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Her stomach clenched and her heart trembled.
‘When Amy and Brax died, my heart died with them, and it’s gone—for good. I cannot offer you what I think you deserve, but I can give you enough, I think, for you to want this. For you to be happy.’ He crouched down at her feet, clutching her hands, staring into her
eyes. ‘Look at the life you can lead by my side. Look at how we can raise our child.’ He lifted one of his hands to cup her cheek. ‘There is enough here to build on, just like you said. We just have to be brave enough to try.’
She felt the once foreign but now familiar sting of tears in the back of her throat. He was speaking softly, as though he were offering a great gift, but all his words did was open up a hole in her heart and make her feel as though she were falling into it completely.
There was something so final and so limiting about what he was saying, and the timing of it filled her with despair. Their trip to Paris had been so full of magic and she’d felt so wanted and cosseted, but it had all been a sales pitch, him showing her what he could give her to make this marriage appealing. Because he wanted her to be safe, he didn’t want the guilt of any harm befalling her, and because he wanted their child close. She’d seen the way he talked about Brax, the genuine love that had filled him—he’d be a great father to their daughter.
This trip hadn’t really been about her—he hadn’t brought her to Paris because he’d wanted her to see it, he’d done it because he’d wanted her to know what she could expect, being married to him. He’d thought showing her the enormous silver lining of being Mrs Leonidas Stathakis would compensate for the fact his heart ‘had died’ with his first wife and son.
She bit down on her lip, turning her face away from him without responding, not able to find any words that would express the enormous doubts that were harpooning her soul.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HANNAH HAD BUTTERFLIES in her tummy and they wouldn’t quit. She looked at the dress the couturier had brought earlier that day—it was the perfect wedding dress for this perfectly fake wedding.
‘Keep it simple,’ she had instructed, feeling as if the wedding was enough of a farce without a frou-frou white cupcake dress. And simple it was. A silk slip with spaghetti straps and cut on the bias so it emphasised the curves of her breasts, hips and the roundedness of her stomach. It was not a dress one would wear to a public wedding, in front of hundreds of people.
It was a dress to be worn for a lover. Beautiful, but so incredibly sensual. She ran her fingers over the silky fabric, and then dropped her gaze to the floor, where a pair of rose-gold sandals had been teamed with it. They were casual and comfortable and the perfect bit of whimsy to offset such a stunning piece.
She heard a noise and startled, quickly putting the simple gown back in the wardrobe and slamming the door, spinning around almost guiltily as Leonidas entered their bedroom. When had she started to think of it as theirs, rather than just his? It had been just under a week since she’d arrived on the island and she barely recognised the woman she’d been then.
‘Marina has set dinner up on the terrace,’ he said. He looked at her as he had on the plane, with a smile that was at ease, as though he’d made his peace with how this would work—he’d slotted her into a space in his mind and he was content with that.
She wasn’t his wife by choice, but they could still ‘make this work’.
Hadn’t she said something along those lines to him, right at the beginning of all this? She’d been happy to take a pragmatic approach then. But something had changed and now the limitations of that sat strangely in her chest.
‘Okay.’ Hannah returned his smile, but it didn’t light up her face as usual.
They walked in silence to the terrace, and when they reached it, Leonidas held a chair out for her.
Mrs Chrisohoidis had gone to a lot of trouble.
Candles flickered everywhere, and fresh flowers had been picked from around the island, filling the terrace with an even more delightful, heady fragrance than usual.
She breathed it in and told herself to relax.
She told herself nothing had changed. They were two people who were forging a relationship, who were getting married the very next day, and all the reasons for agreeing to this marriage were still there. Aside from the possible danger to her and their daughter, Hannah’s desire to provide their child with a father was as strong as ever. To know that if anything ever happened to her, Leonidas would be there—that she would know and love him.
She was doing the right thing—these doubts would lessen once they were married and she could get on with building their marriage.
They would have a lifetime together. A lifetime to make sense of this madness.
But as Leonidas took the seat opposite Hannah, she realised with a terrifying bolt of comprehension that she didn’t need a lifetime to make sense of this. He took the seat opposite her and she breathed out, relaxing.
Because he was there; he was near her.
She clutched the stem of her wine glass—filled with ice-cold apple juice—and stared at her groom, as a thousand memories exploded inside her.
Perhaps it was the starlit sky overhead, just like the night they met, but suddenly, Hannah seemed to be looking through binoculars, seeing everything larger and bigger and more true to life.
Why had she slept with him that night?
She’d never done anything like that, and yet one look from Leonidas had made her want to throw herself at his feet. That couldn’t be anything other than desire, could it?
So why had she thought of him every day since? Why had he tormented her thoughts and dreams and filled her chest with a strange palpitation?
