Page 14 of Bad Little Bride

Enzo is watching me, waiting to see if I’ll tell her a distinct mixture of imported beans were grinded and blended togetherto make the perfect cup—perfect to my liking, of course—but instead I simply take another sip.

Annoyance flickers in her gaze and slowly she settles at Enzo’s side.

She reaches across him, holding her hand out for me to shake, her red fingernails sharp like talons.

“Sorry,” I begin. “But I’ve just washed my hands. I’d hate to dirty them up before breakfast.”

Her lips press into a tight line and when she retreats, she lays her palm against Enzo’s forearm.

My eyes lock onto the spot of contact like it’s the target and I’m the missile.

“You didn’t tell me she was so…witty,” Ann-Marie says to him.

That’s because he doesn’t know me.

Enzo removes her hand, and I manage to break my gaze from the spot just in time to meet his. “Ann-Marie and I are?—”

Fucking?

Having a baby?

In love?

“Working through the details of our arrangement,” he says.

“So, is this like an even day, odd day situation?” I cut him off, unable to help myself. “Do we split holidays, too, or am I being too presumptuous to assume I’d beawardedanything outside of the occasional arm candy? Or maybe it’s all in the name and I’m just the broodmare.”

Enzo’s expression grows thunderous, and eerily slowly, he leans forward in his seat. “Excuse me?”

The coolness of his tone has me pausing, the weight of his full attention more than I’m prepared for this morning. I seal my lips and wait for him to tell me whatourarrangements are, being they were made without me.

Maybe being the pawn in my father’s games the last few months did spoil me. I almost forgot how things work in this world.

A wife is a pretty party piece…and whatever else her husband allows her to be.

He’s the law.

She is the added task to his overflowing calendar.

Enzo continues to stare, so I’m grateful when the slight clink of kitchenware dings in the space, giving me an excuse to glance away without seeming weak.

The food comes out then, the staff placing the options on the table before us, and my lips curve slightly when the server places the fruit closer to me today than yesterday. He doesn’t look at me, but I attempt to smile my thanks before he’s gone again.

Enzo piles his plate with the exact same items as yesterday, and from the corner of my eye, I watch the woman at his side grab the small tongs, closing them around what looks to be a blueberry scone. Before she can lift it from the plate, Enzo slaps his fork against the item, halting her movement.

“My wife chooses first,” he tells her, his gaze sliding my way.

I can’t bring myself to look at him.

Is that supposed to be sweet, because now I kind of want to throw an apple at his head in response.

And he called me his wife.

I’m…a wife.

A bitterness coats my tongue, but I don’t swallow it down, and I don’t offer him the satisfaction of a reaction either, instead placing a few strawberries on my plate. Enzo’s gaze burns into my cheek as I stab my fork into the fruit, bringing it to my mouth.

He slams his fork onto the table, but I’ve been on the receiving end of my father’s outbursts more times than I cancount, so I don’t so much as flinch, smiling to myself when the mistress nearly jumps from her chair.

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