Page 33 of Unholy Union
“I see you’ve quickly moved in and made yourself comfortable.”
“More like I was moved in by others. Your staff is very… prompt.”
“Of course,” she says tersely, taking a slow sip of her espresso. “We train them to be the best. I’ve found anyone can be trained with enough effort.”
I offer a tight smile. “It does seem like you’d know better than anyone.”
“Let’s not confuse a natural pedigree with common stock. Some women are born to be married to powerful men. Others are too unrefined and must be taught. I do wish you luck.”
She abandons her cup of espresso at the counter, the click of her heels echoing on the checkerboard tiles.
Dismissiveness seems to run in the Valente bloodline.
On the tenth evening I’m forced to live under their roof, I start pushing for answers as to Cato’s whereabouts.
“I want to go out for dinner,” I say. “My friend Tessa invited me to Gioia.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” answers the staff member babysitting me. Her name is Bianca, and she’s only a few years older than I am. “Mr. Valente stated he wants you to have supper at home.”
“And where ishehaving supper?”
“Mr. Valente did not disclose his dinner plans for tonight.”
“That’s convenient!” I snap. “He never does, does he? He’s never home for dinner. But he expects me to be! I’m done putting up with it. Get him on the phone.”
“But Mrs. Valen?—”
“Either you call him, or I’m walking out that front door. And you’ll have to call him anyway after I defy his orders, right?”
Her brows draw close, a line of stress in between. She gives a reluctant nod, then digs her phone from the pocket of her knee-length uniform skirt. “Hello, Mr. Valente,” she says nervously, cutting me a quick glance. “I have your wife here. She would like a word about tonight’s dinner plans.”
I snatch the phone from her and say, “When are you coming home?”
I can hear Cato’s indignation at being asked such a rudimentary question. His voice drips with coldness as he answers. “That’s nothing for you to concern yourself with, principessa. I’ll be home when I come home.”
“Then I’m going out to dinner with my best friend.”
“You’re having dinner at home.”
“Not alone. Not again,” I say stubbornly. “I refuse. So if you won’t be here, then I’m going out.”
“If you go out, you’ll regret it. What have I told you? You’re my wife now, which means you do as I say. If I want you home having dinner, then guess where you’ll be?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear husband. You might have married me, but I’m your wife, not your slave. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
I hang up on him to the stunned, wide-eyed silence of Bianca. Her hand’s limp as I pass back her phone and then pivot on my heel. It takes her another second to come to her senses, scrambling in my wake. I’ve made it halfway up the sweeping staircase, marching my way toward our bedroom.
“Mrs. Valente!” she calls. “Mrs. Valente, what are you—oh no!”
I’ve stormed into the closet and darted for the first rack of clothes within reach. I wrench off a sparkly little dress I haven’tworn since my college days, when Tessa, Jasmine, and I would go out for drinks in Manhattan.
“Mrs. Valente,” groans Bianca, wringing her hands. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”
I ignore her, going for my phone next. My fingers are fast on the screen, typing up a reply to the last message Tessa sent me, which was asking if we could do dinner.
Let’s skip the dinner.
Let’s go dancing like we used to.
