Page 23 of The Bonventi Secret
As I reach for the shampoo, the scent of lavender fills the air. It's subtle and smells real, nothing like the synthetic perfumedrugstore brand I use at home. I lather it into my hair, my fingers working out the tangles, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the sensation.
I grab the soap, scrubbing my skin almost violently, as if I could wash away Enzo's touch, or the very circumstances that brought me here.
After 10 to 15 minutes, I shut off the water and step out, quickly wrapping myself in a towel. I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection again. My skin is flushed from the hot water, my eyes bright with unshed tears. I look cleaner, yes, but also more alive.
As I dry off and get dressed in my own clothes, I run a comb through my wet hair, leaving it to air dry. No need for the fancy products lined up on the counter.
I step back into the bedroom, feeling marginally more like myself. But the sight of that massive bed, the lavish furnishings, the sheer size of the room—it all serves as a stark reminder of where I am and why.
I see the broken vase on the ground and almost feel bad about it - almost.
I walk over to my suitcase and reach for my laptop. I then stop and see the worn spine ofThe Picture of Dorian Grayby Oscar Wilde. I grab that instead, as Wilde's witty dialogue always makes me smile, even when I don't feel like it.
I sit down on my chaise lounge bed and open the book. Part of me wants to formulate a plan, start thinking of ways to make Enzo hate me and move on, but a bigger part of me wants to to what I've always done - get lost in my books.
I rub my skull pendant and begin reading. The first thing I see hits me differently than ever before: 'Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.'
Is there anything beautiful about this?I ask myself. Because all I see is ugliness.
I dismiss it; maybe I'm being too analytical.
Just as I suspected, I lose myself in Dorian and Basil's banter, and before I know it, there's a knock at the door.
I lean over to have a visual of the door and yell, "Yes?" I'll be damned if I'm getting up.
A moment later, the man who escorted me into the study earlier this morning enters.
"Good evening, ma'am. Mr. Bonventi asks when you will be joining him for dinner?"
Glancing over at the clock, I see it's 8:15 p.m. At first, I want to tell the man to go tell Enzo to fuck off, but I'm hungry, and while I've tried to ignore it, my stomach is starting to turn sour and ache.
I put the book down and stand.
"I'll come now," I say.
The man nods. "Very well. Please follow me."
ENZO - 8
Istand at the head of the grand dining table, surveying the room with a critical eye. The candles on the table cast a warm, flickering glow over the large mahogany table and antique chairs.
"Antonio," I call, my voice low but carrying unmistakable authority. The servant appears at my side, silent and attentive. "You've set the table with the bone china and crystal—the 1764 collection, right? I want everything to be perfect for our first dinner together."
Antonio nods, stern and emotionless. "Of course, Mr. Bonventi. Will there be anything else?"
I pause, considering. "The '82 Lafite Rothschild. Decant it now." As he turns to leave, a thought strikes me. "And bring the Glenmorangie 25, in case our guest prefers something stronger."
The door closes silently behind Antonio, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I adjust my cufflinks, the platinum squares cool against my skin, as I contemplate the importance of this meal. It's more than sustenance; it's a strategic move. And yet, I can'thelp the fact that I find myself curious about her. Her defiance earlier piqued my interest in a way I hadn't anticipated.
The staff returns and quickly finishes setting the table, and I nod in approval. Everything is impeccable, as it should be. I move to take my seat at the head, preparing myself for the delicate dance that is about to unfold. For the first time in years, I don't know exactly how this evening will unfold. And part of me—a part I thought long buried—is looking forward to the uncertainty.
Just as I sit, the door opens, and Livia steps into the room.
I stand as she enters. Despite her simple attire, there's an undeniable allure to her presence. The black v-neck shirt she's chosen does little to conceal her ample cleavage, the soft swell of her breasts clearly visible. My eyes darken as they roamed over her body, my fingers itching to touch her.
As she moves closer, I can't help but appreciate how the tight black pants she's wearing hug every curve of her. They accentuate the shapely contours of her thighs and the roundness of her ass, leaving little to the imagination.
"Livia," I say, my voice low and controlled. "I'm very glad you decided to join me."
