Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Now, I button a brand-new pair of jeans and an impossibly soft blouse that cost more than anything I’ve ever worn. I wonder how I’m supposed to eat in this thing without ruining it. How do rich people exist in the world with so many fine things that could easily be ruined?
That’s an easy question to answer. They have enough money to buy more.
That’s on my mind as I walk downstairs in hopes of making coffee and finding something for breakfast. I’m pretty sure I gave myself away a little bit while we were shopping—I caught him looking at me funny more than once and finally figured it was because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut over how expensive everything was. I’m supposed to be from a powerful family, but I was acting like a poor girl. I need to inhabit this life I accidentally got myself into by pretending to be somebody I’m not. Which means walking around like I’m comfortable wearing an entire tuition payment like it’s the kind of thing I do all the time.
Enzo’s having a conversation with a pair of men in dark clothes, the three of them standing by the front door. He offers a distracted wave before going back to their huddle. Well, I guess it’s better than him demanding to know what I’m doing walking around. He has to keep up appearances, too. The outside world isn’t supposed to know I’m his prisoner.
There are a bunch of unmarked boxes by the front door, more deliveries. What the heck could it all be? What are they preparing for? It has to be for the wedding. A wedding I have no say over. No chance to do my own planning or anything like that.
But it’s not a real wedding, and anyway, it’s not going to happen. More than anything, I need to believe that. This is not actually going to happen.
Am I only fooling myself by thinking that way? My hands shake a little as I fix a pot of coffee, and I have to stop myself and take a few deep breaths to keep from panicking.
By the time the coffee finishes brewing, there’s more noise than ever out in the living room. I look out to find an even larger cluster of men dressed in black coming in through the front door. What is this, some kind of convention? A bunch of undertakers getting together to talk about how sullen and creepy they all are? Because these are not friendly men—they’re all scowling. A few of them glance my way with cold, hard eyes that make me shiver.
And then the crowd parts, and it’s just Enzo and a man with a head of amazingly thick, silver hair. He’s a proud man, with the bearing of somebody who’s used to being in command. Even at his age and with all his wrinkles, he doesn’t walk with that slightly stooped posture people his age normally develop. He keeps his square chin high, too, inspecting the many boxes waiting to be unpacked. So I was right. He has something to do with that.
He turns to Enzo and murmurs something. Enzo glances my way, our eyes locking for a second. I wish I could read his expression, but one thing is clear: the question was about me.
Nobody has to tell me who this man is. And frankly, I’ve wanted to set eyes on him. When he turns around and looks toward the kitchen, where I’m standing with a mug in my trembling hands, my skin crawls a little, and a wave of cold fear washes over me. Why do I get the feeling I just stepped into the snake pit?
He takes a step my way, and Enzo falls in step beside him, but the old man thrusts an arm out to stop his grandson from advancing. Oh God, help me. He wants us to have a little alone time. I wait for him, fear gnawing at me, twisting my stomach. I don’t want him to see that, though something tells me he would anyway. Those dark eyes of his are much too shrewd to miss anything.
“So here she is,” he says as he enters the room, offering a brittle smile that I guess is better than him being nasty or cruel.
“Hello. Here I am.” What am I supposed to say? How am I supposed to behave in front of him? What’s expected of me? Why is he even here? I guess he wanted to get a look at me before this supposed wedding of ours.
He takes a seat at the kitchen table, and two guards hover behind him. Nobody has to tell me that’s their job. They might as well have it tattooed on their foreheads, burly men who’d look more at home in a wrestling ring or guarding the front door of a bar or club.