Page 79 of Bloody Vows
“I don’t think you hate me,” he says, glancing at me as he sets the wine back down. “I think you hate that your options were taken away. You hate that you want me, even though I’m not what you expected. You hate that wanting me makes you feel even more out of control.”
“Stop it.” My cheeks are flushed, and not from the wine. “I wouldn’t have agreed to this dinner if I knew this was what we were going to talk about.”
“I could make you happy, Simone,” Tristan says softly. “If you’d let me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I could try.”
I don’t know what to say to that. How can I possibly believe that he’s being sincere? How can I believeanythingthis man says to me, when every moment that I’ve known him, he’s only taken and done as he pleases?
“What would you do to make me happy?” I tilt my head, looking at him. “You said I haven’t earned a spot at your side, a voice at the table. That you can’t support what I’ve asked for because I won’t give an inch. How does any of this work? How, in any scenario, are we anything but enemies?”
Tristan lets out a slow breath, his gaze never leaving mine. “Give me the inch,” he says. “Enjoy tonight. Hell, if you have to pretend in order to act like you don’t hate me, then pretend. Just, for one night, pretend that you’re happy to be here, out on a date with your husband. Show me that you can do that much.”
“And then what?”
“And then maybe I’ll talk to Konstantin and my father about letting you have more of a say. About listening to your suggestions when it comes to Sal and Enzo.”
My first instinct is to throw my wine in his face and stomp off. Butwhy? I hold myself back, asking myself if it’s really so terrible if I give him that inch. What will it hurt me to pretend for a night? To give in to Tristan, just a little, and see if he keeps his word?
The truth, I know, is that I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of myself. Of how much I’ll end up giving if I let my control slip even a notch.
But we can’t go on like this. I know that as well as he does.
“Fine.” I smile at him, less fake or brittle than my smiles in the past. “I’ll give in, Tristan. We’re on a date, and I’m happy to be here.”
He smiles in return, reaching for his glass. “As am I,célie. So tell me, what do you like to do in your spare time, when you’re not cutting men down to size?”
Over the next two hours, as course after course comes to the table from the chef’s tasting menu and we sip a variety of expensive red wines, Tristan and I talk for the first time. I tell him about piano lessons as a child, and how I rarely play any longer, about how I like to read and teach myself new languages. He tells me about boxing—how the fighting instinct that his father instilled in him shifted into a hobby, and I try not to think about Tristan shirtless and in nothing but silk shorts, hands taped up, and sweat dripping down his chiseled muscles.
I shift in my chair as he describes what he likes about fighting—the adrenaline, the power, the rush of it—and hope that he doesn’t see.
When we’ve finished dessert—a sweet tiramisu with a glass of port to go with it—Tristan tosses down a black metal credit card.I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, a little lightheaded from all the wine, and stand in the cool, blessedly empty interior of it for a few minutes, looking in the mirror.
What now?
Is the spell broken when I go back out to the car with Tristan? Do I see where the night goes? The last two hours haven’t been miserable. In fact, for the first time, he made me laugh. He made me squirm with arousal when he described his fights. He showed me that he’s smart, cunning—both of which I knew already—and multifaceted, which I didn’t. He’s not just the man who swooped in and scooped up my father’s empire while it was vulnerable—he’s also a man with interests, and hobbies, and a dry sense of humor.
A man who, if I didn’t hate him so much, I might actually like. The dinner flew by. And now I’m wondering what comes next.
I reapply my lipstick, checking the rest of my makeup in the mirror, before heading back out. Tristan is waiting for me, and he escorts me back to the car, his hand on the small of my back without straying anywhere else. He opens the door for me, and I wonder if he’ll try to touch me when we’re alone in the car again, but he doesn’t. Instead, the ride home is mostly quiet, and I wonder if the date is over as far as he’s concerned.
Oddly, I feel a flicker of disappointment.
The car pulls up in front of the mansion, and Tristan comes around to open my door before the driver can. We walk up the stairs and into the cool, lemon-scented entryway, and Tristan turns to me.
“Come have a drink with me?”
I hesitate. He looks at me, his gaze unreadable.
“The date isn’t over yet, Simone.”
I swallow hard, understanding what he’s implying. He’s not finished with the night, and if I flounce off, he’s not going to give me what I want. He won’t even consider it.
But part of me wants to go with him, not because of what I can get out of this, but because I’m curious what else he might tell me. What else I might learn about the man that I married.
He leads me to one of the smaller sitting rooms—one my father favored. It’s done in darker colors—deep green flocked wallpaper, dark wood floors, a thick fur rug stretched in front of the fireplace, dark grey velvet couches. The curtains are drawn, the room lit with a warm, soft light from the lamps scattered around on tables, and I can’t help but think that it’s all far too romantic for my comfort.
