Page 15 of Stolen Vows
My stomach churns, and I stumble backward, ignoring the harsh sting in my cheek.
Clearing his throat, the older man smooths his hands down the front of his jacket and turns to the girl across the room. “Anna, tell Leopoldo I’ll see him in the morning. Bright and early. We’ll be waiting for the sheets at our unit on K Street.” He looks back at me, dragging his gaze over my form, and tosses a sadistic smile my way. “Tradition is tradition.Arrivederci, topolina.”
He leaves without saying anything else, though the film of disgust doesn’t evaporate from my skin, even when he’s gone. I rub my face, trying to erase the feel of him, and eventually, the other woman appears in front of me with an ice pack.
“Here,” she says, pressing it into my palm. I didn’t even notice her leave the room to get it. “Sorry about him. He was waiting for Irene, the other housekeeper Mr. De Tore employs, but she was out getting groceries. I swear, it’s like she has some sixth sense when it comes to that man, and I don’t know if it’s because they used to sleep together or what, but she’salwaysleaving me alone with him.”
I just stare at her. She spins on her heel, marching back to the stain. Gently lifting the ice pack to my cheek, I drop my duffel bag on the floor, watching as she tries with all her might to get the red out of the white fabric.
“What are you using?” I ask, the ice pack freezing against my heated skin.
She pauses, glancing up with big blue eyes. “Uh…club soda?”
I bend down and take the spray bottle, sniffing it. “You need a mixture of warm water and vinegar.Andyou shouldn’t be scrubbing—you’re just pushing the stain around. Blotting wicks up the liquid from the fabric without making the soiled part any bigger.”
“Oh.” She drops her hands into her lap, and her head falls.
“Also, you should probably be wearing gloves.”
She doesn’t respond for several moments. It takes a second for me to notice her shoulders shaking and that she’s crying.
Eyes wide, I put the bottle down and hold my hands up. Mamma always hated when I told her how to clean things, and Papà hated if I corrected him when he got statistics and figures wrong. It’s a wonder I haven’t learned to keep my mouth shut, even now.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to be a know-it-all?—”
A sob breaks free from her, and she launches herself at me, throwing her arms around my shoulders. The force of her sudden hug throws me off-balance, and I reach behind me to keep from falling over.
“Thankyou!” she squeals, her breath hot on my neck through her hair. “I’m new here, and the other guests Mr. De Tore brings by areso mean. If I mess anything up, they just laugh or spill something, making it even worse. One time, they broke a vase and blamed it on me, and Mr. De Tore threatened to dock my pay if it happened again. If I don’t have this cleaned up by the time he gets home, I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me.”
She keeps sobbing, clinging to me so tightly that my neck starts to go a little numb. Awkwardly, I lift a hand and press it to her upper back, patting until she quiets down a bit.
I also try to ignore the fact she’s touching me with bacteria-laced fingers. I don’t know whose blood that is or what pathogens she’s spreading, but clearly, she doesn’t care.
After a few minutes, she finally hiccups to a halt, withdrawing herself from me. She wipes aggressively under her eyes, making them even redder as she sits back on her knees.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m just really excited that you’re here, Mr. De Tore’s wife! You seem really…good. Maybe you’ll rub off on him, too.”
I’m not sure how she can get a sense for my character when she’s known me for all of three seconds, but I don’t point that out.
“My name is Anna, by the way. I guess I should’ve introduced myself before I ruined your…” She glances down with a perplexed expression, as if she expected me to be in a wedding gown on my wedding night.
“Stella,” I offer.
“Oh, I know who you are. Mr. De Tore’s told usalotabout you. Mainly about how you’re not supposed to leave the condo, but…other stuff too! Is it true you were accepted to Stanford? And that you got an almost-perfect score on the SATs? You must be, like, super smart.”
Only some of that is true. I bombed my SATs yet wound up with an acceptance letter, anyway.
I don’t admit that, though, because I want her to believe the rumor—that’s whatIwant to believe still—and yet a smart person wouldn’t be here right now.
Trapped in a tower, awaiting her villainous captor’s return.
An intelligent person would have found a way out—or wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.
So, maybe the years I spent with my nose in books, sneaking into the science labs after school, or studying above my grade level—maybe none of that matters.
At least not to fate.
It was foolish of me to believe my end would be anything other than tragic.
