Sold to Mr. Giordano

Arielle

When we get home from shopping it’s dark. Bags full the foyer and I hate to admit that I had more fun than I thought I would. I don’t pick myself for a materialistic girl, but every item I bought gave me temporary happiness and also gave me excitement to try on all the new outfits, shoes and makeup Arabella made me buy. She has a wonderful sense of style. Arabella enjoyed shopping for me because while she is an ‘autumn’ I am a ‘spring,’ she knew of a bunch of clothes that she always wanted to buy for herself but didn’t because it wasn’t her ‘coloring.’

I am disappointed that Antonio still isn’t back and wonder if maybe he is on long, busy, dangerous missions, or is he just at his office ignoring and keeping as much distance as possible from me. Maybe it is better this way, if he was home right now I would be even more upset because he’d be ignoring me. I would feel awkward in my home. At least while he’s gone this penthouse actually feels like mine.

I take advantage of my alone time by putting on my fluffiest robe and curling on the couch with Antonio’s laptop. The first thing I do is order my own, then I check out online classes and when registration begins. The spring semester was starting soon so I opt to sign up for summer classes. Excited, I start my application right away and make a mental note to request transcripts from my high school by calling tomorrow morning.

In just a few month I could be beginning my journey as an Art History major!

The elevator door dings and I quickly shut my laptop knowing it must be Antonio. No way was I going to have him sneak a peek over my shoulder and tell me no. This was going to be my little secret.

Unless the checks the credit card and sees where his money is going. He wouldn’t do that though, he couldn’t possibly be worried about where his money is going—I mean he’s loaded.

I turn around to see Antonio setting his keys down in the basket in the foyer and then loosen his tie. I swear I can see tiny splotches of blood on his white button up shirt. He doesn’t look in my direction, nor does he utter a single word.

“How was work?” I make the first move.

“Nothing you should be concerned with,” he says coldly.

“Just trying to make conversation,” I set the laptop on the side table and stand up from the couch. I straighten my robe trying to look a little less disheveled and clear my throat. “Are you hungry? I can heat you up something.”

“Can you stop?” He says angrily.

“Stop what?” I jerk my head back.

“Stop pretending like you care. It’s late, go to bed. I’ll heat something up myself if I’m hungry,” he storms into the kitchen in a huff.

“I’m not pretending that I care,” I follow behind him. “You’re my husband—”

“That’s all I am. It is a legal union. Not a companionship.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Antonio,” I nearly cry but I won’t dare give him that satisfaction.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“It does because love is weakness and I will not be a foolish someone who allows their feelings to blind judgment.”

“So we can’t talk at all? Can’t look at each other? Can’t touch each other?”

He chuckles, “No, we can touch. How else will you provide a son for me one day? If I have needs, I will come to you.”

“If I don’t want to satisfy those needs?” I cross my arms.

He rolls his eyes annoyed. “Then I’ll do as all Made Men before me have done and still do—take a mistress.”

“You will not!” I shout and stomp my leg infuriated.

“Don’t tell me you are jealous, sweetheart,” he mocks. “I thought you would be overjoyed to hear that you now have an option in the matter of our sex life—at least for now. Taking a mistress would mean we won’t have to have sex. It’s not like you even wanted to give it up on our wedding night. It was just manipulation, right?”

“No, it wasn’t just that. I did it for myself and I thought maybe I could help Arabella out because she is my only true friend in this life! I know what a mistress means and It means you would be cheating on me!”

“Why must you make things so damn difficult?” Antonio growls. He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks as though he has a headache. The man looks positively exhausted with dark bags under his eyes. He turns away from me to rummage in the fridge muttering and cursing to himself.

I want to reach out and make him look at me and make him listen to me. I want back the glimpse of an almost wonderful husband I could’ve had. Whoever Antonio was the night of our wedding was someone I could grow to love and see as a companion—he was much better than this man in front of him. Antonio is reserved and distance keeping me at arm’s length and risking ruining everything by bringing up him having mistresses. I’m not naive to believe it doesn’t happen—I’m sure my father himself had many, but I never want to be that woman.

 I’ve seen those woman at parties, everyone knows their husband cheats and we all pity her. She keeps smiling pretending everything is okay as she stands faithful at her unfaithful husband’s side. I will not be the woman at the party to pity. I want to be the strong Capo’s wife that women envy and men want to be with.

“I’m not the one being difficult! You’re the stubborn one! You can’t even be friends with your wife! I’m not asking you to be in love with me—just asking you to not ignore me.”

“I do not have friends,” his baritone voice chilling me to the bone.

“It isn’t the worst thing in the world to just have a nice conversation with me,” I throw my hands up in aggravation and defeat.

He ignores me as he continues to rummage through the fridge. I give up trying to reach him. It’s hopeless trying to convince him that we could work as friends who can cohabitate together without this awkward tension between us.

I turn on my heel and head upstairs to ready myself in bed and hopefully fall asleep before Antonio comes up to the room. It’s funny who once bedtime was seen as solace for me is now the time I dread the most. Before going to bed was an escape from my family where I could be alone and read books in bed. Now bedtime is the only time I’m forced to be with the most stubborn, horrible, pig-headed man in the city.