Journal Entry

You kiss a beast to turn him into a prince.

But what do you do when the world has convinced a prince to think of himself as a beast?

IT'S MY FIRST TIME feeling jealous, and I don't quite know how to handle it.

Lorenzo glances at me, his puzzlement evident, but I can't make myself smile even when I know he hasn't done anything wrong.

He was even so adorably sweet earlier, with how he had suddenly gripped my hand when he was about to step out of the car.

'Will you really be okay being seen with me?'

That he even thought it was necessary to ask such a question made my heart ache so, so bad that all I could do was cup my husband's beautiful face as I asked him to look into my eyes.

'We're the same, Lorenzo. You and I. We were born in the same world. Bear the same wounds from our childhood. And now, you're my husband. You're the one who matters to me—-'

There were many other things I had planned to say to him at that time, but he had started kissing me already, and well, I was distracted after that, and by the time Lorenzo had allowed me to breathe, there wasn't any time to talk.

He had already helped me out of the car, and as soon as I was standing next to him, he had raised my hand to his lips, and well, I was even more distracted after that.

Because who knew, right?

I don't think anyone could have ever predicted how impossibly sweet the Beast of New York could be.

Or attractive to a bevy of college girls, for that matter.

And oh, the way they just wouldn't stop staring and giggling as Lorenzo and I walked past them—-

"This is the last time you're walking me to class," I mutter under my breath.

"I see."

Oh, I so bet he does.

Or at least that was what I was thinking until I saw the impassive expression on my husband's face and realized he was right.

I am the idiot between us, and no, oh God, no.

Lorenzo stiffens when he realizes I'm fighting back tears. But when he starts to let go of my hand, I know exactly what he's thinking, and I tighten my grip and refuse to let go.

"Don't force yourself," he grits out.

Shame makes it so hard to speak. I hate how I've needlessly hurt him. But because I also know silence is going to hurt him more—-

"You got it all wrong," I whisper jerkily in Italian. "I want this to be the last time because I'm jealous."

My husband only stares at me.

"Non vedi come tutte le altre ragazze ti stanno guardando?" Can't you see how all the other girls are staring at you?"

But still, he stares, and I start feeling nervous and desperate. Have I hurt him so that he thinks I'm lying? What can I possibly do to—- mmph!

I'm suddenly in my husband's arms, and even though there are countless other students and faculty members around us, he's kissing me so wildly and hungrily that I just know I can't ever be jealous again.

Because this kiss?

It has the words 'I'm hers' written all over it, and by the time he lets me go, I'm just a complete mess, with how my lips feel so embarrassingly swollen even as my heart starts aching in the most unbearably sweet way.

Oh, Renzo.

I just know I'll dedicate a dozen pages to writing about this in my diary later.

"You're jealous," my husband suddenly says, and in a tone so guarded that it forces what few brain cells I have left to work overtime.

"Yes," I say finally. "I am."

I'm not sure why he needs to hear me say it.

I just know he does, and the moment I give him the words, it's like having the sun shine for me alone.

Oh, my love.

My husband's lips haven't moved at all, but it's those green eyes of his that say everything he has to say, and I really do think it's true.

Whether he likes it or not—-

I think we really are starting to fall in love.