10. Chloe

CHAPTER 10

CHLOE

W hen I wake up, Paul is gone.

I feel a pang inside my chest, wondering if the honeymoon of this strange relationship is over already. If it is, at least I enjoyed it while it lasted.

As far as arranged marriages go, I could definitely have done worse.

I decide I should make the most of sleeping in such a plush and comfortable bed and snuggle back in, closing my eyes and letting sleepiness overcome me. The pillows smell like Paul, and I breathe him in deeply, already missing his musk, the feeling of his firm body against mine.

But three seconds after I decide to drift back to sleep, the bedroom door opens and Paul enters with two mugs.

“Coffee?” he asks. “I’m sorry, I don’t know how you take it, so I just assumed cream and sugar.”

“That’s perfect. I like it sweet.”

“Just like you,” he grins.

I shake my head. “You really don’t have to flirt with me like that, you know.”

“Why?” He rounds the bed to place one mug on my bedside table, then crosses back to place the other on his side, where he crawls into bed, snuggles up beside me, and squeezes me tight. Gently, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of my neck, like he’s trying to breathe me in. “I know this is only going to last for so long. That means I have to make the most of it now.”

“You make me feel something so strange,” I whisper to him, curling into him.

“It had better be a good strange,” he says with a grin.

He leans in to kiss me, and I smile. “Oh, yes,” I say, letting my fingers trace their way down his toned chest, bumping over his defined abs. “It’s a very good strange.”

With that he takes hold of my shoulders and presses me back into the bed, kissing my neck, my shoulder. I let out a yelp of surprise and giggle as I give myself over to his attack.

“Your lips feel so damn good,” I groan.

“I think they’d feel better somewhere else.” He flashes me that wicked look of his, then starts snaking a trail of kisses down my body.

All I can do is moan helplessly, electric current surging through my limbs, making my hips buck at even the lightest touch. And then his mouth hits my wet sex, and my eyes roll back in my head. “Don’t you dare stop,” I hiss, and instead of words he just doubles down.

It feels like we spend hours like that, relishing each other’s pleasure, holding one another, exploring our bodies, seeing what happens if they collide together. I have no idea how many times I come, but eventually my stomach lets me know that all this physical activity is making me hungry.

“Is that your way of telling me you want breakfast?” says Paul, cuddling into me.

“Isn’t it more like lunch now?” I giggle.

“That’s just semantics.”

He starts kissing my neck again, and I let out a happy sigh. “Oh, don’t start that again. If you start kissing me there, we’re never going to get out of this bed.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

“No,” I say shuffling to face him. “But I am hungry. And I could do with a shower.”

“Then both of those things you will have,” he grins.

He wraps me tightly in his arms once more, then releases me so we can get up. Reluctantly, I peel myself out of bed and pad off to the shower. As I enter, I marvel at the size of the bathroom. It took me aback last night, and it’s not losing its impact today.

I’m not surprised at all to find the water pressure in the shower better than perfect. Looking down at my body, I can see the evidence of our lovemaking — red marks from teeth and lips, scattered remains of sublime pleasure.

By the time I emerge again and head into the kitchen, Paul has whipped up a breakfast like I’ve never seen before. “This isn’t exactly traditional Bellamari fare,” he says sadly. “It’s hard to get all the stuff in the US. But it’s the closest I could do.”

There are pastries and toast, fruits that I can barely name, all laid out in a huge spread. “Wow. Thank you. You didn’t have to do all this for me.”

He crosses the room to wrap his arms around my waist, and pulls me into his chest. “How many times do I have to remind you? You’re my wife. That means it’s my job to do nice things.”

“Well, this is a very nice thing.” I rest against his chest for a moment, then realize he’s wearing a button-up shirt. “Wait a second. You look like you’re about to go out.”

He looks at me apologetically, his face falling. “Unfortunately, I just got some bad news from home. I have to leave this afternoon. But I’ve left the spare key for you on the table, so please feel free to stay here as long as you like.”

“You’re leaving?” I stammer, taking a step back from him.

“I have to,” he says, then rummages in his pocket and produces a small rectangle of paper. “The check, as promised.”

He presses a hundred thousand dollars into my hands and kisses me on the forehead. “I’m sorry to have to go like this. Call me later if you like.”

“Sure…” I say, dumbfounded.

He kisses me once more, then, without even looking back, he marches away to the door, pulls on his shoes, and leaves.

I stare down at the paper in my hand.

All I can do now is let out a sob.

Then I slump down at the table and bury my face in my hands. I’m not sure how long I sit there for, letting the turbulence of emotions out until I have no tears left to cry.

And then I get up again.

I should probably go home. I collect up as much of the breakfast as I can manage into a bag, then rush down to the first floor, back to the ground, where there are noisy cars and the atmosphere wavers in the heat.

I’m about half a block along the street when I decide to flag down a taxi. It would be good to let someone else drive me home. And it’s not like I can’t afford it now.

Mom’s on the phone when I get back, and I can’t pretend I’m not relieved. Later, no doubt, she’ll ask me about the ceremony. She knew it was today, and it took absolutely everything in me to stop her from showing up. Eventually she accepted that she really didn’t need to come because this wasn’t a proper wedding and would hardly count as one, and that Paul was a real, non-murderous guy.

I did have to promise her that I would let her plan my real wedding, but that’s not something I can see happening for a long time yet.

As I dump the bag on the floor, I wave at her, gesturing at the breakfast that I’m putting out on the counter.

Then I vanish away to my room so I can lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. All that’s left is a sense of hollowness. A complete numb emptiness.

Paul is gone.

He’s gone. He got what he wanted, and despite all the pretty words, I have the sickening feeling I’m never going to see him again.

How have I gotten so attached in just a few short days?

How could I have let myself believe that this man cared about me?

But that’s the thing. I do believe it. Nothing he said to me gave me the impression that he was being insincere. Maybe he’s away at home now laughing, thinking about how stupid I was to fall for all his promises, how shallow I was to accept his proposal.

If I’m being realistic, I’m probably never going to hear from him again.

But he gave me what I wanted too. With this, my dream is going to come true.

So why does it feel like it’s come at a cost?