“Only if you’re okay,” he says. He’s looking at me with troublesome eyes, and I can see he’s struggling to differentiate between keeping me happy and keeping my father appeased.
“Go and give her the Zane Maverick experience,” I reply, pushing him to go. I turn him on the spot and push him away, and as he goes, I feel him take a part of me with him.
I know, deep down, this is for the best. I have to force distance between us, and if I have to force him to talk to other women, then I will. Right now, after the last few months, I really have to focus on what I’m going to do with my life without my heart complicating any of it. The yearn my body has grown accustomed to for Zane won’t ever silence, but I can suppress it and strive for some peace from my reckless heart. I need to keep business and pleasure as far separate as humanly possible, and I hope my father is watching to see the sacrifices I’m making to do so.
I grip onto my tumbler of whiskey, thankful for having it to nurse the moment, and watch as he approaches the beautiful brunette. Within a few seconds, he has her laughing. They always say the first cut is the deepest, they just never tell you how much you’ll bleed from it. I forced this predicament, but the hurt that accompanies it isn’t something I want to become familiar with. Envy rises from within, cutting and wounding me with tormenting lashings and I have to finish my drink in order to numb it. I’m a masochist for still watching, but I’m telling myself it will serve as remembrance. The sight before me tells me how I am not made to get what I want. My life isn’t governed by perfect starts and flawless endings. It’s woven with unpredictability and sacrifice and I must remember that, no matter what, you have to keep smiling to appeal to the opposition. One misdeed or moment of carnal distraction could well be your undoing.
It’s just a shame I’m still trying to climb out from rock bottom to do so, and I’m failing miserably.
I decide to move myself, making it seem like I’m not hell-bent on Zane like everyone thinks, and as I exchange my empty glass for a flute of champagne, I spot an empty table in the corner. There’s no one around for me to impress. This is a night of indulging, so I sit in my corner and watch him charm her. There’s no groping or heavy handedness. Nothing like what set us on fire when we first met. He’s calm and delicate with her and my envious nature flares up because of it – why couldn’t I have this side of him, too? Zane is just wowing her with his gorgeous smile and dashing good looks. I remind myself that when two sparks meet, the consequential flame is magnificently blinding. I should be grateful I know how that feels. The rise of jealousy is swallowed by a large gulp of champagne, and I find it isn’t so vast and colossal this time, and I wonder if it’s because I know that whoever he woos and whatever beguiling guise he puts on for a woman, I’ll be the one buried deep in his heart.
It just doesn’t stop that cold rush of envy racing through my body when my alcoholic buzz begins to fade.
Tearing my gaze away, I look down at my flute, watching the bubbles rise within the liquid and stow away my miserable attitude. I know after a few more drinks, either I’ll be perfecting the mask of a liar or be so miserable that I have to leave. I would really rather the latter never existed because I don’t want to wear the millions of different pieces of my heart on my sleeve for everyone to see. That’s not going to be the correct image my father wants from an Abbiati. If I’m found acting like this for too long, I’ll no longer be able to keep alive the idea of the Dio Lavoro – a legend of fiercely strong, passionately heartless successors.
“I can’t do it.” Zane’s voice penetrates into my reverie, and I look up to see him stepping toward me. “I can’t talk to other women as if they’re some key to my future. Not when you’re in the same room and taking up so much of what’s running through my mind.” I gulp as he comes and steps in before me. “I know what you’re trying to do, Amelia, and as much as I want to accept this as some sort of self-preservation, I can’t.”
“You have to,” I say, standing up.
I take his hand and pull him from the room. I don’t stop. If anything, I hasten myself until I find a quiet quarter to the building. I can hear we’re far from the party and the loudest thing in the room is my pounding heart. The beat is so loud, it’s ringing in my ears, the pulsating pump noticeable throughout my body, and I swear, if my ribcage isn’t a fortified chamber, it’s about to break free.