Page 22 of The One
“You’ll see why,” is all she says.
Okay.
With a quivering stomach, I follow Dario down a long corridor until we step outside into a courtyard. We’re in the center of the U-shape, walking across the paved area, decorated with large pots of olive and citrus trees, to the other side of the mansion.
Security is tighter here. There are more guards, more cameras and palm readers to access the building.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, why does he have her under guard and hidden away?
Is hethatpossessive?
I watch as Dario places his palm on the scanner.
“We’ll add your print if you’re going to come back to this part of the house,” he tells me as the pad lights up green.
He gestures for me to walk through when the door opens.
“It’s at the end of the corridor.” He points down the hallway and walks ahead.
When we get there, he enters a pin code, opens the door, and then leans against the wall.
I look at him as he unfolds his paper.
“Go on. Just leave the tray on the table inside and pick up the old one,” he says with a small smile.
Ah, that’s right, he’s not coming in with me. No men allowed!
My heart hammers in my chest. Clutching the tray in my hands tighter, I lift my chin to appear more confident and step over the threshold.
Chapter Eight
Mariella
My gaze lands on a beautiful blonde girl lying across a bed watching television, and my stomach fills with lead.
She’s a few years older than me, twenty-three or twenty-four perhaps. She’s not wearing makeup and is dressed in sweatpants and a simple shirt. And still she’s stunning.
Just his type.
At first, she seems disinterested, but then she looks directly at me, her eyes brightening. She sits up and tosses the remote across the bed. There’s an air of confidence around her I wish I had.
Dammit.
Just like the women Mateo De Marco is usually seen with.
I scan the room for the table Dario mentioned and walk toward it with my head held high and my back straight. Fake it till you make it, right?
Hmm, this space is so much smaller than I expected. Maybe she isn’t Mateo’s girlfriend after all, maybe not even his mistress. I’d imagine he’d spoil his women, give them only the best and shower them with luxuries.
But this room? It’s sparse.
There’s the bed, the table with a chair and a television mounted to the wall. That’s it.
And off in one corner is a door, which I assume leads to a bathroom.
“Hello,” the blonde says, her voice tentative and hopeful.
I don’t answer and turn away, heading toward the table.
