by Portia Moore
“Can I be excused?” Erin pipes up when her plate is clear.
“Don’t you want dessert, dear?” Gianna says kindly, but Erin just shakes her head.
“I’m really tired. I just want to go up and lie down? I have a headache.”
“Alright.” Gianna’s voice is mild. “Feel better then.”
Erin gets up and strides out, and it’s all I can do not to follow her. I can’t believe my little sister is so angry with me, but in a way, I can understand how it looks from her perspective. I just wish I could tell her the truth.
As soon as dinner and dessert are over—I just picked at the fruit and cheese plate that was passed around for dessert, while Vincent gave me a side-eye that clearly said he was getting more and more pissed by the minute—I make a beeline for the stairs. Halfway up, I hear Vincent’s voice behind me.
“Poppy!”
Slowly, my heart sinking in my chest, I turn around.
“Yes?” I struggle to keep my voice even.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs?” I hear the high-pitched sound my voice makes as it trails off into a question, and I hate it. I feel so uncertain, so childish around Vincent. I was never the most confident girl, but I at least felt like my own person before him when I lived with Mallory and Dena. Sure, we were broke a lot of the time, and I had a shitty job, but I also got to have a personality that wasn’t tied to whatever my boyfriend—now fiancé—wanted.
“Upstairs where?” Vincent’s voice takes on a dangerous edge.
“I’m going to go talk to Erin,” I reply, with more confidence than I feel. “She’s upset, and—”
“I know exactly how upset she is,” Vincent says coolly. “I heard about what happened today. We’ll both go and talk to her. You need to be mindful of who you are, and that’s my fiancée. I can’t have you fighting with your little sister in my family’s home like bickering children. I expect more from you than that!”
I want to scream. I’m so tired of being this perfect little doll who has to smile and do everything he says. I swallow my frustration and mutter a yes.
“Come on.” Vincent’s lips thin into a line, and he barges up the stairs. “We’re going to talk to Erin.”
My heart is in my throat. I don’t even know why he wants to talk to Erin with me. It’s a conversation I can handle by myself, but with how Erin’s been acting, maybe she’ll be more willing to listen to Vincent.
He knocks firmly on the door. “Erin?”
“I’m tired.” Her voice, pouting and clearly upset, comes from inside.
“We need to talk, Erin, now. I’m coming in.”
“I don’t—”
Vincent opens the door, striding into the room in a way that I’m very accustomed to, a way that tells me clearly that he’s very angry with her. “Erin, I heard about what happened today.”
She sits up with a disgusted expression on her face. “What, that Rain and Sonya treated me like a baby? Like I’m not old enough to talk to a guy?”
“I’m going to be very clear about this,” Vincent says sharply. “That man who approached you in the café wasn’t interested in you, Erin, as hard as I’m sure that is for a pretty girl like you to hear. He’s from a family who dislikes my family very much, and I question his motives. I can’t have questionable people around, do you understand?.”
“You think I’m pretty?” Erin’s expression changes and I feel that knot in my stomach again.
“You’re as beautiful as your sister,” Vincent says smoothly. It makes my heart turn over in my chest because I remember when I would have been so happy to hear that; when I would have felt so loved and cherished to hear him call me beautiful. Now it just feels like a threat.
“But that’s not what’s important right now,” he continues. “I know you’re at the age where you want to meet boys, and go on dates, and start to be your own person. And that’s all very understandable. If it had been anyone else, I would have been happy for you. But I need you to trust me when I tell you that he is someone that can not be trusted. And it’s a good lesson for you, to know that not everyone in the world has your best interests at heart when they meet you. Not everyone truly wants to know you for who you are. And you should be picky with who you give your time and affections to.”
“So what? I’m stupid for wanting to talk to him?”
“No,” Vincent says smoothly. “You’re not stupid. You’re a girl who met a handsome guy and liked his attention, and there’s nothing foolish or wrong about that. And you couldn’t have known who he was.”
“Are you telling me I can’t talk to him?” There’s a rebellious glint in Erin’s eye, and I can tell she wants to fight him on this.
“If I tell you not to do something, it’s going to make you want to do it more,” Vincent says, his tone fatherly. It makes my stomach clench because he certainly doesn’t have a problem with telling me what to do, and he hasn’t seemed to care very much lately what I want to do, either. “But I am asking you, Erin, to not speak to him again. His family doesn’t like my family—and you and Poppy are my family now, too. You wouldn’t want your sister hurt, right? Or me, after all I’ve done for you both?”
Erin looks hesitant. “N—no.” She frowns. “I don’t want anyone hurt.”
“Then you should not speak to him again,” Vincent says firmly. “Look, before we go back to New York, I’ll take you and Poppy to Rome. There are clubs there where you can meet boys, and dance, and have a good time. And I’m sure that you’ll be noticed at Poppy’s birthday party. There’s plenty of opportunities for you to have fun here. Just not with him,” he finishes sternly.
I can see her relenting in front of my eyes. I don’t even know how to feel—my stomach is in knots with disappointment because she screamed at me when I tried to talk to her. Yet, after a few minutes of chatting with Vincent and she’s acting like she understands.
Not to mention the fact that seeing Vincent like this makes me question him all over again. I’d expected screaming and threats, but instead, he’s been calm and reasonable. He’s behaved like a big brother, an uncle, or dare I say it—even a father. It makes me catch a glimpse of what he might be like with our own teenagers one day. As much as the idea of having babies with him makes me want to scream, it also tugs at that little part of me that still loves him, that wants what we were supposed to have together.
“We’ll make sure you have a beautiful dress for the party,” he continues. “And you and Poppy can go on another shopping trip before we leave Italy. So many guys will want to talk to you this Friday night at Poppy’s birthday. You won’t even think about Matteo.”
I feel a flicker of jealousy despite myself. I don’t want to be jealous of my little sister—hell, I don’t even want this stupid extravagant party, but it’s supposed to be my party. And I don’t want to spend it playing second fiddle to my spoiled sister, who hasn’t spoken a single word to me since we’ve been in this room. Not since we fought.
It makes me so achingly sad. I love Erin more than anything in the world. All I ever wanted was to take care of her. And she doesn’t see any of that. All she sees is that Vincent wants to spoil her, and I’m trying to mother her while ours is taking care of our dad.
I should appreciate him for handling the situation, but at the same time, I can’t help but remember that before he knew who it was, he just wanted to ignore it. He wanted to leave her alone and let her sulk, and he only had this conversation with her because it benefits him.
Vincent is only kind or understanding when it serves him. That’s a lesson I’ve already learned, and one that I shouldn’t forget.
“I don’t want her to be spoiled,” I say hesitantly when we step back out into the hall. Erin still didn’t say anything to me other than good night, and my heart aches. I feel so lonely here, like I’m the only one who sees Vincent for who he really is. “She’s already too attached to all these expensive things, and I feel like—”
“Enough.” Vin
cent’s voice is sharp, the complete opposite of how he was with Erin. “I talked to her. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I want her to understand—”
“She understands to stay away from him.”
I feel so frustrated that I want to scream or cry, but none of that will help me. It’ll only make it worse. “I want her to understand that all of this—the attention from guys and the designer clothes and all of that isn’t important. That she has other things to worry about right now like school—”
“Oh, Poppy. Always so worried about school.” Vincent smiles tightly. “Maybe if you stopped trying to tell Erin what to do all of the time, she wouldn’t resent you so much.”
“She—”
“She resents you,” he says, almost cheerfully. “And she appreciates me, because I let her enjoy the finer things in life. Just like I did for you, Poppy.” His tone drops, darkening. “And now you’re the one behaving like an ungrateful brat, complaining about everything and always wanting more, more, more. So tell me, should I spoil Erin, who appreciates it all, or you, who always has something negative to say?”
I can feel my heart sinking. “I’m sorry, Vincent, I just—”
“You’re always sorry. You need to do better, Poppy. I thought you wanted me to take care of your family?”
“Yes, of course.” When I asked him to help my family, I want to say that I meant things like rent and food and medical care, not expensive trips and flashy clothing. But I know it doesn’t matter what I say. Vincent won’t hear anything other than me being ungrateful unless I praise him for what he’s doing.
I remember Sonya this afternoon telling me Vincent won’t listen to anything you say unless it’s praise or complaints. And I’m sure you know which he likes better.
She was right, of course. And I hate that. I hate it as much as I hate Vincent spoiling my sister, as much as I hate the way he talks to me, as much as I hate the fact that he’s fucking more women than I even know and not even behind my back, just demanding that I be okay with it. I feel angry and hateful and resentful as we walk back towards our bedroom, and I hate that too because I don’t want to be that person. I never did. Vincent has turned me into someone else, and I wish more than anything that I could turn back time and run away from him in that shop, take my fine or whatever the fuck would have happened to me for stealing—hell, I would have taken jail time over this. At least I’d get out of jail.
I don’t know how I’m ever going to get out of this.
As soon as we’re in the bedroom, Vincent’s hands are on me. The window is open, the night breeze shifting the heavy drapes, and it smells like sun-warmed grass and the sweet earthiness of the vineyards. It should be desperately romantic, beautiful, I should want him. This should be part of our love story, the time we spent together on his family estate in Italy before our wedding. This is something out of a fairytale, like everything with Vincent has been on the outside.
But it’s actually a nightmare. I don’t want him right now—I’m upset and conflicted and angry, but if I tell him no, it’ll only make things worse. He’ll just be angry then, and it’s better when he’s happy and satisfied. This will make him happy and satisfied.
It’s almost impossible to make myself react, even as he pulls down the zipper of the sunflower-yellow dress I wore to dinner, letting the light, silky material drift off of me like a breeze. I have to tell myself what to do, to lean back against him, to tilt my head against his shoulder as his hands go around to cup my small breasts, teasing them through the lace of the bra that I’m wearing. One hand slides down my flat stomach into the matching panties, and I know I’m supposed to gasp with pleasure when his fingers slide over my clit, rubbing in slow circles as he sucks my earlobe between his teeth.
“You’re not wet,” he murmurs into my ear. “Why aren’t you wet for me, my sweet Poppy?”
My heart thumps in my chest. “I—just stress, I think, it’s been a long day.”
“I think it’s because you’re ungrateful,” he whispers in that same husky voice. “You’re so worried about everything except me, your future husband. So worried about your sister, and your family, and your friends. So worried about all of the things that don’t matter, instead of the only thing that does, pleasing me.”
The last thing that’s going to get me wet is you talking about my sister, I want to snap, but I don’t. I just arch my hips forward into his hand, but I don’t know what to do. If I fake it and he sees through it, then I’m lying, and that will set him off. But my not being turned on might do the same thing.
Vincent wraps his hand in my hair, firm enough that it’s a warning. “Get on your knees, and show me how much you appreciate everything I do.”
He pushes me down onto the hardwood floor, and I wince, but I know better than to complain. His hand stays fisted in my hair as he undoes the fly of his trousers, pulling out his cock. He’s already hard—treating me this way turns him on; I know that by now. He didn’t need this. He just wants to humiliate me, to remind me that he can do whatever he wants, and I have to fight back the tears as I lean forward and take him in my mouth.
There’s nothing romantic about this. I force myself to perform well, licking and sucking him the way I know he likes, feeling his hand tighten in my hair as he groans above me. “You apologize so well, Poppy. Keep sucking—yes, just like that. Let me know how sorry you are.” His hips thrust forward, choking me with how thick and long he is, and it’s all I can do not to gag.
“I could come in your mouth, Poppy. But I think I want more than that tonight.” He pulls himself free, dragging me up to my feet. With a swift motion, he tosses me on my stomach across the bed, kicking at my ankle to push my legs open. He jerks my panties down, and I can hear the sound of him stroking himself as he reaches between my legs with the other hand. “Still dry. Well, you got me wet enough. It’s not my fault if you don’t want to enjoy yourself.”
I bite the blanket when he thrusts into me hard, and Vincent seems to take the muffled sound as a moan. “You like that, Poppy? You like taking my thick—” he thrusts again, harder, “hard—” another, slamming against me so that it pushes me a few inches across the mattress, “—cock?”
“Yes,” I moan, knowing that’s what he wants to hear. “Yes, Vincent, I want it.”
“Good.” I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “Make me believe it, Poppy.”
“It feels so good, yes—please, Vincent, I want more—” I let the words flow out, moaning them in my best imitation of someone actually enjoying herself.
“Well. Maybe you’ve made me believe you really are sorry.” He pulls out, climbing onto the bed and picking me up, rolling me onto my back so that I’m laying back against the soft down pillows. “We’re in Italy, after all, Poppy. The land of romance and love. Romeo and Juliet. Are you my Juliet?” He kisses me softly this time, his hand sliding between my legs as he starts to play with my clit again.
And there it is, the whiplash. The change from rough and demanding to sweet and gentle. He kisses my mouth, my neck, my breasts, not moving to shove his heavy erection inside of me again as he rubs my clit, caressing me and making my body respond despite myself. I want to be angry, to keep resisting, but Vincent knows what I like and how to use it against me.
When he slides inside of me again, the moans are real. I don’t want to want him, but it feels good, and I can feel the tug of it, the urge to let myself enjoy the pleasure and forget all my misery and conflicting emotions for a little while. I can feel the orgasm tightening deep in my stomach, the pleasure flowing over my skin and electrifying it with each slow thrust, and I see Vincent’s face soften so that he’s not my cruel fiancé, a handsome man, one of the most handsome I’ve ever seen, dark and muscular and inside of me, making love to me in Italy, and what else could I ask for?
Love. When I close my eyes, though, it’s not him I see. It’s the man in another bedroom somewhere in this house, the man who I used to know as a boy, the one I gave
my virginity to. I’m not in a warm, sweet-smelling room in Italy anymore in an expensive four-poster bed, but in my little twin back in Indiana, the scent of the summer coming in through the window and filling the humid room, my body slick with sweat as I looked up at the only boy I thought I’d ever love.
Sometimes, I think he still is the only one I’ve ever loved. I thought I loved Vincent—but now I know better.
The orgasm hits me out of nowhere, twisting my body under Vincent’s, making me throw my head back and cry out as I arch upwards, and it’s all I can do not to cry out Zach’s name—not to start crying, then and there. Because it’s not Vincent I want inside of me, and it’s not his hands I want on me, and it’s not him I want kissing me. I want to go back to all those years ago and go after Zach, to tell him I didn’t care what he did, that I didn’t care about whatever future he’d decided I should have. That all I wanted was to be with him and have whatever life we made for ourselves.
But it’s too late for that. Vincent’s groan as he comes brings me back to reality. My stomach twists with a sick wave of nausea as I remember where I am, who I’m with, and I feel him thrusting hard inside of me, his hips jerking, and I wish I were anywhere else.
I feel trapped, confused, and like I would do almost anything to escape.
The problem is, there’s no good way out.
26
Rain
It’s my birthday party, but I’m miserable.
Erin has still been cold to me for the rest of the week, avoiding me mostly in the house and staying in her room more often than not. Ezio convinced her to go with me on a horseback ride through the vineyards, which was fun and beautiful. Despite being on a gorgeous horse riding through the Italian countryside in the sunshine, Erin sulked the whole way. All I could think about was the upcoming party, Zach, and everything else that has gone so incredibly fucking wrong in my life.
