Page 22 of I Would Beg For You

A lump clogs my throat. It’s the same every single year. We attend this ball, my dad gets emotional around the mask reveal time, and we share a moment where my mother is alive in both our perceptions. She loved this ball, loved this precise moment. Dad says she used to giggle like a schoolgirl in her anticipation. I don’t know because I have very vague memories of her. She died when I was five.

But try as I want to think of my mother, the thread of her evaporates in my mind after a few seconds. My awareness is not going there tonight, because it is still firmly here, outside on thatbalcony, where I just kissed Valentino Andretti…and he kissed me back.

Devoured me, more like.

A shiver runs through me. If this is what he can do with one stolen moment and a single kiss, what will it be like to be in his arms for longer, in his bed for a full night?

I’m suddenly afraid as I think of this. Not because he’s scary, but because it feels like I will combust and die before the end of any night with him if tonight is just a teaser of what awaits.

“Naomi? Darling?”

I blink back into the ballroom. “Hmm?”

“Mask off, my girl.”

“Oh.” Everyone is indeed in the process of removing their masks. I untie mine and let it dangle from my hand.

“You’re not entirely here tonight,” my father says as he peers at me.

I force a smile. “It’s the memory of Mom.”

He nods. “I know, darling. I know.”

That was a good catch, though it’s not entirely untrue. I do miss her so much at times. More than anything, I wish I could’ve known her, remembered what her hug felt like, the sound of her voice. I’ve seen pictures of her, but it’s not the same.

My father reaches out and cradles my cheek. “Did I tell you how happy I am you’re back? With the campaign, I’m going to need you more than ever. It’s for you I do this, remember. So, every child can have the opportunities you’ve had.”

A flash goes off close by, and I blink.

The campaign. Starting January, I’ll have my work cut out for me. This campaign already sounds like it’ll be a nightmare of logistics and planning.

Now add having Valentino at home next door…

I don’t see him again that night, nor do I catch any sighting the next day. However, the heavy feel of eyes on me, sensuallyweighing me up, cataloguing all of me, remains, just like when I stood on that balcony under the flowering vines, we pretended was mistletoe.

It feels good to know he’s there, to acknowledge he’s watching me. This time, I know he’s here, on the other side of that window. And to reward him for this heady feeling I get to bask in before I go to bed, I decide to make it worth his while and also indulge in a fantasy teenage me had when we last lived under these circumstances.

With the light on low in my bedroom, I keep the curtains open a few evenings after the ball. In front of this window, I let my silhouette play with the light as I undress there, the heavy, almost baggy jumper revealing the shape of my shoulders and waist. The bra comes off—I make sure to be in profile, so he can see the curve of my breast. I lean forward to roll the skinny jeans down, my ass in skimpy panties on display. Leaving my clothes in a pile on the floor, I take my time stepping out of them to head to the en-suite bathroom.

Hair and body glistening wet from my shower, I stop in front of the window where I then take all the time in the world to slather my skin with body butter, lingering over my breasts as I massage it in.

Has he noticed? Nothing tells me he was right there in his room at the exact moment I put on my little show. Which now feels kind of ridiculous. Still, I took a chance.

The next morning, there’s a delivery man at the door. It’s for me. There’s no invoice or shipping bill on the package, which makes me think it’s someone sending me something personal.

Valentino, maybe? Hope bursts like butterflies in my chest.

I’m quick on my feet, but not quick enough as my father catches me running upstairs.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Something I forgot in my dorm room. I had a friend send it to me. It’s private, if you know what I mean.”

Dad always grows pink with embarrassment at any mention of personal stuff like period supplies and even diaries.

I don’t wait for him to wave me off before I’m bounding upstairs to close the door to my room and press my back to the panel, parcel in hand, gaze roving over it as if I have X-ray vision.

Only one way to know what’s inside and who sent it.

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