{VIVIAN}
"What do you mean, you haven't talked to your fiancé since your engagement?" Isabella crossed her arms and leveled me with a reproving stare. "What type of ridiculous relationship is that?"
"An arranged one." The bar tilted before righting itself.
Perhaps I shouldn't have had two and a half mai tais in a row, but my weekly happy hour with Isabella and Sloane was the one time l could let loose.
No judging eyes, no need to be perfect and "proper."
So what if | was a little tipsy? The bar was called The
Tipsy Goat. It was expected.
"It's better that we haven't spoken," I added. "He's not
the most pleasant conversationalist."
Even now, the memory of my first and so far only meeting with Dante sent a rush of indignation down my spine.
He'd shown no remorse over skipping out on half our
introductory dinner to smoke cigars in my father's office, and he'd left without so much as a thank you or good night.
Dante was a billionaire, but he had the manners of an il|-bred troll.
"Then why are you marrying him?" Sloane raised a
perfectly groomed brow. "Tell your parents to find you a better match."
"That's the problem. There is no better match in their
eyes. They think he's perfect."
"Dante Russo, perfect?" Her brow arched higher. "His
security team once hospitalized someone who tried to break into his house. The guy wound up a months-long coma with broken ribs and a shattered kneecap. It's impressive, but I wouldn't say he's perfect."
Only Sloane would think putting a guy in a coma was
impressive.
"Trust me, I know. I'm not the one you have to convince," I muttered.
Not that Dante's notorious ruthlessness mattered to my family. He could shoot someone during rush hour in midtown Manhattan and they'd say the person deserved it.
"I don't understand why you agreed to any engagement
at all." Sloane shook her head. "You don't need your
parents' money. You can marry who you want and there's not a thing they can do about t it "
"It's not about the money." Even if my parents cut off my inheritance, I had plenty left over from my job, investments, and trust fund, which I came into when I was twenty-one. "It's about..." I searched for the right word. "Family."
Isabella and Sloane exchanged glances.
This wasn't the first time we'd discussed my engagement or my relationship with my parents, but I felt compelled to defend them each time.
"Arranged marriages are expected in my family," I said. "My sister did it, and so will I. I've known this was coming since I was a teenager."
"Yeah, but what are they going to do if you say no?"
Isabella asked. "Disown you?"
My stomach plummeted. I forced a tight laugh. "Maybe."
Absolutely.
They'd lauded my aunt for disowning my cousin after she turned down a scholarship to Princeton to open a food truck. Refusing to marry a Russo was a thousand times worse.
If I broke the engagement, my parents would never see
or speak to me again. They weren't perfect, but the
prospect of getting cut off from my family and being all alone made the mai tais slosh dangerously in my stomach.
Isabella wouldn't understand though. Culturally, we were similar, though she was Filipina Chinese instead of Hong Kong Chinese. But she came from a large, loving family who was okay with her moving across the country to bartend and pursue her writing dreams.
If I expressed similar desires to my parents, they'd either lock me in my room and perform an exorcism or toss me into the streets with nothing except the clothes on my back, figuratively speaking.
"I don't want to disappoint them," I said. "They raised
me, and they sacrificed a lot so I can have the life | have now. Marrying Dante would help all of us."
Familial relationships shouldn't be transactional, but I
couldn't shake the sense I owed my parents a huge debt for everything–the opportunities, the education, the freedom to live and work where I want without worrying about money. They were luxuries most people didn't have, and I didn't take them for granted.
Parents took care of their children. When the children
grew up, they took care of their parents. In our case, that meant said children married well and expanded the family's wealth and influence.
It was just the way our world worked.
Isabella sighed. We'd been friends since we met at a
yoga class when I was twenty-two. The yoga lessons hadn't lasted; our friendship had. She knew better than to argue with me about my family.
"Okay, but that doesn't change the fact you haven't
spoken to him when you're moving in with him next week." I fidgeted with my sapphire bracelet. I would've pushed back on giving up my West Village apartment to move into Dante's Upper East Side penthouse, but what would be the point? | would just be wasting my breath arguing with my father.
However, other than Dante's address, I didn't have any
details for the move. No keys, no building requirements, nothing.
"You have to talk to the man eventually," Isabella added. "Don't be a wuss."
"I am not a wuss." I turned to Sloane. "Am I?"
She glanced up from her phone. Technically, none of us were allowed to check our phones during happy hour. Whoever broke the rule had to pick up the tab for the night. In reality, Sloane had been bankrolling our happy hours for the past six months. She put the work in workaholic.
"Although I disagree with Isabella's advice seventy-eight percent of the time, she's right. You have to talk to him before you move in." An elegant shrug. "There's an art exhibition at Dante's house tonight. You should attend."
Dante owned a notoriously impressive art collection
rumored to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. His annual private exhibition showcasing his latest acquisitions was one of the most coveted invites in Manhattan. We were technically engaged, and my lack of an invitation would've been embarrassing had I not been so relieved.
After I move in, I'd have to spend every night with him,
so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, a bed with Dante Russo was...unnerving.
An image rose in my mind of him sitting behind my
father's desk, eyes dark and posture arrogant, with tendrils of smoke curling around that boldly charismatic face.
An unexpected heat ran between my legs.
The press of his thumb against my lip, the smoky glint in his eyes when he'd looked at me...there'd been a moment, just one, when I thought he would kiss me. Not to show affection, but to dirty me up. To dominate and corrupt.
The warmth curled low until the heavy expectancy of my friends' gazes pulled me back to the present.
I wasn't in my father's office. I was in a bar, and they were waiting for an answer.
The exhibition. Right.
A cold rush of reality doused the heat.
"I can't show up uninvited," I said, hoping they couldn't
see me blush beneath my alcohol-induced redness. "It's rude."
"You're not a random party crasher. You're his fiancée,
even if you don't have a ring yet," Isabella countered. "Plus, you're moving in soon, anyway. Consider it a preview of your new home–which you can't move into unless you talk to him."
I sighed, wishing I could rewind time by a month so |
could mentally prepare myself for what was coming.
"I hate it when you make sense."
Isabella's cheeks dimpled. "Most people do. I would go
with you because I love a good party crash-er, house tour, but I have a shift tonight."
By day, she was an aspiring erotic thriller author. By
night, she served overpriced drinks to overgrown frat body types at a dive bar in the East Village.
She hated the bar, its clientele, and its creepy manager
and was actively looking for another job, but until she found one, she was stuck.
"Sloane?" l asked hopefully.
If I were to confront Dante tonight, I'd need backup.
"I can't. Asher Donovan crashed his Ferrari in London.
He's fine," Sloane said when Isabela and I gasped. Neither of us cared about sports, but the famous soccer star was too pretty to die. "But I have to put out the media fire. This is the second car he's crashed in as many months."
Sloane ran a boutique public relations firm with a small but high-powered client roster. She was always putting off fires.
She motioned our server for the check, paid the tab, and made me promise to call her if I needed anything before she disappeared out the door in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume and platinum blonde hair.
Isabella left soon after for her shift, but I lingered in the booth, debating what to do next.
If I were smart, l'd go home and finish packing for my
move. Nothing good would come of crashing Dante's party, and I could call him tomorrow if I really wanted.
Pack, shower, and sleep, I decided.
That was my plan, and I was going to stick to it.