Page 51 of Beauty and the Daddy
God only knows.
I find refuge behind a marble column, trying to disappear into the shadows while my pulse hammers against my ribs.
The conversations around me blur into white noise until I catch a familiar voice.
Luca. Low, urgent, speaking to a man with sharp cheekbones and pale eyes.
"—can't bury another mother," he's saying. "No children until this war ends."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Another mother.
Elena didn't just die—she was killed. And there's a war. An actual war that I know nothing about.
My vision tunnels. The room suddenly feels airless.
Children. He's talking about children. With me.
The fake fiancée who's supposed to be temporary, disposable, safe.
But nothing about this is safe, is it?
I press my back against the cool marble, fighting the urge to run.
To grab the first flight back to New York and my small, predictable life where the most dangerous thing I faced was Meatball's judgment.
My legs start to feel like noodles as I back away from the corner.
Before I can find somewhere else to hide, a waiter breezes by with seafood. Oysters, shrimp, something drenched in garlic.
The smell hits, and I gag.
Luca looks up then, his eyes finding mine across the room like he's got some kind of Belle-radar.
He excuses himself and walks right up to me.
"You look pale," he says, one hand coming up to cup my cheek.
His touch sends electricity shooting down my spine, making it hard to remember why I was feeling off in the first place.
"Just... jet lag," I manage.
A waiter appears with another tray of appetizers. The smell hits me again, fishy and pungent, and my stomach rolls.
"No, thank you," I say quickly, taking a step back.
Luca dismisses the waiter with a nod. "You really don't look well," he says, concern creeping into his voice.
"I'm fine," I insist. "Just tired. And maybe a little queasy from the flight."
His brow furrows. "We can leave if you want. Go to the hotel early."
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head. "No, we should stay. I don't want to insult your... colleagues."
"They'll survive," he says dryly.
We're interrupted by one of the Don's wives—Maria, I think her name is.
She's a woman in her sixties wearing enough diamonds to sink a ship.
