The Marriage Clause. Alexx Andria
blinked back hot tears, instantly irritated that Luca still had the power to hurt me, if even in memory. I narrowed my gaze, letting him know that I didn’t trust there was much weight behind his apology, saying, “We’ll see,” and left it at that, grateful the plane had begun to taxi. I needed the distraction.
The truth was, I didn’t actually enjoy flying. Anxiety fluttered in my chest as the plane started to eat up the runway. I gripped the armrest tightly, closing my eyes as the plane lifted into the air, the power of the jet engines rumbling beneath our feet.
I focused on my yoga breathing—from the belly, in and out. Flying was safer than driving, so they said.
I had no idea who they were, but I had to assume they knew what they were talking about.
“Are you all right?” Luca asked, interrupting my belly breathing. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped, returning to my relaxation techniques, but now I was a little dizzy. “I just get a little anxious during takeoff.”
“Here, take a sip. It’ll help soften the edges,” Luca said, holding out his champagne flute with the remainder of his drink. I shook my head, refusing his offer. He gave me a look that said I was being childish, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need Luca tending to me, in any way. Not even if his suggestion would lessen the sudden tightening in my chest.
“I just need to breathe,” I said, demonstrating my yoga technique. “See? In and out. I feel better already.”
“Suit yourself.” Luca finished his champagne and set his glass in the elegant cup holder until the attendant could retrieve it once we hit thirty thousand feet.
Thirty thousand feet.
Eek! If human beings were meant to fly, we would’ve been born with wings! Panic started to override my breathing, and instead of controlled inhales and exhales, I was suddenly panting and spots were beginning to dance before my eyes.
“You’re so damn stubborn,” Luca said.
I couldn’t spare the oxygen to tell him to shove his opinion up his piehole, so I settled for sending him a dirty look. Damn it, I was going to have to take something to ease my anxiety, which I did not want to do with Luca sitting beside me, looking as handsome as he ever was, reminding me that I wasn’t the only woman who had eyes in her head.
Jealousy, now? Luca made me feel out of control. I wanted to tell him “go fuck yourself” in one breath, yet when women inevitably gave him fuck-me eyes, I wanted to tattoo my name on his forehead just so they knew he was mine.
But he wasn’t mine, because I didn’t want him.
It didn’t make sense in my own head, so I couldn’t possibly explain my feelings to anyone else, which became readily apparent when I’d tried to talk to Alana about the situation.
“You do realize you’re walking away from a gazillion-dollar family, right?”
“It’s not about the money, Alana,” I’d reminded her, flopping back against her plush luxury sofa the night after my last dinner engagement with Luca. “I just can’t do this. All the rules, the obligations, the expectation that I simply nod, smile and look pretty... And his mother! I’m more than a walking uterus. I was made to do more than pump out Donato babies!”
“But your babies would be so cute,” Alana had protested, picking up on the least important detail in my impassioned declaration. “I wonder if they’d have your red hair or his black? That Italian heritage is hard to override, but your red hair is something even Photoshop can’t replicate. Oh! What if they had his black hair but your crazy curls? That would be fab.”
I had snapped my fingers in front of Alana’s dreamy gaze. “Focus, Alana. I’m not marrying him. I can’t. Marrying Luca would be admitting that I’m good with sacrificing everything that I am, just for money. I’m not that person.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Alana had said, rolling her eyes and reaching for her phone. “Have you seen Georgie’s newest Insta post? She’s such a bitch. I can’t believe she had the balls to say that Carolina’s party was a dud. It was way better than her lame masquerade debacle at Halloween.”
“He broke my heart,” I’d reminded Alana, dragging her back on point. “Remember?”
Alana had blinked, then seemed to remember. “Of course, darling. He’s a dick. But aren’t all men? Fidelity is a unicorn, sweetheart. A fun bit of fiction we cling to as little girls, but then we grow up and realize variety is far more fun, and even better than that is having the money to go and do whomever we choose. Okay, so you think he cheated on you, but honestly, it’s actually a good thing because you guys broke the seal before getting married—now you don’t have to cling to those silly, outdated and impossible standards. Besides, you were in college when it happened. Have fun, baby girl. And if you really feel the need to console yourself, do it with his money.”
That was, literally, the worst advice I’d ever been given, but I didn’t fault Alana. The truth was, as much as I loved Alana, her advice just cemented the belief that I would never fit into Luca’s world—and I didn’t want to.
When I chose a husband, I wanted someone who shared the same philosophies about love and marriage. Not someone who believed people were interchangeable and disposable.
“So what are we going to do in California?” Luca’s voice dragged me back to the present, and I reluctantly popped an anxiety pill.
I closed my eyes, willing the medicine to work quickly before I freaked the fuck out and jumped from the emergency door to end up as Flat Katherine.
“I haven’t agreed to your deal yet,” I reminded him with a weak frown, my heart still thundering in my chest. “I don’t know if I can stomach spending a whole week with you.”
He cast a derisive look my way to quip, “You really know how to punch a guy in the nuts.”
I shrugged. Luca’s feelings weren’t my concern. “Just being honest.”
I was grateful Luca didn’t feel the need to offer a rebuttal, which gave the medicine a chance to calm my racing heart and settle my nerves. By the time Luca asked about the plans, I could actually think straight again.
“Did you have a plan when you ran away?” he asked. “A place to stay? Anything like that?”
I opened my eyes, feeling more confident and in control. “Yes, actually. I’ve found a cute hostel in Berkeley that’s cheap.”
Luca’s distaste might’ve been comical if I hadn’t been so irritated that he was tagging along. “A hostel?” he repeated, his lip curling. “Have you ever stayed in a hostel?”
“No, but it looked fine,” I answered, enjoying his displeasure. “Not everyone needs the Ritz. I certainly don’t.”
“You know you have to share a bathroom with strangers, right?”
“Of course I know that,” I said with fake sweetness. Okay, so I’d never done it before, but it wasn’t a deal breaker. I was sure everyone was hygienic and polite. I’d been curious about backpacking since college. Hearing my friends regale me with tales of their summer travels made me yearn for an experience I’d always been denied. The daughter of Bernard Oliver didn’t gallivant around the globe staying in hostels, especially not with students whose families didn’t belong in our social circle. So, maybe this wasn’t quite the same, but hosteling in San Francisco, testing out my new freedom, would be exciting nonetheless. “I’m actually looking forward to the adventure.”
“Adventure. That’s an apt word for it,” Luca responded drily. “Unlike you, I actually stayed in hostels when I did a trip after high school with my friends. It was mostly a drunken crawl across Europe, which was fun but also disgusting. You’ve never stayed in a hotel with less than a five-star rating.”
“Hence the adventure,” I returned with a glare.