Page 24 of The Bonventi Secret
She doesn't respond immediately, her eyes—still fiery—briefly meet mine before surveying the room. I see a flicker of something—impressed? Overwhelmed?—before she masks it with that familiar defiance.
I use this moment to study her face—the high cheekbones, the full lips, her defined jaw. Even in her current state of 'not trying to impress,' she's undeniably beautiful.
I notice her damp hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders.
She used the shower.
"Please, have a seat," I gesture to the chair to my right. As she moves to sit down, I catch the faint scent of lavender—and she's used the toiletries I provided.
I return to my seat, acutely aware of our close proximity. The tight fabric of her shirt stretches across her chest as she leans forward slightly, reaching for her water glass. I find my gaze drawn to the movement, tracing the line of her collarbone.
I break my thoughts and grab my water, taking a sip.
"Are you enjoying our room?" I ask, more to distract myself than to make conversation.
Livia's eyes meet mine, a flash of anger visible in their depths. “Our room?” she responds. “It’s not my room. Nothing in there is mine except the items I brought from my actual apartment,” she says, her voice tight with barely contained emotion.
I lean back in my chair, allowing myself a moment to appreciate her anger. "It is now," I reply.
Her nostrils flare slightly at my words, and I find myself fascinated by the play of emotions across her face.
There's a silence between us, and I take another sip of my water.
"Well, I hope you were able to get some rest nonetheless."
"Yes, I was able to rest in my cage," she retorts, her voice steady.
I can't help but smile at her spirit. "A cage, perhaps, but one with every comfort."
She scoffs. "Comfort doesn't negate captivity."
I nod in acknowledgment. "A fair point," I say, lifting the decanter of wine to pour her a glass. "But then, not all cages are meant to be escaped."
Her eyes burn a hole through me as she accepts the wine glass. Her fingers brush against mine as she grabs the stem. Her touch is electric, sending an unexpected jolt through me. I withdraw my hand quickly, unsettled by my body's reaction.
I take a sip of wine as the scent of the meal, a traditional Sicilian dish of pasta alla Norma, wafts into the room. The rich aroma of tomatoes and eggplant mingling with the subtle hint of garlic and basil. It's a testament to my chef's skills in the kitchen—a taste of home intended to disarm Livia, to make her feel comfortable.
The dinner arrives, momentarily breaking the tension between us.
I clear my throat, forcing the attention onto the plate before us. "I hope you enjoy the food," I say, picking up my fork. "I had the chef prepare something special for tonight."
Livia looks down at her plate, then back up at me. "Okay," she says and picks up her fork.
As we begin to eat, I find my gaze continually drawn to her. The way she moves, the subtle shifts of her body, it's all unexpectedly captivating. I've always prided myself on my self-control, but something about Livia is testing my resolve in ways I hadn't anticipated.
I take another sip of wine, using the moment to collect myself. This is a business arrangement, I remind myself sternly. Nothing more. And yet, as Livia leans forward to take another bite, her shirt gaping slightly to reveal more of her cleavage,I can't help but wonder if perhaps I've underestimated the complexity of this situation.
I try to make small talk with her. I ask her about her research, her interests, but she deflects everything with either silence or one-word answers. I feel my frustration growing, but I maintain my composure. With every step of defiance she takes, I find myself more determined to break through her defenses.
As she continues to eat quietly, I notice that her eyes occasionally dart to the guard stationed at the back corner of the room.
"You don't need to worry about him," I say, following her gaze. "He's here for your protection."
She sets her fork down, finishing her bite and swallowing. "And yet, I can't help but feel as if he's as much my jailer as my protector."
I place my utensils down, leaning back in my chair. "Perception is a curious thing, isn't it? It can turn protectors into jailers, and cages into sanctuaries."
Livia's lips part, likely to deliver another sharp retort, but she seems to think better of it. Instead, she takes a sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass.
