Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Dare I ask what you think?” I inquire.
“You could,” Father says, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”
I grit my teeth and almost curse at him. I’ve always hated the way he looks down on people, mainly because he was once poor, even poorer than Elena. He once said I had the luxury of being courteous to those beneath me because I was born into money. I’m still not sure what he meant by that.
After they’re gone, I return to the dining room to find Elena sitting with her head in her hands. I pause in the doorway. She doesn’t realize I’m back.
“Stupid, stupid,” she mutters.
I clear my throat, taking a step forward.
“That wasn’t good, was it?” she says while looking up at me, her hair tousled around her shoulders. The strange urge to run my hand through it strikes me.
I should tell her the truth: No, that was terrible. They’re suspicious already. However, something about the panic on her face stops me.
“They’re always like that,” I tell her.
“Was I supposed to memorize every obscure fancy-pants reference?”
I chuckle. It feels good, but then I kill it. It seems wrong to squelch such a slight reaction, but it’s necessary.
“What’s so funny?” she snaps.
“I don’t think anyone in this house has ever used the term fancy pants before.”
“Well, that’s what you all are,” she shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Something tells me you only said that because I’m paying you.”
“Isn’t that what this whole thing is, anyway?” she sighs. “I’ll try to be better tomorrow.”
I might tell her she’s right if I was in Prince Moretti mode. I might explain that her money, therefore her fate, depends on her being better. I try to force myself to say it, to summon the cruelty to be cold, blunt, brutal—what I need to be to sell this lie. The truth is, that was a terrible performance.
Yet I can’t say any of that. Instead, I take my seat at the table. “Don’t worry about it. There’s always tomorrow, like you said. Plus, my father’s busy with a business deal. I’m sure he was hardly paying attention.”
“He will, though, the more time we spend together.”
I nod. “Yes, he will.”
“So I’ll try to be better,” she says with determination. “An actor has to take every role seriously. Even if she disagrees with it, even if she thinks the lies are crap, she has to sell them. That’s her duty.”
“You sound like you’re going to do a great job.”
“What about you?” she murmurs.
“What about me?”
“Are you …” She hesitates. “Busy? Up to much? How’s life treating you?”
A smirk almost touches my lips, but old habits force me to bury it. I’ve kept my emotions at bay since I was a boy. After a while, pretending I don’t have any becomes possible.
“You don’t want to know what I’m doing,” I tell her, “and I’m not one for small talk.”
She winces. Again, that absurd guilt touches me. I’ve already paid her more than most people make in half a year, and she has ten times that coming. All for a few weeks of a sham marriage and a divorce, but I can’t deny it. It’s there.
She pushes away from the table, the chair making a screeching noise. I wonder if this is her way of telling me she’s pissed without coming outright and saying it. “May I be excused?”
“I’m not your boss.”
“Well, you’re paying me, making you my boss.”
I feel my manhood twitch. I ignore it or do my best to, anyway. I can get away with a sham marriage if it’s over in a few weeks, especially if it’s over before my father’s land grab concludes. There’s no way the Moretti Family would ever allow their prince to be with a poor woman from the wrong side of the tracks long-term.
“Then yeah,” I grunt, trying to be cool, “you can be excused.”
She stands, causing the material of her dress to shift. The cut shows a generous helping of her thick, shapely thighs. I bite down, purposefully staring straight ahead as she leaves the room. Otherwise, I’ll turn to get a greedy look at her ass.
There’s something about her.
I massage my forehead, trying to force that thought out of my brain. It sadly doesn’t help any.
CHAPTER THREE
ELENA
We have brunch on the back porch. The grated fires are lit since autumn is coming in. My eyes ache from spending hours last night scouring the internet. I searched “how to seem upper class” and “Italian classic films, paintings, books.” I’m doing my best to absorb as much information as possible. I need to sell Elena Esposito.
Platters sit on the table: assorted meats, cheeses, marinated vegetables. Mr. Moretti Senior, Salvatore, couldn’t make it. That’s a relief because he stared me down yesterday like he could see right through me. Mrs. Moretti, Maria, watches me, too, but not with as much judgment.