness, the intensity.

"I am not saying the things I said didn’t have some truth. I am not the type of man who can give you what you want—"

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