When I peer back at Emilio, his emotionless gaze roams over me. My soaked hair. My wet and now-see-through white dress. I shiver beneath his stare.
I clear my throat. “How long has it been since you stayed here?”
“Years.” He slams the door shut before wandering to the iron staircase, collecting a coat of dust with his finger.
“Where did you stay before?”
“My place in the city.” He shakes water droplets from his hair.
“Why are we here then?”
He doesn’t reply.
I roll my eyes. “So, what? Do I pick a random room and claim it as mine?” Stretching out my arms, I force myself to yawn. “I’m tired, tipsy, and possibly three seconds from puking.”
I don’t need to puke, but it’s my attempt to turn him off.
Surely, no one wants to consummate a marriage with a wife claiming they need to vomit, right?
He turns without a word and starts up the stairs. Pausing for a moment, he peers over his shoulder, as if waiting for me to follow.
“Hopefully, there’s somewhere for me to puke up there,” I say loudly while following him.
If only I’d been able to pack my bags.
I’d have snuck some weapons in there.
When we reach the second floor, he leads me to the first bedroom on the right. A queen-size bed with a white headboard trimmed in gold sits along a wall. The wallpaper is blush and gold, giving the room a soft and feminine feel.
The white comforter that was on my bed this morning is now here. A folded stack of my clothes is on the bed, and my suitcase is on the floor.
“You’ll sleep here,” he says.
I spin to face him. “Whose room is this?”
“Yours.”
“Notyours?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Here I am, giving him ideas. Stupid.
Again, he doesn’t respond.
My new husband doesn’t give words or information freely. Not a great match for a blabbermouth like myself.
He leaves the room, shutting the door behind him. I swear, I hear a lock click on the other side.
I kick off my wedges, sweep my gaze over the room, and take in my new space. There’s an en suite bathroom and an empty walk-in closet.
I collect my clothes from the bed and shove them back inside the suitcase. I’m not unpacking because I’m not staying.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wring out my hair before digging in my purse for my phone when a thought hits me.
“Her Instagram,” I mutter, opening the app. “I’ll message her on there.”
I slump my shoulders, ready to throw the phone across the room when I find Dasha’s profile deactivated. She knows she can never show her face here again without consequences and will have to hide from Aleksy, the Bratva, and the Lombardis for the rest of her life.
Both of us are stuck in a shitty life, either way you look at it.
