Coincidence

"I HATE HIM, I HATE him, I hate him."

It's eleven in the evening, and I've successfully imposed myself on my only friend.

"I mean it, Maryse. I hate him—-"

The other woman only rolls her eyes at my passionate claim. "Do you want some tea?"

"Maryse!"

But my friend only raises a brow. "Yes or no?"

"No!"

And it's not because hot drinks remind me of my unhappy childhood.

Honest!

We pass by the kids' bedroom on the way, and my irritation temporarily subsides as I watch Maryse place a kiss on baby Ingrid's cheeks and ruffle Tom Jr.'s hair. It still feels surreal every time I'm confronted with the reality that Maryse is now both a wife and a mother, and a damn good one at that.

The night nurse closes the door behind us, and Maryse's gaze turns mischievous when she looks at me.

"What?" I ask warily.

"One day it will be your turn—-"

"Ugh."

" And then I'll be the one to tease you about being a barefoot contessa."

"Over my dead fucking body!"

And so we end up bickering back and forth just like how Cat and I ended up agreeing to disagree earlier this day. What is it about Giancarlo Marchetti that always puts me at odds with my friends?

"You just don't understand," I say angrily as I stomp past her to open the door to their second-floor music room.

But Maryse only nods while pouring herself a cup of tea.

"You're not even taking me seriously—-"

"Because you haven't yet said anything worth taking seriously."

Grr .

Has she forgotten she's supposed to play the role of my unpaid armchair therapist? She's supposed to agree with whatever I say, dammit!

"You don't hate him, Sari. You never did. And what I don't get is why you insist on lying to yourself about this all the time."

I throw myself on Maryse's leather couch, which isn't just massive but proves to be massively comfortable, too.

You always take his side," I grouch. "But if you knew the real him—- "

"I know the real you , though—-"

"He's just so smug, " I go on ranting since what Maryse just said is absolutely irrelevant.

"And conceited —-"

"While you, on the other hand, have not a single proud bone in your body? Is that it?"

"You're missing the point!"

This is about Giancarlo, not me!

"Okay, fine," Maryse concedes. "Maybe I am missing the point. So enlighten me. Why do you hate him?"

"Because!"

"You'd have to do better with that."

Her lips twitch as she says this, and I bite back a groan.

Why does no one take me seriously when it comes to Giancarlo?

Why?

I throw my arm over my eyes and close them for good measure, but it's no use. I still see him behind my lids, and I hate it. I hate him! But most of all, I hate how I've been feeling so strangely self-conscious around Giancarlo every time I'm in the same room as him.

Why, dammit?

Why is everything so fucking weird when I didn't even used to mind hearing other girls talk about him like he's the juiciest piece of steak?

"Everything's suddenly changed," I hear myself mutter, "and it's all his fault. Things were never awkward—-"

"Changes like that don't happen overnight."

My eyes fly open at her words, and I'm already shaking my head in protest as I shoot up to a sitting position. "I've been his fiancée for years, but I never —-"

"You were abducted . And almost raped ."

Why is she bringing that up all of a sudden?

"There are so many studies that show how women who haven't been able to heal and overcome their trauma end up falling for men who are no different from their rapists. But you..." Maryse eyes me over the rim of her teacup as she takes a sip. "You're one of the luckier ones, and I hope you know that." She lowers the cup back on its saucer before settling back in her armchair as she tucks her legs under her. "The Marchettis gave you the chance to heal at your own pace. You became yourself again without even realizing it."

What the hell is she talking about?

"I've always been me—-"

"But for a time, didn't you just see yourself as that girl who was almost raped?"

Yes.

"But that's no longer the case, isn't it?" Maryse presses.

Yes.

"It hasn't been so for a long time."

Yes.

Every word she's said is true. I just don't get why I never realized—-

"But you only realized you're you again when Giancarlo forced you to see the truth—-"

No. No. No.

Everything in me recoils from the case Maryse's trying to make.

"You're no different from the other girls now, Sari."

The fuck I'm not!

"You feel the same things other girls your age do. The idea of sex may have seemed distasteful and scary to you before, but that's no longer true, is it? You probably imagined you'll never fall in love or experience attraction even, but Giancarlo—-"

"What if it's not him?" The desperation in my tone makes me cringe internally, but all I want, all I need is to prove her wrong. "It's possible, right? That maybe I did heal, but it doesn't mean he has anything to do—-"

"Oh, Sari."

I hate, hate, hate when she says my name like I'm about to be schooled.

"There's no such thing as coincidence. The outside world may still believe it's so, but you and I are famiglia. We know better."

And that's exactly what ends up happening.

" is not real. And so it was no accident that Giancarlo was the man who saved you. It was no accident that he brought you to La Torre. And it's no accident still that he's the one who now leaves you breathless—-"

"Maybe...maybe I have asthma! Ever thought about that?"

"Or maybe you're simply grasping straws now—- " Maryse fires back without missing a beat, "since you're too chicken to face the truth?"

Did I really just hear what she said?

Me?

A fucking chicken?

Me?

"I—-you—-"

"—-need to grow up and face the facts."

Oh, shit.

It's the Angel of Death talking now, and just like that, all I can do is listen—-

"Other women have had to spend the rest of their days trapped in their nightmares. Their lives are nothing but an endless cycle of pain and abuse. But you're different. You're healed. So stop acting like an ungrateful wimp and start living."

Because everything she says is true like always.

"You're healed, Sarica. And that's why your heart has been able to figure out what your stubborn mind refuses to admit."

Which is what?

"Your heart wants someone who's the opposite of those who have tried to hurt you. And I'm not just talking about the Martinos. I'm also talking about your own father and everyone else who's failed you. Your heart wants someone who's not and will never be like them. Someone who's honorable. Someone who's capable of feeling empathy and remorse. Someone who doesn't mind showing his faults and vulnerability—-"

I look at her blankly. "Are you saying my heart wants a man who's soft?"

Maryse looks like she's dying to be her old mercenary self again, just so she can squeeze the life out of me.

A budding amateur armchair therapist, she definitely isn't, but since I'm too proud to ask for counseling even though I know the Marchettis would be more than happy to pay for it—-

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm not trying to be a smartass or anything. I just don't really get—-"

"Your heart wants someone you can trust," Maryse spells out.

Oh.

"So tell me. Who do you think that is?"