Page 47 of The Proposal

“Bellezza,” Dante says, but when I remain silent, he adds. “Are you there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you okay? You sound … a little off.”

“You didn’t reply to my last text.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just been one of those days.”

“I thought something might have happened to you.”

“You did? Shit. The last thing I wanted was to cause you concern. I didn’t consider that option. I’ll keep that in mind from now on. I’m still getting used to being a husband … I’m not used to having to check in.”

“Okay,” I say, following it with a sigh.

“I’m calling to tell you to get changed. I have a dinner tonight, and I want you there with me.”

“I’m not feeling up to it,” I reply.

“Did I say I was giving you a choice?”

The harshness of his words makes me recoil slightly. “You can’t make me go if I don’t want to.”

“Do you want to make a bet on that, Arabella?”

“What are you going to do? Drag me there against my will?”

“If need be, yes.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I think you and I both know I would.”

“Ugh.”

“I’ve instructed the guards to pick you up out front in an hour. Wear the black dress you bought last week.”

I’ve been dying to wear that dress, but it’s too fancy for around the house. Despite that, I still find myself replying with an abrupt, “No!”

“Wear it, Arabella,” he growls. “You’ve got one hour. I’ve permitted the guards to come into the house and carry you out to the car if you’re not there waiting.”

I gasp, but he ends the call before I get a chance to acknowledge his absurdity.

Stronzo.

I sit in the back of the limousine with my arms crossed over my chest, wearing a face that I can only gather looks as sour as my mood.

I wore the black dress Dante had requested, and I was ready within the hour as he had demanded. Did I want to defy him? You better believe it, but when you’ve spent your entire life being conditioned by a tyrant, you quickly learn when to push back and when to do as you are told.

I want to think I’ve gotten to know my husband in the short time we’ve been married, but the truth is I’ve only scratched the surface. If pushed too far, I have no idea what he’s truly capable of.

We pull up outside a restaurant minutes later, and I blow out a long breath as the back door opens. I expect one of the guards to be standing there, so I’m taken aback when I find my husband instead.

His good looks and gorgeous smile still make my stupid heart flutter, despite my anger. It’s maddening how easily he can make me forget, even for a moment.

“You look beautiful,Tesoro(Sweetheart),” he says, extending his hand to me.

My initial reaction is to slap his hand away, but I have no idea who we’ll be dining with tonight, or if our dinner guests are standing on the sidewalk with him, so I force myself to lift my chin, wrap my fingers around his, plaster a fake smile on my face and switch to dutiful-wife mode. When we get home, though, that will be a different story.

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