Page 92 of Married With Malice

Luca was awake and nursing his hangover with a cup of instant coffee by the time I emerged from my marathon shower. There was so much sorrow in his face that I wanted to scream. Laughter would have been preferable to his hangdog expression of pure pity.

Thank goodness the first thing I did in the morning was reserve the entire day at the spa. When Luca gently asked if we could talk, I was grateful to have an excuse that I absolutely could not because I’d made other plans.

“But we can have dinner together later, right?” he asked and the question was more than a little eager. I’m sure he’d like to clear the air over our unrequited love situation and receive assurance that I’m not about to do anything strange.

He needn’t worry. Like I told him last night, my feelings aremyproblem alone. I’ll keep them hidden from now on and endure our marriage with my head up and my eyes clear.

At least I have newfound sympathy for my mother today. We have something in common, sentenced to ache for any morsel of affection from a man who is indifferent.

“Of course we can have dinner,” I said to Luca and walked out of the room in pursuit of my serenity renaissance.

The cocoon portion of the rejuvenation process is complete and now I’m in the meditation chamber. A disembodied, hushed female voice with a crisp British accent is dispensing calm advice while I’m prone on a cushioned cot with a cucumber-scented mask over my eyes. On the plus side, my skin is tingly and soft after the clay wrap.

“I can let go,” says the voice. “I deserve tranquility.”

Maybe, but easier said than done. Tranquility is in short supply when disloyal factions of my own mind keep showing me pictures of Luca.

There’s Luca amused smirk at the sight of my monstrous wedding getup.

“I manifest perfect health and peace.”

Next up is the intense glint in Luca’s green eyes as he watches me come on his hand in the mirror.

“I am strong and I commit myself to harmony.”

And here’s the memory of Luca reaching for me on a night when he was haunted and bloody and in need of passion to erase whatever he’d been forced to do.

“I can see myself being completely restored and regenerated.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

I can’t possibly be restored and regenerated while grappling with visions of Luca’s smile and his body and his inscrutable green-eyed stares that always leave me weak-kneed and flustered.

The cucumber mask and the meditation voice aren’t doing any good and I’ve had enough of them both. Sitting up on the edge of the cot, naked beneath my fluffy robe, I toss the mask aside and watch my dangling feet.

I’ve never been able to appreciate meditation. Sabrina swears by some app that she leaves on while she sleeps but I’m incapable of relaxing on that level.

Everything about this room, from the warm color palate to the dim lighting to the sweet-smelling air pumping through the vents, is designed to achieve maximum inner peace. It’s probably time to embrace the fact that I’m impervious to serenity.

However, there is a pitcher of herbal tea and a tray of macaroons on the counter. If I can’t have love, at least I can have snacks.

There must be some kind of heat element under the floor because the terra cotta tiles are warm under my feet. I pop two macaroons into my mouth and pour a cup of tea.

“I am the ruler of my own destiny,” says the voice.

“Shut up, it doesn’t work that way!” I yell back at the voice. Macaroon crumbs spray out of my mouth and land on the counter.

Seizing a tissue, I wipe them off, growing grumpier by the second.

I’m right. The damn voice is wrong.

Sometimes destiny is chosen for us.

Sometimes we need to marry our enemies in order to save our sisters.

And then sometimes, in violation of every single reasonable intention, we fall for the man we had sworn to despise.

In any case, the serenity mission has failed. Putting off a confrontation with Luca doesn’t make the inevitability of the situation disappear. I may as well get all of my anguish out of the way before the clock strikes midnight tomorrow.

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