Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
A car waits at the airport to transport us to the marina. The skipper greets us at the yacht. A helper takes our luggage and carries it to the cabin. We’ll spend the night on the yacht and leave at first daylight.
Sabella follows me wordlessly to the lounge where a table is set. The chef prepared a meal of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables. A waiter pours wine while I remove Sabella’s coat.
Once I’ve seated her, my wife allows the waiter to spread the napkin over her lap, but she doesn’t pick up her knife and fork when he leaves.
“Eat,” I say. “You need your strength.”
Pursing her lips, she pins me with an antagonistic glare.
I take a bite of the chicken and swallow it down with some wine. “See? It’s not poisoned.”
My attempt at humor isn’t appreciated. She narrows her pretty eyes, staring at me as if she’d rather stab me with the butter knife.
“It’s delicious,” I say. “I promise.”
She scoffs and looks away.
My tone is stern. “Eat, Sabella.”
She blinks fast but not fast enough to clear the glimmer of tears that shines in her eyes. Picking up her fork, she toys with it for a while. Finally, she stabs a cube of butternut and brings it to her mouth.
The food really is delicious. I hired the best chef in Corsica. Once she’s tasted the creamy squash with hints of nutmeg and passionfruit, she digs in.
I watch her between forkfuls of food, noting with satisfaction that she cleans her plate. She polishes the chocolate and vanilla mousse cake topped with raspberries too but declines the waiter’s offer of herbal tea or coffee.
“Still hungry?” I ask when our plates are cleared.
She replies in a barely audible voice. “No, thank you.”
I stand, go around the table, and pull out her chair. “Tired?”
She gets to her feet. “No.”
“I can give you something to help you sleep.”
Her spine stiffens. “I said I’m not tired. I slept the whole afternoon.”
The waiter hands me her coat, which I hang around her shoulders. “You needed the rest.”
She doesn’t reply.
She tenses more when I take her elbow to steer her across the deck and downstairs to our cabin. The rocking of the yacht is gentle, but it’s easy to lose your balance if you’re not stable on your feet on the sea. Even though she doesn’t seem to need my help, I insist anyway.
The yacht is a work of art. The Sea Hawk is fitted with the best quality stainless steel railings and Burmese teak decks. Blue floor lights illuminate our way.
“Here,” I say, indicating the door at the end of the passageway.
I open it and step aside for her to enter. When she spots the woman in the white tunic waiting inside, she stops abruptly.
The esthetician smiles warmly. “Good evening, Mrs. Russo.” She nods at me. “Sir. Everything is ready.”
Sabella flings around, facing me with borderline panic. “Ready for what?”
“For preparing you for our wedding night,” I say as I take her coat and throw it over the back of a chair.
“Preparing me how?”
I close the door and lock it. “You can start by undressing and lying down on the bed.”
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Sabella
* * *
The woman has a professional air, but I sense kindness too. I address her rather than Angelo. I have a better chance of finding sympathy with her than with my husband. “I don’t want to.”
If I thought she’d show me compassion, I was mistaken. She irons out the white towel on the bed as if she hasn’t heard me.
It becomes clear what she—or rather, Angelo—has planned when I take in the preparations on the nightstand. Wax is heating in a bowl over a tea light candle. A pair of scissors and tubes of cream are set out next to it.
“Gloria is very good,” Angelo says to my back. “You can trust her.”
I don’t move an inch. My muscles tense, everything inside me begging for violence. I want to hurt him, and the sentiment scares me. The person I don’t like, the one who rears her head whenever Angelo is around, is becoming a little stronger with every minute I’m in his presence. I’m yet to deal with what I almost did, what I would’ve done if the gun was loaded. I hate who that makes me. I can’t even face myself right now. I don’t want to be that woman, but I already am. Losing myself frightens me more than life as my husband’s prisoner.
Brushing my hair over my shoulder, Angelo presses a kiss on my neck before saying softly in my ear, “I can always strip you and tie you up.”
It’s futile to resist. My arguments don’t matter to him. What I want is of no consequence. I learned that the hard way. I have no doubt he’ll humiliate me in front of the woman by executing his threat.