Page 15 of Masked Hearts

I head behind the large chair and tug on one of heavy, velvet curtains, letting the moonlight pour into the study. I gasp as I see just how bright it is.

Slumping into the chair, the smell of stagnant smoke fills my lungs, and I’m left with an odd sense of nostalgia and disgust. Disgusted because I’ve always hated the smell, and nostalgic when I remember why: my mother hated it.

It’s been a habit my father has sported for years, long before any of my siblings and I even arrived. It was something my mom always chewed him out for, and I remember many nights in Mauritius, finding him sitting on the front porch after dinner with a cigarette lit since she stopped letting him smoke in the house. It was often warm nights like this where Pierre, Kylian, Noelle, and I would sit with them both and listen to stories of their youth, stories of everything he had planned for us. The big house and lots of money.

In hindsight, he achieved every single goal he listed, but the one thing he never accounted for was how he would get it all. Or that he lost the most important piece as a result of it.

Everything in life has a price, I suppose.

I stare at the pristine desk, now only cluttered by my snacks and book. I pause for a brief second, contemplating if I should bother looking for information on my soon-to-be husband.

A part of me would love to know more, but another part of me knows it’s for the best if I don’t know anything. It’ll leave his current pristine image intact, and it’ll also mean I’ll be less invested.

I toss my blanket on my lap and shift my snacks closer along with my book. I prep a pickle with a spoonful of peanut butter on top before snuggling into the chair and opening my book. It’s the perfect scene: good snack, cosy blanket, and the grumpy cowboy who is about to confess his feelings for the sunshine city girl.

Life is good.

The thought is snatched straight from my head not even a minute later when the door groans open.

A million contingency plans flow through my head, everything from ducking under the desk to spinning the chair around and facing the window, but in the end, I choose to freeze in my exact spot like a deer caught in headlights.

The figure stops in the doorway briefly before stepping in and closing the door behind them, making sure to check if the coast is clear in the hallway before doing so. That’s when it dawns on me: it’s not my father or any of my siblings for that fact. Oh no, this intruder is nearly 6’5 and built like something straight out of a museum.

Antonio freezes as his eyes meet mine.

“I was just looking for the bathroom…” he says slowly.

“Yeah, sure. Your room has an ensuite,” I respond, taking a bite of my pickle.

His face contorts as he takes in the scene in front of him. “Does that taste good?”

His question catches me completely off guard. So off guard that my favourite snack decides that right now is the perfect time to try and kill me. I break out into a fit of coughs, and within seconds, Antonio is rushing over to me.

“Shit, shit, shit. Are you okay?” he asks hurriedly as he tries to pat my back, all while I try to wheel the chair further away from him.

“Don’t—touch—me,” I say between coughs, and he eventually gets the message because he stops attempting to help and simply stills next to me.

“At least try to die quietly if you don’t want my help. Your coughing is going to get us both caught.”

I grab my soda and try to calm myself down as I shoot him a glare. “What makes you think I’m not supposed to be here? It’s my house.”

“You wouldn’t have been using a torch to retrieve your snacks if you were supposed to be up at this hour,” he counters, and I stifle the small gasp that tries to leave my lips.

“I just didn’t want to wake anyone. Besides, why were you stalking me?” I place my book down on the desk and cross my arms across my chest.

“I saw you leaving the kitchen when I went down to get a glass of water.” He shrugs as he leans back and sits on the edge of the desk.

“I thought that you were looking for the bathroom,” I quip.

His eyes dance with mischief before he observes the room briefly, and it’s the perfect moment for me to take in his appearance. His muscles strain against the skin-tight, black t-shirt he’s wearing. His grey sweatpants are a stark contrast to anything I’ve ever seen him wearing in the media.

I bite into my pickle again, and his gaze finds mine as the sound fills the room. “So, what were you actually looking for?” I ask.

He observes me, and I want the chair to swallow me whole because it’s the first time I notice just how piercing his gaze is. In the moonlight, I’d be inclined to believe his eyes were grey instead of green with just how light they are. His entire demeanour gives off the perfect boy next door vibe, especially with his long, fluffy curls and thick, black-framed glasses, but those eyes scream danger.

“You never answered me. Does that really taste good?” he repeats his earlier question, still clearly fascinated by my snack. His accent is a lot clearer now that I’m paying attention to his actual words, and if his voice is this deep in English, I wonder what he sounds like speaking Italian.

No, I shouldn’t be wondering about that.

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