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If anything, I feel a little bit bad.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I just meant that I’m excited about going somewhere new for the first time. And flying. And staying in a hotel. It’s all new for me.”
“Of course,” Salvatore says mildly. “I wouldn’t have expected you to be thrilled at just the prospect of time away with me.”
His tone is neutral as he says it, but I suspect what I said cut deeper than I realized. And it brings up that doubt again that I felt last night, that feeling that maybe I’ve gotten this wrong. That maybe what I thought I knew isn’t entirely correct.
I curl up under the cashmere blanket as the air-conditioning on the jet makes it a little chilly, putting in my earbuds and reading my book as the hours pass. I think I fall asleep for a little while, because before I know it, I’m woken by the sound of dinner being served—or the first course, at least.
Salvatore has a glass of cognac next to him now, and there’s chilled white wine for me. I pour a glass—the champagne has worn off, and I wouldn’t mind being a little buzzed for all of this. Any kind of alcohol has an effect on me, since I’ve only recently started drinking more.
On the table, there’s caviar and crostini, as well as thin crackers with delicately folded prosciutto, soft cheese, a tiny jar of fig jam, and slices of salted cantaloupe. I glance up at Salvatore, who is setting his work aside in preparation to eat.
“This is an awfully fancy dinner to have in the air.”
“I’m a billionaire, Gia,” he says calmly, reaching for a crostini and the tiny spoon to spread caviar onto it. “You know that as well as I do. So nothing is too fancy.”
I don’t exactly believe him. Not about the billionaire part—I do know that’s true. But the casualness with which he says it rings hollow. Salvatore is a man who ordinarily toes the line of austere—I don’t believe for a second that it’s his usual way to have caviar and expensive champagne on a jet. He told me just a couple of nights ago that he’s never taken a vacation outside of fishing trips with my father. This jet didn’t even belong to him until six months ago.
I think this is all for me. A display of something, although I’m not sure what. His ability to protect me and provide for me, maybe. A reminder that everything my father had, he entrusted to Salvatore after his death—except for me. And now Salvatore has taken it upon himself to have that, too.
The thought makes my throat close up, until I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat. My first reaction, every time I’m reminded of that fact, is always anger. But with the doubts that have filtered in, this time, there’s another thought, too.
If my father trusted Salvatore so much, enough to give him everything, then should I do the same? Should I trust that Salvatore’s reasons were honorable, instead of looking for something illicit in everything he does when it comes to me?
I don’t have answers, and the only person in the world I would have trusted unquestioningly to tell me is gone. I only have Salvatore now—and he’s either my captor, or my savior. I know which one he wants to paint himself as.
I’m just not sure which one is the truth.
I’ve never had caviar before. It’s salty and rich, as is the prosciutto, which pairs wonderfully with the sweetness of the soft cheese and jam. The entire first course is a study of those salty and sweet flavors, washed down by the cold, crisp white wine, and I focus on enjoying it. I love this kind of thing—good food and the pleasures of luxury. I’ve never been ashamed of it in the past, and I don’t intend to start now.
The rest of the meal is equally delicious. The first course is followed by a Caesar salad, and then by delicately cooked salmon in a buttery lemon-blueberry sauce, with roasted potatoes and vegetables on the side. Dessert is a coconut creme brulee, and by the end of it, I’m stuffed and sleepy all over again.
“I never would have thought that we could have such a fancy meal on a plane,” I murmur sleepily, and Salvatore chuckles.
“There’s more to come, Gia. Get some rest.”
I oblige, retiring to the bedroom at the back of the plane. There’s a small shower and bathroom, and I quickly rinse off, brushing my teeth and washing my face before changing into my pajamas and going to lie down in the surprisingly soft and large bed. It feels not all that different from being back in the mansion.
I wondered if Salvatore would join me, eventually. But he doesn’t. I fall asleep alone.
—
When I wake up, I’m still alone. I get up and go through my usual morning routine, opting for a pair of denim shorts and a ruffled, cropped yellow off-the-shoulder shirt from my shopping trip. It shows a sliver of my flat, toned stomach and my long legs, and I decide that it’s as good a time as any to show Salvatore what he’s missing. I might have felt bad yesterday about hurting his feelings, but I still intend to try and get under his skin.
I want to uncover the truth about this marriage that I’ve been forced into. I want to know for sure why it is that Salvatore married me. And I don’t intend to be relegated to a corner of his mansion while he goes about his life as if he didn’t upend mine.
If I have no way out of this, then he’s going to be my husband in all the ways that matter, and give me what I want. Or I’m going to drive him insane until he wants nothing more than to give me back.
I walk back to where I sat yesterday, to find Salvatore still there, a cup of coffee and a croissant on the table in front of him. He appears to be working still, as if he never actually stopped last night.
“Do you actually not sleep, and you were just pretending that first night I was in the mansion?” I accuse him as I flop down in the seat opposite. “Because you’ve only actually slept next to me once.”
Salvatore looks up from his tablet. I see the momentary shock on his face as he sees what I’m wearing. I’ve generally dressed much more modestly around him in the past. For a moment, it’s as if he can’t gather himself as his gaze travels up my long legs, to the edge of the denim shorts, lingering on the bare skin between the waist and the hem of my top, flicking up to my breasts. His gaze finally meets mine, and he lets out a short breath.
“Maybe I’m a vampire,” he says sarcastically, reaching for his coffee. “It would explain my preternaturally good looks at the ripe old age I’ve reached.”
My breath catches a little. Not just because it makes me think of fantasizing about him in the bath the other night, while I read my romance novel, but because I want to laugh. He made me want to laugh, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s made a joke I find funny this early in the morning.
