Page 59 of The Proposal

“How will we explain the mess you made of his house?” I ask.

“Simple … we don’t. We play dumb.”

Edoardo has been living alone for many years. His wife was sent packing when he found out she was infertile, which speaks volumes about the type of man he is. He never remarried, but I know he’s had other women since.

He brought one of them to my father’s 65th birthday party. She was young enough to be his granddaughter. He paraded her around like some kind of arm candy, as if her youth were something to be proud of. To me, it was sick and depraved. It honestly turned my stomach.

“Keep me updated,” I say.

“Will do.”

“Thanks.”

“Dante,” he says before I end the call. “If there’s something to find, I’ll find it. I won’t rest until I do.”

I rise from my desk, approach the bar, and pour myself a scotch. It may only be the middle of the day, but I need something to take the edge off.

I tilt back my head and gulp down the amber liquid before refilling it. The ice inside the glass shifts with a soft, rhythmic clink as I leave the office to search for my wife. I need the comfort only she can bring.

It’s been three days since Arabella gave me the ultimate gift, and to say I’m desperate to have her again would be an understatement. I’ve given her ample space to heal, but her time is up. Tonight, she will be underneath me again, mark my words.

I’ve had plenty of scorching hot sex in my time—with countless women—but Arabella has shown me it’s far more meaningful when it’s with someone you care about.

She’s quickly becoming the light in my darkness, the one thing that makes the shadows feel less suffocating. When she’s close, everything else fades. The worries, the weight of the world, and those relentless fucking noises in my head. I don’t even have nightmares when she’s wrapped in my arms.

She somehow makes my life …better.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like there was a part inside me that was incomplete. At first, I told myself it was just my mother’s absence. I was only a boy when we lost her. I experienced something similar when Alexander moved to Sydney.

Sometimes, I convinced myself I was chasing my father’s approval to fill that void. But now, since bringing Arabella into my life and letting her into my world, I’m starting to believe maybe she’s the missing piece I’ve been searching for all along.

What we share isn’t love, not yet anyway, but there’s something between us. A spark that seems to grow a little stronger with each passing day.

When you start with what could best be described as mutual disdain, the only place you can go from there is up. I want this to work. I want to have the kind of marriage my parents had—that forever kind of love.

Honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I would’ve been able to stay in this house if it wasn’t for her. I thought I’d be fine returning here, but I still can’t bring myself to venture anywhere near the rear of the house. It feels like a part of me is still stuck in that moment, and I can’t seem to shake it.

I head towards the kitchen first, but when I don’t find Arabella or Lucia in there, I move to the main room. It’s also empty.

That’s when I hear their laughter in the distance … they’re outside, by the pool. My knees buckle and nearly give out beneath me as I grip the back of the couch with my free hand for support. My fingers tremble slightly as I bring the glass to my lips. The thought of stepping out there—of them being in that space—makes bile rise in my throat.

I finish my drink and turn sharply, leaving the room without a second thought. I’m not ready to go out there and face the memories of that day.

I don’t know if I ever will be.

Chapter 14

Arabella

“That must be a good book,” I say to my sister as I place another platter of food on the table.

“So good,” she replies as she reaches out, grabs an olive, and pops it in her mouth. She doesn’t even take her eyes off the damn page, so I reach across the table and pluck it out of her hand. “Hey, I was reading that.”

“Dinner is ready.”

My eyes flicker down to the page she is on as I go to close the book, and they widen to the size of saucers when I glance over some of the text. Although the book is written in Italian, there’s no mistaking what I’m reading.

“Her tongue lapped at the salty pre-cum that beaded on the tip of his erect shaft …”

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