Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 96514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96514 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“You can do this, Alex. Aiden needs you.”
A part of me died with Aiden and, along with it, every shred of my humanity. To play a game with monsters, I had to become one. And if the Salvatores wanted to trap me in their mansion, I would be their worst nightmare.
“Did you mean what you said about having a choice?”
He folded his hands on his lap, thinking over my question with a perplexed expression on his face, then nodded.
“So the deal with Arlo wasn’t to marry Luca?”
“It was to marry a Salvatore and produce an heir.”
I thought about Marcello and wondered if my life would have been different with him. He was about as soft as a turtle’s shell, but he wasn’t as mean as Luca.
“Does Luca know this?”
He rolled his shoulders against the couch. “His father automatically assumed his first-born son would marry a Wellington. But there’s nothing that says you have to marry Luca.”
A wave of heat rushed over me as I considered my options. I only had two since Bastian and Damian were not Salvatores by blood.
I thought of the clothes Luca had sent me every morning for four summers in a row. Like clockwork, his assistant delivered a package to my door. I didn’t like him choosing my clothes, but he had good taste, and it was a nice thought. So unlike him. That was the problem with our relationship. I waited around for the scraps when I wanted all of him. No matter how much I pushed, I never got more.
And Marcello… Just as gorgeous as his brother with even more muscle. He comforted me this morning, held me in his arms until I stopped shaking from my nightmares. I didn’t know enough about him to make a clear decision whether he would be a better husband than Luca. But with how horribly Luca had treated me over the years, it wouldn’t be hard to do.
I fanned myself with my hand and shot up from the couch. “I need fresh air before dinner.”
Pops nodded. “Take your time.”
I left the sitting room, power-walked down the hallway, and flung open the front door. A girl on a mission, I slipped off my shoes, walking along the grass with my shoes in hand. I considered sitting at the edge of the cliff to think over my grandfather’s proposition.
Would Arlo really let me have a choice?
I never thought I had one, which eliminated all thoughts of ever being with another man. Confused, I moved toward the entrance gate, needing an escape from the confines of my life. I had a few hours of freedom until Marcello would be back to collect me.
I tugged on the iron bars, which didn’t budge. No surprise there because I needed the access code to open the gate. Marcello stole my phone so calling Pops for help was out of the question. I shoved my heels through the slats in the fence, committed to my mission. The guard on duty tonight was about to get one hell of a show.
My inner Spider-Man senses awakened as I gripped the metal bars and found my groove, scaling the tall fence like a superhero. Sharp bits of iron poked my palms, the pain so intense I almost let go. But I was glad I persisted, pride swelling in my chest when I reached the top. I slung my leg over the fence and mounted the brick post with my thighs spread, and my dress hiked up to my waist. As I stared down at the pavement, a wave of nausea swept over me. I drew in a few deep breaths to still my pounding heart.
I hated heights.
What was I thinking?
It was at least a twenty-foot drop.
A set of headlights flashed in my eyes, and I shielded my face with my forearm, waiting for the car to pass. No such luck. Marcello parked his black Maserati Ghibli in front of the gate and popped his head out of the driver’s side window.
He shook his head, seething with anger. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
On the night of my first art exhibition, I wore a sleek black camisole dress with a slit up to my left thigh. I paired it with black Valentino pumps that brought me to Aiden’s shoulder. He was an entire foot taller than me, towering over me at six foot three inches.
Aiden stood at my side, dressed in a navy blue suit and brown wingtips, armed with a smile that could damage the hearts of women across the city. He hooked his arm through mine and led me around the gallery, wiping my sweaty palms down the front of his suit jacket to still my nerves.
Everyone stared at us—the Wellington twins—artists who had made names for themselves at such a young age. Thanks to an article about my work in The New Yorker, we were the talk of the town.