Page 16 of The Proposal

Chapter 5

Dante

Slumping back into my seat as soon as we board the private jet, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes with a frustrated sigh. This whole situation is giving me a fucking headache, and I’ve been married less than twenty-four hours.

I have enough shit on my plate when I get home, rebuilding my father’s empire from the ground up. That alone is a task that will be anything but easy. On top of that, I now have to deal with an emotional, disgruntled wife.

Arabella hasn’t stopped crying since her tearful goodbye to her sister, who was waiting for us by the car outside Stefano’s house. I’ve never been good with emotional women, but there’s something unnerving about it when it’s your wife.

I somehow feel responsible. I’m the one who’s caused her grief. I only agreed to this charade of a marriage to get Giovanni back, never once thinking about how it would affect her. And for that, I feel like an arsehole.

“Can I get you something to drink before we take off, Mr Mancini?” Maria, the flight attendant, asks.

“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks. Actually, make it a double.”

It might help me get some sleep, something I haven’t had much of in the past few days.

“And your wife?” she adds, glancing at Arabella.

My wife.

I still can’t believe it. Papa is probably turning in his grave, cursing his two sons from the beyond. He hounded us to settle down and give him an heir for years, never letting up. Not even a year has passed since we buried him, and Alexander and I are both married. Ironically, he didn’t live long enough to see the one thing he wanted most come true.

My brother will more than likely give him his heir. I doubt he’ll get one from me. It’s hard to knock up your wife when she won’t let you touch her.

I glance over at Arabella, who’s sitting on the other side of the plane in the furthest seat from mine, and lift one shoulder. “I don’t know, ask her.” My reply comes out a little more aggressive than intended.

Maria’s eyes widen slightly, but I have no idea if she wants a drink, what she likes to drink, or if she even drinks, which only seems to add to that relentless fucking throbbing in my head.

I watch as Maria tentatively approaches her. “Could I get you something to drink, Mrs Mancini?” she asks in a kind, soft voice.

Arabella shakes her head and returns to looking out the side window. It has me blowing out a long, frustrated breath.

Fuck my life.

I wake with a start when the plane jerks, the sudden movement pulling me from a deep, disoriented sleep. Arching my back, I stretch and work the stiffness from my neck, moving it from side to side.

I hadn’t meant to fall asleep in my seat. I was hoping to make it to the bed before that happened. I guess the two double scotches I drank did the trick, knocking me out faster than I anticipated.

Blinking away the haze, I glance around, trying to get my bearings. The dull throb in my head still lingers at the back of my skull.

My eyes zero in on Arabella and see she’s now curled into a small, tight ball as she lies across both seats. She looks anything but comfortable, and for some reason, that sight tugs at something deep inside me.

Glancing down at my watch, I see we’ve only been in the air a few hours, so we still have a long way to go until we reach Australia.

I unclip my seat belt and stand. My eyes briefly flick to the back of the plane towards the private bedroom before returning to my wife.

I hesitate for a moment before muttering, “Fuck it,” under my breath. I close the distance between us in a few long strides, effortlessly scooping her into my arms.

She’s sleeping so soundly that when I lift her, she only stirs briefly before her body softens in my hold. When she unexpectedly nuzzles the side of her face into my chest with a quiet, breathy sigh, I stand there, frozen, unsure of what to do next. Her warmth and the intimacy it brings are jarring.

As I move towards the rear of the plane, I make the most of my free pass and stare down at her sleeping face. I’m again momentarily struck by her beauty. The warm glow of her skin contrasts with the softness of her features. She has effortless elegance even when asleep.

Her long, dark hair is pulled back from her delicate face, and her thick lashes fan out against her cheek. Her full, slightly parted lips—lips I can’t seem to stop thinking about—call to me in a way I can’t ignore.

Yet again, I have to remind myself that this isn’t real. This is purely a marriage of convenience, nothing more.

I hope my brother appreciates having his son back—which I know he does—because I’m now bound to a woman who can’t stand the sight of me for the rest of my damn life.

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