Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68628 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
The bold display of opulence and beauty makes me feel out of place. I long to go back to the club, the only home I’ve ever had, where I’m loved and appreciated for who I am, and I don’t need to watch my back.
“You okay?” he asks while scowling at his phone.
“I’m fine. Everything okay with you?”
“Mmm. Just be in the pictures,” Adriano says. “Just play the part. We’ll stay another hour.”
“Got it. On it. I can do this.”
He winks at me, making my heart do a strange little flutter thing. “We can do hard things,” he coos.
Who is this charmer, and what has he done with my grump of a newlywed husband? Is this for show?
“Oooh, there you are!” I turn to see Marialena Rossi, Sergio’s cousin and one of my favorite people on the planet, standing by a tray of food. “Oh my God, Quinn, you look gorgeous. Girlfriend, how are you?” She’s stunning as always, with her long mane of glossy chestnut hair, a silvery designer dress that shimmers under the overhead lighting, and her strappy stilettos.
When she envelops me in a tight hug, sudden tears spring to my eyes. “Hey,” I say hoarsely. “God, it’s good to see a friend.” I didn’t know I was so wound up.
“I know,” she whispers in my ear. “Babe, I’ve been there. It’s a lot, isn’t it? I was vacationing an hour from here when I saw your Instagram post and I came straight here.”
Wait. I pull away. I whisper so no one overhears us. “What Instagram post?”
She blinks and pulls out a huge blingy phone with a glittery case. “Your socials, honey. They’re blowing up all over the place.”
She taps her phone and scrolls. My stomach plunges. Post after post, picture after picture. Me and Adriano at the altar. Me, clutching the bouquet of flowers Tosca thrust into my hands. I look a little shell-shocked but… oookay, so I can see why the blonde chick asked me if I had a boob job. I look fantastic.
Me and Adriano getting into the limo, pulling up to the rental in Maine, and our arrival here. We are everywhere, and it makes me feel a little uneasy.
“Wow,” I whisper. I’ll have to ask Adriano who posted these. “They don’t fool around, huh?”
“Nope,” she says in a low whisper, smiling at me. “The talk of you two getting married is everywhere, and it’s probably the best thing that could’ve happened, all things considered.”
“Right.”
“Marialena, please introduce me to your lovely friend.” An older woman with sharp eyes and pinched red lips presses her hand to mine. It’s icy cold. Another woman joins us, followed by a man with salt and pepper hair, the only one here wearing cargo shorts and a polo. A small crowd forms around us. I look around wildly for Adriano and finally spy him only a few paces behind me. He raises his glass to me. I breathe out a bit more freely because I know he’s had his eyes on me the whole time.
You’re mine now. You may not know it, but I saved your life. You belong to me now.
Once, when I was a kid, I swam in shark-infested waters on a school field trip. I wasn’t supposed to, of course. I was supposed to be at the aquarium watching the boring-as-shit penguin display, but when I saw a sign that there was a chance to swim with the sharks, I pretended to use the restroom and snuck into the shark swim line. I got detention for a full month for that, but it was worth it just to swim alongside those sleek bodies, to get an up-close look at those rows and rows of teeth sharp enough to tear human flesh. We were assured that they were well-fed and wouldn’t hurt us, but there was always the possibility.
I’ve been chasing that chilling thrill all my life. At the club. With partners. Everywhere. Always. Looking for that glimmer of danger-laced fear that makes my heart beat faster. I’m safe for now, with Adriano behind me and well-fed sharks circling me. But all it would take would be one little mishap—a drop of blood in the water—and make no mistake about it, these sharks will attack.
“How did you meet?” a man with a bushy mustache and balding head asks me.
“Oh, a bar,” I blurt out. Ugh. That seems so pedestrian and lame. “A really nice bar. One that serves wine while you paint.”
Lamer. God.
“I asked her to let me paint her and the rest is history.” Adriano joins me. Marialena chokes on her champagne.
“He did a lovely job,” I continue lying. “It was very Titanic of him.”
Oh. Oh shit. Does anyone even know that reference? I hope not, because I just remembered that that iconic painting was done in the nude.