Page 80 of Rosetti Family New York
He notices everything. “This way, Besiana.”
I follow. I don’t let myself be unsure.
He leads me up a flight of stairs and along a hall, then quietly opens a door. “Your room is here.”
I blink at what must be the master bedroom, stunned for a moment. It’s enormous, like the rest of the house. The bed is a monster, king-sized, with dark frames and stark white bedding. Its sheets look crisp and unruffled, nothing like the tangle of blankets I’m used to. Elegant furniture, all sleek angles and cold surfaces, lines the walls. A giant mirror with an elaborate gold frame reflects the whole opulent scene. It reminds me of something out of a magazine. Impersonal and extravagant. Nothing about it is real. Nothing about it is me.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m only here for information. This is a transaction. He doesn’t need my soul, only my body.
“Change into something less cumbersome and meet me downstairs,” he commands, then he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I obey. I always do. I search everywhere for my suitcases, without success, but I finally find all my clothes unpacked into the enormous walk-in closet.Less cumbersome, he said. Which is pretty much everything I own. I figure it’s too early in our relationship for sweatpants, so I settle on a silk wrap dress in pale green that I’m told matches my eyes.
Meet me downstairs, he said, so I wander out into the corridor and retrace my steps to the main living areas. It’s hard to find my way because the mansion is a maze of identical doors and turns. The hallways are long and unending, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ll be trapped in them forever.
The front hall stretches out before me, cold marble under my feet as I make my way back. I perch on the armchair again while I wait for him, but I don’t have to wait long. He appears, as unreadable as ever, and keeps his distance.
He gives me a stiff nod, as if approving of my wardrobe change.
“Pour me a drink.”
It’s a command, not a request, perfectly in character. Of course it is. I get up and search for glasses. My movement is awkward and fevered, and my hands shake as I fill the glass with an expensive whiskey I’ve never heard of before and a little water from the tap.
“Here,” I say, passing it to him.
He takes it carefully, being sure not to brush my fingers with his own then tells me to follow him. It’s the same as before, his tall figure moving ahead of me, his footsteps echoing off the walls. In a way, it’s exactly what I need. A reminder. I’m here to play the role of his wife while I gather what I need for Baba.
“All these windows make me feel exposed,” I say. Maybe it will get a reaction.
“Then close the fucking curtains,” he answers, barely looking back.
I do as he says, like a good, obedient bride, though it isn’t just for him. I tell myself it’s for me. That I want to keep him talking. That every word is information. That it’s my choice to close every curtain, that I have the power here. I’m the spy, not the wife.
It’s convincing. Almost.
He catches me yawning as I pull closed the last heavy drape. He stops walking and waits for me.
“You’re tired.”
Barking out orders as usual.
“Yes,” I say.
“Time for bed.”
Up the stairs again, a reluctant parade. He leads, I follow. I reach for my doorknob once we’re back in the corridor, but his hand closes over my wrist before I touch it. He doesn’t let go, and it’s, well, it’s the most contact we’ve had apart from that ghostlykiss at the wedding. My skin tingles at how it feels. Spark and burn, a match ready to catch but not quite striking.
“Not in there,” he says.
Genuinely confused, my brows draw in as my mind scrambles for an answer. I might not want to obey his every stupid command, but I need to keep him happy while I gather information on Iride.
“But you said this is my bedroom.”
He lets go. Like he’s dropping something he shouldn’t have touched in the first place.
“That’s your room. You can do whatever you want in there. Keep your dresses, your makeup, whatever it is you do. But you don’t sleep in there.”
He expects me to follow, and I do. He opens the door next to mine, standing aside for me to enter first. The room is enormous, and I stop in surprise. My room is big, but this—this is bigger than some entire houses. The walls are painted a deep, moody blue with silver trim, and the ceiling is pale marble that matches the floor. It’s so masculine and sharp, the kind of room I expected to see on a magazine cover, not in real life. I stare. I can’t help it. This is where he sleeps?
