Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“You mean he’s watching us?” I ask.
She looks amused as if my question was ridiculously silly. “No, he’s not here. He simply left instructions for me to introduce myself when you next came in. Our security team noticed you. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
I glance at Imogen who is watching this encounter unfold with rampant fascination.
“No, not at all.” I indicate for her to sit down.
“It’s lovely to finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She sits down but keeps her distance. “I was hoping we could schedule a time for your wedding dress fitting.”
“Sure,” I say. Although a part of me still prays for a stay of execution.
“What about the other wedding arrangements?” Imogen asks her. “Can I help?”
“Oh, they’ve already been taken care of,” Anastacia replies, then turns to me. “When you’ve got time, I can go over them with you.”
“They’re already organized?”
Things are moving fast.
Too freaking fast.
“Of course. I started organizing things the moment Domenico told me about the…” She looks for the right word. “Arrangement.”
Something about her is decisively cool.
“Getting the botanical gardens wasn’t easy on such short notice, but when it’s for one of the most important men in the city, let’s just say the De Kysa name can make magic happen.” She opens her planner and removes a glossy pamphlet, then slides it across the table to me. “I was able to get you a fitting with Magda Bianchon for next week—”
“Magda Bianchon!” Imogen gasps. Her eyes flick to mine, excited because Magda Bianchon is the fashion world’s current it woman when it comes to wedding couture, and if you want to get your hands on one of her gowns, then booking at least a year in advance is a necessity.
“When I mentioned it was for Domenico De Kysa’s future wife, Magda was only too happy to squeeze you into her busy schedule.” She flicks her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, and I’ve arranged for Ken Winchester to design and arrange your hair on the day.”
Ken Winchester is the it boy of hair.
Magda and Ken.
I have a feeling Anastacia could run the entire planet with her planner.
“Have you given any thought to when you’ll move all of your belongings back to the States?” she asks.
Her question catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”
She glances up at the CCTV cameras nervously, then her eyes dart back to me. “It was one of the conditions in the agreement.”
Beside me, Imogen’s mouth drops open.
While I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “I’m not moving back to the US.”
Before she can stop herself, Anastacia laughs. “But of course, you are. Domenico is a very important man—”
“I don’t care if he’s Christ reborn, I’m not giving up my life in London.”
I might’ve lost my job at Ulvaeus, but I have a reputation in London. I will find a new job because I’m good at what I do.
And hell will freeze over before I give up working to be a trophy wife.
Anastacia’s cool eyes remain on mine. “Well, that is something you will have to take up with him. But surely you don’t expect to live in different countries when you’re married. Domenico would never relocate. You’ll be expected to make a life in New York with him.”
Imogen and I both stare at her with our mouths agape.
Anastasia looks uncomfortable. “But like I said, you’ll need to discuss that with him.”
“Great. Let’s get onto that.”
“Now?” she balks.
“No time like the present.”
“That’s impossible, I’m afraid. Nico is in important meetings all afternoon.”
She’s lying.
In fact, the way she keeps glancing at the CCTV cameras tells me that there’s a good chance he’s watching.
I stand. “Where is he?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nico. I know he’s here.”
Her expression falters briefly but long enough for me to know I’m right.
Catching one of the CCTV cameras in my peripheral, I lift a middle finger to it and mouth the word, “Asshole.”
I look back at Anastacia.
“Take me to him,” I demand.
“I assure you, he isn’t here.”
“My ass, he isn’t.”
“He’s not—"
“Fine, if you won’t help me, then I’ll find him myself.”
I scoot out of the booth and storm through the cocktail den looking for anything that resembles an exit, running my hand along the walnut paneling for concealed doors, and banging on the stamped tin walls, much to the confusion of the small lunch crowd. I don’t care that I look like a crazy woman.
Because I am crazy.
Crazy angry.
“Bella, please—” Anastacia calls behind me.
In my determination to confront him, I somehow manage to find the concealed doorway near the bar before security can stop me, and I push it open. It leads to a flight of stairs barely visible in the dim light, and with Anastacia and Imogen close behind me, I run up the stairs, taking two at a time like I’m an Olympic sprinter.