3.

Angelica

I press my palms against a clothed, hard chest.

The fabric is soft to the touch and…wet, reeking of alcohol.

I immediately know who this chest belongs to—and I shouldn’t be touching it. So I take a step back, withdrawing my hand as though instead of wet, the fabric burns me.

But the second I do, long, thick, and manly fingers wrap around both my wrists, pulling me flush against him, my palms pressed there again, feeling the steady thud beneath it.

I shut my eyes and try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me, tightening his hold around my wrists instead.

However, as if sensing my powerlessness against him, knowing I’m too weak to keep fighting, he releases his hold on me, and I finally peel my eyes open, only to sink into further confusion.

Instead of a clothed chest, my palms now press against bare skin, warm and solid. Shock frizzles through me, and I’m too scared to move, too scared to breathe, too scared to tear my eyes from the hard body.

But I do; not because I’ve overcome my fear, but because he’s both familiar and unfamiliar.

I trail my gaze upward, from his chest to his neck, to his…

There’s no face. It’s just…nothing.

I yell at the top of my lungs but the sound is muffled, backing away as I fall on my bum so hard pain shoots up my spine.

I rise from my sleep with a jolt, my heart beating erratically underneath my chest, beads of sweat coating my forehead and my pink pajama set damp despite the air conditioner.

My eyes roam around my surroundings, seemingly calming my erratic heart as my brain registers I’m in the safety of my bedroom and not in that unfamiliar room from three months ago.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips and I lift my hand to my head to wipe off the sweat lodged there. Though my chest keeps pounding.

That night is a myth.

Waking up in the large suite alone— my underwear intact but my dress sprawled on the ground, a pounding headache, with no recollection of how I got there, the face of the man I was with or what happened to me—haunted not only my thoughts but my dreams too.

Especially my dreams, since it was the only place that felt truly mine, where I was free and could be anything I wanted.

The morning after, I cried until my throat burned, terrified of what might have happened to me. I regretted ever setting my foot out of the house at all that night, at trusting the woman who ended up drugging me, and at not letting Joey go in with me.

It was a miscalculation on my part. I thought I’d go in, have a drink or two and leave, but I never considered unforeseen circumstances. I’d been so angry at myself I nearly tore my list, but I didn’t, instead I told myself I’d abort mission.

Days turned into weeks, and the fear dulled into something quieter, something I refused to name. I let myself believe I’d suffered worse at the hands of Nicolas to dwell on that one experience.

Until recently, I dusted off my journal, letting my eyes roam over the scribbled words, reacquainting myself with them after surviving yet another bout of beatings from Nicolas all because he was in a bad mood.

I ticked off the only item I knew I completed for certain.

DRINK ALCOHOL.

And since I ticked it off, I stopped having nightmares of that night.

That is until last night. Purely triggered by none other than Marciano D’amato.

With a sigh, I place my hand over my chest, feeling the beat of my heart slow down. Only for it to pick up again at the sound of a heavy knock on the door.

“Coming,” I yell out startled, rushing to my feet instantly while wondering who was at the door and why.

I swing the mahogany door open to reveal the housekeeper, Esmeralda.

Her face is set in a slight frown; her light brows knitted together with a little scrunch to her nose.

“Good morning. Mr. Hearst wants you down for breakfast,” she announces. If she weren’t always indifferent when Nicolas hit me, I might’ve mistaken the look in her eyes for pity.

My stomach tightens, blood rushing to my temple as her words register. I can only nod.

“He’ll be back from his workout soon, so you better hurry.”

I close my door as she leaves, running to my closet to change out of my pajamas, after which I head downstairs without even bothering to brush my teeth.

None of the family members are down when I arrive at the dining table, so I go to the kitchen to help out with breakfast.

Everyone is seated at the dining table twenty minutes later, and I wish I brushed my teeth.

Nicolas is at the head of the table, fully dressed in a black suit and black dress shirt; something he never does. Sarah sits to the left of him in a flowery dress and Nadine to his right. Nicolas Jr. Junior, as everyone calls him, is right beside his mother, all dressed for school, while I’m sitting on a chair with an empty one between Nadine and I as if to show that though we’re sisters, we’re not the same.

I’m the child born out of infidelity and she’s the child born out of love.

Why am I even here?

I meet Nicolas’s eyes instantly, and as if he read my thought, he clears his throat and presses his palms together.

“Something tragic happened at the party last night,” he announces and pauses to let his words land.

Sarah sucks in an exaggerated breath, a hand on her chest, Nadine and her brother both turn to Nicolas, identical looks of indifference on their faces.

“Unfortunately, Celia D’amato was shot during the gun fight and she died on the way to the hospital.”

My breath hitches in my throat, my chest tightening.

Celia was shot? No wonder Nicolas didn’t come home with us, he stayed back at the mansion.

“What?”

“Oh poor woman.”

I don’t dare say a word because I know my input is not needed. I don’t even know why I’m here listening to this.

“Do they know who did it?” Sarah asks, her eyes watery.

Nicolas shakes his head.

“And that’s why they’re at their wits end,” he chuckles darkly, lodging his knife into the steak he insists on having for breakfast every morning. “They don’t trust anyone right now, but their head must take a wife. So they came to me.” He plops a piece of steak into his mouth, chewing. He’s the only one eating.

Silence stretches thinly around the entire room. His insinuation hovers above our heads, every eye trained on him, waiting eagerly to know where this is going.

Nicolas, dramatic as ever, drops his fork and knife on his plate, and finally looks up. His eyes land on Nadine.

“I chose you as his wife.”

The element of surprise only lasts for a second before Nadine kicks back her chair as she stands, shaking her head.

“What? How could you do that?” She yells, staring down at her father.

“Nadine—”

“No!” she declares firmly, folding her arms.

“What?”

“You heard me, father. I said no! I refuse to marry that man,” she cries out.

“How dare you?”

“No, father, how dare you?” Nicolas’s frown is immediate.

“Nadine,” Sarah calls out warily, but Nadine doesn’t respond to her.

“You know better than me what people call that man; A beast! His reputation is the worst. People say he killed his wife and child, so how do you expect me to marry a man like that?” She yells, then her eyes land on me. “Especially when you have this freak here!” She points a finger at me.

I bite my lower lip so tight I draw blood, praying Nicolas wouldn’t buy the idea. But who am I kidding? I’ve always been a spare part for this family. A punching bag if they ever need one.

“You could’ve chosen her! So why me? Why chose me to suffer a loveless marriage?” Her eyes are hateful and trained on me, then she turns back to her father. “So no. I’m not and I will never marry that demon!”

The room falls into silence again, the only sound that can be heard being that of Nadine’s rushed breaths.

Nicolas’s eyes slide to me again, and this time, they linger. My stomach clenches.

No, this can’t be happening.

A cold wave creeps up my spine as something settles deep in my chest—heavy and inevitable.

“It is settled then,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You will marry into the D’amato family.”