Chapter Text
Your hands are trembling as you carry the tray of tea and freshly-baked madeleines into the sitting room and set some down on the table before Miss Lucreza. She’s the honoured guest at your family’s home today, and you parents were eager for you to make a good impression. You’re dressed in your best suit, you hair newly cut, and there’s the gentle scent of aftershave that your father helped you apply.
“Women like it when you smell nice,” he told you.
Miss Lucreza’s eyes are glued to your hands as you take up the teapot and pour the tea for her and yourself. You glance across at her while you’re safe from the intense gaze that set your heart racing when you first met her.
Seated on the settee and dressed in a pencil skirt and white blouse she looks as if she’s come here straight from a meeting. Your parents told you that she’s the CEO of a major corporation so she probably has. She apologised profusely to your parents for coming improperly attired, but they just laughed it off and assured her that even though Collatini is an old aristocratic name your family don’t obsess about manners the way most of the newer aristocratic families do.
Miss Lucreza’s shoulder length hair is a natural chestnut-brown, her skin surprisingly pale and interspersed with a dusting of freckles. You hand a steaming cup on a saucer to her and you can no longer avoid her gaze. Her eyes are blue-green, not unlike the depths of the bay your mansion overlooks, and her features, while delicate, are defined, almost etched. But the smile on her brightly lip-sticked lips make her seem far less scary than before and as she lifts the cup to her mouth she arches her eyebrows and murmurs in appreciation.
“This is really good!” she says, placing her cup and saucer on the table. You finish pouring your own and are about to sit on the chair at right angles to Muss Lucreza when she leans over and pats the space on the settee next to her.
“Why don’t you sit here?” she says.
You stare at the space, your face growing hot. Sit next to her? A strange woman when you’re parents aren’t present? You open your mouth to say something, the twin demands of etiquette struggling inside you. You should always be accommodating to a guest, and yet....
Miss Lucreza laughs. It’s a surprisingly loud laugh which startles you. “It’s okay,” she says. “Your parents won’t be angry. They know we’re just going to be chatting. I just want us to get to know each other a bit better.”
Still blushing, you seat yourself next to her. With her body so close to yours, you can feel the warmth of her body, smell her distinct fragrance. It’s a floral perfume, not unlike your mother’s, but there’s an undercurrent of her own scent, a hint of perspiration and a certain rich spiciness that makes you swallow hard.
As you fidget, trying to get comfortable, she leans over and brings her face near to your neck. You start, but Miss Lucreza is smiling as she sits back again.
“I just wanted to find out what smelled so good. Turns out it’s you.”
You take up your tea and sip at it, hoping that having something in your hands will make your nervousness less noticeable. The tea is a little astringent, you notice; you left it standing too long. Miss Lucreza was polite to say it was delicious.
She’s watching you as you drink and when you put your cup down you accidentally spill a little of it on your hand. It’s hot and you gasp, more from surprise than anything else, but you gasp again when Miss Lucreza takes up a napkin and placing your hand in her own dabs at it.
She sighs. “There’s no need to be so nervous, you know. I won’t bite you.”
Somehow, the warmth of her hand, the softness of skin against yours, calms you. Now dry, she pats your hand and you take it back.
It’s Miss Lucreza’s turn to appear nervous. She doesn’t seem to know what to say and so you jump in to save her embarrassment. Why doesn’t she try one of the madeleines? You baked them yourself. They’re not really very good, and probably burnt, but...
She picks one up and takes an eager bite. Her blue-green eyes widen and she murmurs as she swallows a mouthful of the sweet cake.
“Delicious!” she cries. “Did you really bake these yourself?”
You drop your gaze to your lap and nod. You enjoy baking, you tell her, although you’re not good at it.
The ice broken, the two of you start to talk more freely. You tell Miss Lucreza all about yourself. As the son of an aristocratic family, it’s really just an account of your current studies: poetry, music, dance, natural science, French and of course baking. She seems impressed and starts speaking to you in French which you switch too without hesitation.
Still speaking in French, she tells you all about herself. Her full name is Fia Lucreza. “But please call me Fia,” she says.
You stammer that you could never call her by her first name, especially since you’ve just met, and she laughs and shakes her head.
“Please. I’d like you to call me by my first name. ‘Miss Lucreza’ makes me feel old.”
You drop your gaze, defeated. Since she insists, you have to do as she says.
“Can you say it?” she asks you, arching her eyebrows.
“F-fia,” you say, eyes lowered, your heart racing at the intimate use of a strange woman’s first name.
Fia seems charmed by your reaction and she ruffles your hair. “Good boy,” she says. “Now I feel like we’re friends chatting rather than some job interview.”
Fia tells you she’s the Chief Executive Officer of Cantarella, a company that makes cars. It’s a name you recognise since your mother owns one.
She asks if you can drive. You shake your head. Your mother has always said that men should stick to male things, and women to female things and since you have a chauffeur, it’s never been a problem.
“Well, I’d love to teach you one day,” she says. “Driving is a skill even boys should learn.”
She goes on to tell you about where she lives, an apartment in the city which is only a short helicopter flight across the bay to her corporate headquarters. “It’s not far from here,” she says. “It’s much smaller than your mansion, though. And I don’t have any servants.”
No servants? So her husband must do all the housework, then.
Fia laughs. “Oh, I’m not married.”
The idea is shocking. Then how does she look after the cooking, her laundry, all the cleaning?
Fia’s smile is rueful. “The apartment block has a laundry and cleaning service, and I cook for myself, mostly, or have food delivered.”
But that can’t be very healthy, you say, straightaway covering your mouth with a hand and blushing at your rudeness. But Fia doesn’t seem offended. If anything, her smile grows brighter. She leans across and pats your hand.
“There’s no need to worry about me,” she says. ”I make do. Although it does get lonely at times.”
You nod. It must get lonely without any servants and living alone. You can barely imagine what it’s like. You’ve spent your entire life surrounded by servants, your parents and your siblings, your three older sisters.
Fia takes a small piece of the madeleine and pops it into her mouth.
“You know, I’d really love to be able to eat your cooking every day,” she says. She glances at you, and the expression on her face is suddenly uncomfortable. “Do you... do you think you’d mind it very much if you had to cook for someone and clean and do their laundry and all that sort of thing?”
You shake your head. After all, when you’re married, it will be your job as a husband to look after your wife and keep her happy. Isn’t that the same sort of thing?
“It was lovely to meet you,” says Fia suddenly. She gets up off the settee and as you move to join her she leans across and kisses you on the cheek.
You stand there, shocked, touching the soft, warm spot with your fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she says, amused by your reaction. “I guess that was a little forward. But you really are sweet. Even sweeter than those delicious madeleines of yours.”
You escort her from the room. Your parents are waiting outside and you make your apologies before returning to tidy up the tea service, leaving the three of them to talk. You’re wiping the table when FIa ducks her head back inside.
“Thank you for the tea,” she says. “Everything was delicious.”
You return to your tidying up, a deep blush suffusing your face at her praise.
A short while later Fia leaves, apologising that she has a pressing meeting to attend to. Your parents ask you to escort her to the front door and you do so, thanking her for her visit.
As your butler opens the door, she takes your hand and lifts it to her lips. Your heart skips a beat just like before.
“See you again soon,” she says.
You watch her walk down the crushed brick path to her car. It’s sleek and black and you stare as Fia opens the door for herself and gets inside.
No chauffeur. Just like she said.
Then the car drives off and you’re left standing there, wondering why your heart is pumping so fast in your chest.
Your parents are waiting for you back in the sitting room. Your mother asks you to sit down. She leans forward, a smile on her lips, a strange sight from one who’s usually so dour and serious.
“So what did you think of Miss Lucreza?” she asks.
She seemed very nice, you say.
“Oh, I’m very pleased to hear that,” she replies, leaning back. “The wedding is on Sunday.”
----------
You can’t sleep. You lie on your side, roll over, and finally end up on your back staring up at the ceiling.
Marriage. The word has been all you’ve thinking about since the announcement. Marriage to Miss Lucreza. Wait, no - to Fia.
You knew you’d get married one day but you never expected it to happen so suddenly. You’ll soon have to leave your family and go and live with Fia in her home, share her life and her bed.
Her bed. The thought sends your heart racing with nervous excitement.
A strip of pale yellow light appears next to the window. Someone has opened the door to your room. There’s the soft padding of bare footsteps and then a whisper of material against material as they get into your bed.
You don’t need to turn your head to know it’s your sister, Loretta.
“Congrats on your engagement, little bro,” she whispers, and even though you can’t see her face, you have no doubt there’s a mocking smile on it.
She’s three years older than you, the youngest of your three older sisters and the only one still living at home. Unlike the others, she’s never shown any interest in a career or study and spends day after day in frivolous pursuits around the mansion, the main one playing pranks on you. Your parents have never really shown any interest in her, so you can’t really blame her. As the baby of the family. you’ve often felt that you get all the attention, for good or ill.
You turn over and try to discern her face in the twilight of your room. Her teeth are glistening in the half-light. She’s grinning, just like you expected.
You thank her anyway. For all her teasing, Loretta and you are close. You reach out and touch her hand and she takes yours and holds it.
Tears start in your eyes. You’ll have to say goodbye to her in a few days. She’ll be able to visit, but you’ll never again have the freedom to go on adventures like you always have. No more stealing food from the kitchens or teasing the servants or exploring the mansion grounds.
“Are you crying?” she asks.
“No,” you lie.
Loretta snorts. “Why are you crying? You’re going to get married. I’m never going to get married. You’ve heard mom: I’m totally unmarriageable. Although I guess I can always do what Miss Lucreza is doing and buy a husband.”
You ask her what she means.
“I heard mum and dad arguing again, but this time it was about you.”
Your heart skips. Have you done something wrong? Did Miss Lucreza say something about you?
You shift uncomfortably and Loretta knows straight away what you’re thinking. “Like you’d ever do anything to make them angry, Mr. Perfect. No, it’s about the marriage. Dad kept going on and on about how you’re too young to get married and that they didn’t know Miss Lucreza well enough yet.”
But she was very nice, you say. Polite and kind and...
Loretta laughs. “You know what everyone calls her? ‘The barracuda.’ She’s made all her money from swallowing up other companies into her own. Everyone drives a Cantarella now, right? And she’s the CEO. Think about how much she makes a year.”
But she lives in a small apartment, you say.
“Ha! Maybe compared to the mansion. I looked it up on the net. She has an apartment in Giada, on the bay. It’s a penthouse. It even has a helipad.” She whistles. “I’m kinda jealous, actually.”
She said something about buying a husband...
“Oh yeah,” says Loretta. She’s still thinking about the apartment. “Anyway, the argument went on and on and dad accused mom of auctioning you off to the highest bidder. You know the family’s been having money problems, don’t you?” You answer in the negative and Loretta snorts again. “Boys. You don’t know anything. Anyway, we’ve always been rich, right? Nuh-uh. We might have a big name and a title, but we’re actually pretty poor - and getting poorer. There was a problem with some of mom’s investments a while ago and we’ve been haemorrhaging money since. We lose any more, and we won’t be able to keep the mansion or the servants or any of our stuff.”
You laugh. She’s joking, right?
“Nuh-uh. It‘s the truth. But we still have a name and a title. Mum’s a Contessa, don’t forget. There’s plenty of people out there than are rich but of low birth. They’d love to have a name like ours, and the only way to get one is to marry into it. So mom let people know she was looking for a wife for you.” Loretta squeezes your hand. “There was a lot of interest in you, you know. Congratulations.”
You don’t know how you feel. How could they have been interested in you if they’d never met you before? They were just interested in your family’s name.
Miss Lucreza. Fia. So she...
“Yup. She’s going to pay off all our debts. It’s just spare change for her, I guess. I read on the net she’s personally worth seven hundred million dollars.”
Seven hundred million dollars?
“You know, you can just tell mum and dad that you don’t want to get married. Dad would back you up. You know how he can make mom do whatever he wants.”
You feel a pain in your chest. So Miss Lucreza bought you, bought you for your name. She doesn’t love you. Your eyes grow hot. Stupid. Why would she love you? She just met you.
But if you want to marry someone, it means you’re in love with that person. Doesn’t it? That’s what you’ve always thought. And now...
Your parents, fighting. Losing the mansion, losing everything...
“Bro?”
You wipe at the tears in your eyes.
“So are you going to talk to dad?”
You shake your head. You’re happy to get married, you say.
Loretta makes unsure noises in her throat. Then she squeezes your hand. “Well, I guess you’re lucky, actually. A lot of the potential suitors were pretty old and ugly. Miss Lucreza’s still in her thirties and really good looking, don’t you think? I bet you’re going to have a lot of fun on your wedding night.”
Your wedding night.
“Hey, mom and dad told you about the birds and the bees right?”
Stammering, you tell her that of course they did.
Actually, they just gave you a book. It was very technical.
“Good,” says Loretta, relieved. Then a deep sigh. “I’m going to miss you, little bro. Promise me you’ll invite me over to your place all the time, okay? The internet says the barracuda’s apartment has a pool and a tennis court and everything.”
The excitement in Loretta’s voice steels your resolve. You have to do what’s right for your family. And she’s right, you are lucky. Miss Lucreza is rich and powerful and beautiful...
...and called ‘the barracuda.’
Loretta leans across and kisses you on the mouth. “Night, little bro. Let’s go on an adventure, tomorrow okay? I guess it’ll probably be our last.”
She closes the door and you feel the tears long burning your eyes begin to flow.
----------
The wedding is a humble affair in the family chapel in Mattone, the little village nearest to your ancestral lands. Your entire family is there, right down to the strange, eccentrically -dressed decrepit relatives that you only ever see at weddings and funerals. But it’s your sisters that make a big deal of you. Loretta is there, of course, but rather than her usual bubbly energetic self, she’s strangely subdued. She compliments you with the others on how handsome you look and keeps on hugging you. You realise then how much the two of you love each other and you find you can barely look at her without crying.
Janisa, the eldest of your sisters, takes out her handkerchief and dabs at your eyes, murmuring. “Try not to cry too much,” she says. “People might get the wrong idea.”
“Oh, stop it, Jan, he’s just happy,” says Savina, the middle of your sisters. She’s already onto her third glass of champagne and is at her cheerful stage. Later you know she’ll start crying herself, like she always does. “Isn’t it the day every boy looks forward to?”
You smile awkwardly and nod. The truth is, though, that you never really thought about it all that much. And now here you are, on the first day of the rest of your life, your married life.
The little chapel is dominated by your family. There are very few people from Fia’s side: just a couple of people in suits who look like they must work for her. Is she somehow ashamed of taking you as her husband?
Janisa notices you glancing around and she reads your mind. “Miss Lucreza’s an only child. Adopted. After her parents died and she inherited the business there was some bad blood with the rest of her family. I remember reading about a whole bunch of legal wrangling. She won in the end, though. She always wins.”
A hush falls across the crowd. Fia has arrived. Your sisters grab you and fuss you over to the aisle where your mother is waiting.
“You look so handsome,” your mother says, tears starting in her eyes as she takes your arm. You’ve never seen your mother display that sort of emotion before and it makes you even more nervous.
The front door of the chapel opens and red afternoon sunlight spills in. Fia appears, dressed in her wedding gown. You haven’t seen her since that first meeting a week ago and your heart ends up in your throat.
You’d forgotten how beautiful she was.
Her gown is silk, classic white, reaching to the floor in a simple sheath silhouette that compliments her voluptuous hourglass shape. It suits her far more than any lacy, frilly thing with a long train ever would. As she glides into the chapel you’re once again surprised at how tall she is. With her hair done up and tastefully decorate by a small silver tiara, she almost seems like a fairy-tale princess.
Your heart races as she takes your hand in her own. She smiles at you, although you can tell she’s nervous by the way her glistening eyes flicker as she looks you over.
“You’re so handsome,” she whispers.
Then the wedding march begins and Fia leads you up the aisle between the two walls of smiling and crying faces to where the priest is waiting.
The whole ceremony passes by like a dream. The exchanging of vows, Fia slipping the ring on your finger, your first kiss. Her lips are hot against your own and luckily the gasp that escapes your mouth is drowned out by the fervent clapping and cheering that greets the kiss.
Then it’s the two of you floating like an island among a sea of happy faces, shaking hands and hugging and laughing at well-meaning jokes. You’ve never been good in crowds, but with Fia’s hand on your arm you’re not as nervous as usual.
The reception passes just as quickly with the speeches and jokes and seemingly endless series of toasts. You’re careful to only take a little sip at each of the toasts, but even so after the last one you feel a little unsteady as you sit back in your seat.
“You okay?” Fia whispers.
You nod. You’re not used to drinking, you tell her, and they keep refilling your glass.
She laughs. “That’s okay. People just want you to have a good time.” She pats your hand. “I’ll sneak a few drinks from your glass so you don’t get too drunk.”
The reception comes to an end. Fia somehow manages to drag you from your weeping sisters and parents and after thanking everyone present she leads you to her waiting car. It’s the one you saw her driving before, but it’s been decorated with white ribbons and wreathes.
She lets you in on the passenger side and then gets behind the wheel.
You remember that she doesn’t have a chauffeur and mention the fact. The car growls with pent-up energy under her hands.
Fia chuckles. “I know it’s strange for the bride to drive the getaway car, but I don’t trust anyone else to drive me.”
She places her hand on yours, then shifts gears and pulls the car out of the driveway. A cheer rises up as you drive away and you look back at your family waving to you. Loretta runs a short way down the driveway after your car, waving with both hands.
A tear starts at the corner of your eye and you discretely brush it away, remembering Janisa’s words.
“Try not to cry.”
------------
It’s a long drive back into the city even with Fia driving well over the speed limit. Curves in the road mean little to her and she barely slows down to take them. As you drive down into the valley she takes one corner particularly sharply and you lunge for the grab-handle above the window with a yelp.
Fia slows down and glances across at you, her face apologetic. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m usually the only one in the car. I guess I just have a lead foot.”
You tell her you don’t mind, but you still hang on to the grab-handle. Fia laughs.
An awkward silence falls between the two of you. You stare out at the landscape spinning past, the oaks and ashes a grey-green blur punctuated by flashes of blue and silver. The bay and the city beyond it.
“I’m sorry we don’t have time to go on a honeymoon,” says Fia at last. “I’d love to, but I’m too busy at the moment. We’re at a particularly sensitive juncture in our takeover of Lunghezza Motori.” She glances at you. “It’s a big motorbike company,” she adds.
You tell her you understand she’s busy. You try to think of something to talk about after that, but nothing comes to mind.
“I’m really sorry,” says Fia at last. “Damn. I keep apologising to you, don’t I? If anyone on the board could hear me they’d think I was getting soft.” She sighs. “But I am, really. Sorry I mean.” Silence. “You miss your family already, right?”
You want to tell her not to worry, that you don’t miss your family, but it’s a ridiculous thing to say and obviously a lie. So you nod.
“Your dad seemed pretty cut-up,” says Fia. “He wasn’t too happy about us getting married, was he? Your mom told me that he was around your age when they got married.”
You didn’t know that.
Fia reaches across and puts her hand on your knee and you jump. She pulls it away just as quickly.
“Wow. Am I really that scary?” she asks, hurt.
You were just surprised, you reply.
Fia sighs. “I guess we just need a little time to get to know each other.” Then she adds, her voice tentative, “You’re... you’re not used to women touching you, are you?”
Not really, you say. You stare down at the hands crossed in your lap.
“It’s okay,” says Fia. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think it’s cute, actually. Really cute.” She looks across at you, grinning. “You’re really cute. Did you know that?”
You stammer that you don’t think you’re cute at all.
“We should have gone on that honeymoon anyway,” she says, wrestling the car around the next bend with particular violence. “It’s not fair to you. None of this is.”
Tears have started in her eyes. At first all you can do is stare, but then you lean over and press the side of your face against her bare upper arm. It’s soft against your freshly shaven cheek. Sniffing, Fia squeezes the tears away and glances down at you, kissing the top of your head.
“I’m a lucky woman,” she mutters.
You sit back again and she rubs at her eyes with a wrist. She flashes you a smile then returns to driving.
You flush with happiness. You were able to cheer her up. Your father’s advice as you kissed him goodbye replays in your head.
“A husband’s job is to keep his wife happy,” he told you. “Like it says in the vows: ‘to have and to hold’. Hold her whenever she needs to be held.”
“I can’t wait for you to see the apartment,” says Fia, her voice much brighter now. “Our apartment, I mean.”
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The numbers on the display fly upwards as the lift carries you from the underground car-park to the penthouse. You had no idea a building could have so many floors.
There’s a gentle chime and the lift doors open. Fia, who’s been silent for the whole ride, turns and with a mischievous chuckle grabs hold of you and lifts you bodily off your feet. You yelp in surprise and throw your arms around her neck. Then, taking a careful step, she carries you into the apartment.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” she says as you cling to her. “But I didn’t want you tripping on the threshold or anything unlucky like that.”
Your heart is still racing as she puts you back on your feet. You had no idea she was so strong.
You’re standing in a miniature atrium with a number of small chairs and a table topped with a vase of strelitzias. Above them is a painting of Cupid embracing Venus. You immediately recognise it.
“A Bronzino!” you say.
Fia chuckles. “You know your artists well.”
You blush, saying that art history was one of your favourite subjects. You hop up for a closer look, remarking on how good a copy it is.
“Oh no, it’s an original,” says Fia. Then she takes your hand and leads you from the little atrium and into the apartment proper.
As you walk into the main living area the mood-lighting switches itself on, changing darkness into twilight. The apartment is open plan and huge, the far walls made up of single panes of cola-black shaded glass. A white modular sofa that could comfortably seat two dozen people stands just off-centre while a minibar lies flush against the nearer wall, the clusters of bottles hanging behind it glistening in the half-light. In the far corner of the room is a baby grand piano. A staircase beside you leads up to a mezzanine floor where you can see shelves filled with books and interspersed among them doors leading off into other rooms.
You stand there, staring. Fia coaxes you further into the room then barks, “Windows!”
The caramel shading of the glass melts away, rendering the windows translucent and you drop Fia’s hand as an incredible view is revealed.
You’re looking out over the Bay of Amatista in the evening. On your left the sun is boiling away into a sea of gold and red, the tiny black specks of ships and yachts scattered like the burnt-out embers of a fire. On your right the city is glowing, gilded by the last of the day’s sunlight. The landing lights on the top of the skyscrapers flicker red and green. The first stars of the night have already appeared and among them flashing suborbitals are lining up to land at the airport far across the bay.
Fia leads you to the sofa and sits you down.
“I’ll get us a drink.”
She comes back from clinking and pouring behind the minibar with two glasses.
“I know you don’t drink much,” she says. “So I made you a cosmopolitan. I hope you enjoy it.”
You’ve never tasted one, but you know what it’s made of vodka, Cointreau, lime and cranberry juice. The crimson liquid smells sweet and you nurse it as Fia sits down next to you.
She’s drinking a martini. She swizzles the toothpick in the tarnished gold liquid and then jabs the olive rolling about in it. She pops it into her mouth and chews it as she explains everything you can see with the now-empty toothpick.
“The Mediterranean is so pretty in the evening don’t you think? Growing up in Monti Bicchieri I used to always catch flashes of it glowing like a pool of gold whenever I came back home from school. I decided that one day I’d live somewhere I could see it wherever I turned my head.” She points over to the right. “The city, of course. Do you see the triangular building? There’s the green light of an orbital flying over it right... now. That’s the Cantarella headquarters. It’s where I spend most of my day.” She sighs. “Most of my life, I guess.” She glances at you. “You’re not thirsty?”
You shake your head. You are thirsty, it’s just the sight of everything has paralysed you. You take a sip at your drink and murmur. It’s really good.
Fia seems pleased.
“I’m going to go and have a shower and get changed,” she says after downing the rest of her martini in one go. As she stands up she looks at you with surprisingly timid eyes. “Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
You almost spill your drink. You stutter as you try and reply, but you have no idea what you’re saying. Fia laughs and pats you on the head.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’m just teasing you.”
You walk around the apartment sipping your drink with only the far-off shushing of the shower as background. With Fia gone the apartment is suddenly eerily quiet and you remember what she said about the place being lonely. You decide to sit down at the baby grand and try the keys. The tone of each note is exquisitely sharp as if it’s been recently tuned.
You open the music which is already sitting there and let your fingers run across the keys. The music hums out and you start to play Mozart’s Turkish March. You’re so engrossed you don’t notice the shower has stopped until Fia is standing behind you.
“Beautiful,” she says.
Startled, you stop playing. She’s wearing only a towel wrapped around her breasts and is drying her hair with another. The top of her chest and shoulders are shower-pink.
She blinks at you with her green eyes. With her hair wet and flat, she looks far younger, almost childish. Without her makeup you notice there are more freckles than before.
She said your playing was beautiful. Beautiful. You mouth the word without saying it. Fia. She’s the one who’s beautiful. She’s so close to you that can feel her freshly showered skin bleeding warmth.
A strange smile appears on Fia’s face, then, and you realise you’ve been staring.
“Finish your drink and take a shower, darling. I’m guessing you’re as tired as I am after our big day. There’s a towel waiting for you.”
-------
The bathroom, like everywhere else in this apartment, is huge, the shower big enough to fit half a dozen people. Water comes sluicing down over you from a slot in the roof like a waterfall and with the touch of a button you can change the way it flows. Like a little kid, you spend a long time playing around with it and not wanting to leave.
No, that’s not the only reason. You’re still nervous about being alone with Fia. Fia, only a towel between you and her flushed nakedness. Her breasts and hips had seemed really big beneath her towel. You’ve seen naked women before, of course, but not one like her. There was a time that Loretta used to surprise you by walking around the house naked until your mother caught her and put a stop to it. But the gangly body of your then-teenaged sister was very different from the ripe voluptuousness of a mature woman.
But you can’t hide in here forever. You finish washing yourself and wrap yourself in the towel. It’s bigger than you are. You come outside, shivering.
You poke your head out into the living room. Fia is sitting on the sofa, a fresh martini in her hand. She’s no longer in a towel but in a purple bathrobe. You ask her where your bag is.
“The concierge came up while you were showering,” she says. “I took the liberty of laying out your pajamas for you. They’re on the bed.”
Our bed.
She glances back at you and laughs. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t know where the bedroom is. It’s the third door on the right straight up the stairs.”
You sneak away and pad up stairs, feeling Fia’s eyes on you the whole way.
The bedroom is huge. The window that dominates the entire opposite wall looks out across the dark expanse of the mountains. Fia’s penthouse must take up the whole of the top floor.
The bed is emperor size. You strip out of your towel and slip quickly into your pajamas, the cotton soft against your sensitive freshly-showered skin.
You sit down on the corner of the bed and dry the rest of your hair. Your heart is racing with the tell-tale signs of excitement.
The books your parents gave you were very technical, but it was overhearing one of Loretta’s conversations with a friend that taught you even more about what sex is all about. She was laughing with her friend about a boy she’d had sex with at a party the previous night. His performance had been less than satisfying and she’d kicked him out of the room, naked.
Would you be able to satisfy Fia? Like your father said, it’s a husband’s job to keep his wife happy. You shiver, running your hand over the embroidered duvet. You’re Fia’s husband now. A husband.
You’re still sitting there, alone with your thoughts, when Fia appears in the doorway.
“I thought you got lost,” she says. There’s concern in her eyes despite the smile on her face. “Do you want to go to bed already? The rest of the grand tour can wait until tomorrow.”
You nod.
“Just let me go brush my teeth,” says Fia. “Best hop into bed. The air conditioning sometimes sets itself a little too high and I don’t want you catching cold.”
You do as she says. The bed clothes are cool against your body. You feel like a tiny island floating in the midst of an ocean lying there. Your eyes are glued to the door. Any moment it will open up and Fia will come in.
Your wedding night.
She’ll want to do it, of course. You wonder how different doing it is from all the stuff you’ve read about. What if she doesn’t like the way you do it, doesn’t like your body?
You’re lying there, fidgeting, when Fia returns. She turns down the lights. She’s no longer wearing her bathrobe but a nightgown. It’s made of blue silk and shimmers about her as she walks over to the bed and gets in.
Fia lies on her back and sighs in delight. You’ve scooshed across to your side of the bed and so there’s a gap between the two of you.
“Comfy?” she asks.
You murmur in the affirmative.
You lie there, listening. Fia’s nightgown whispers with every tiny movement she makes. Your heart is still racing. Is she going to make the first move or are you supposed to? You can feel her warmth, just out of arm’s reach, her natural fragrance, stripped now of any perfume. It’s a delicious scent and it does nothing to calm your rapidly beating heart.
You stare up at the dark ceiling. Is this what married life is going to be like? Part of you wishes you were back in your own bed, but another part curses your nervousness, wishing you could just reach out for her. You’re her husband, and it’s what women and their husbands do. You’re not a kid anymore.
A whisper of material. Fia has turned on her side. You smell the freshness of her breath. Then her voice, warm and gentle.
“I’m getting lonely. Come here, darling.”
You swallow and move closer. Fia wraps her arms around you and you’re surrounded by fragrant softness. Your face presses up against her ample breasts as she kisses you on the top of the head.
“Try and relax,” she says.
You bring your arms around her. She’s so big compared to you. The smooth firmness of her back against your forearms contrasts against the luxuriant softness of the breasts flush against you cheek.
You shiver from a mixture of excitement and nervousness.
“Shh,” says Fia, squeezing you closer. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything tonight, you know.”
But it’s your wedding night, you murmur. Aren’t couples supposed to...
Fia chuckles. “I can wait. I want you to be comfortable with me before we do anything.” She buries her face in your hair and mutters happily. “You’re so warm. I didn’t realise this bed was so cold before.”
You can hear her heart beating. It’s beating almost as rapidly as yours. Is she nervous, too?
No, not nervous. Excited.
You snuggle your face against her breasts. They’re soft. Your own heartbeat slows. Being held in her arms, listening to her gentle, calming murmurs, you don’t feel nervous anymore.
Fia runs her hands along your back and down to just above your butt and you gasp.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I’ve wanted to grab it all day. I guess I can touch your butt whenever I want now we’re married, right?”
Her voice is playful and you nod. If she really wants to, you don’t mind.
She gives your butt a squeeze and then leaves her hands there.
“You’re so warm,” she says. “And your hair smells good. You know, I think I could get used to this...”
She continues talking, but you hear less and less as sleep slips over you.
------------
You wake. You can hear someone’s voice, raised. For a few heartbeats you scramble to reclaim your memories, wondering where you are.
Fia’s bed. No, your bed.
The voice is Fia’s. She must be in the living room. She sounds angry.
You slip out of bed and push open the door. You can see movement down in the living room. It’s Fia. She’s wrapped in her bathrobe again and is walking back and forth, coming into sight and disappearing again whenever the mezzanine floor blocks her.
Her voice is raised, but she’s trying to keep quiet at the same time, turning her words into a controlled, hoarse explosion.
“I need to know who I can trust, Elana. Someone on the board must have let something slip about our current vulnerability.”
Another voice, a woman’s. Her tone sounds conciliatory, but it’s too soft to make anything else out.
“Do you think I’d be ringing you on my wedding night if I didn’t suspect someone? We’ve so much capital wrapped up in the takeover now that it’s the perfect opportunity for them to take us out. Why do you think I’ve been dealing with that snake Quinn? I need to know who’s got their daggers out for me so I can stab them first.”
More from the unseen Elana. This time Fia doesn’t try to remain quiet, her anger exploding out of her.
“Look, Elana. I don’t give a fuck if they call me paranoid. I want everyone at a meeting tomorrow morning, first thing. Anyone who’s not there I’ll assume they’re not behind me and they can expect my foot up their ass. Goodnight.”
You close the door, your heart racing. Her voice was so different, so harsh and cutting, and the look on her face...
She’d looked like a totally different person.
The barracuda.
Fia calls your name. She must have noticed the door shutting.
You scramble into bed and squeeze your eyes shut. The room lightens as Fia steps in. She slips out of her bathrobe and climbs into bed.
You lie there, pretending to sleep. Fia turn over and slips her arms around you.
“I know you’re awake,” she whispers, her lips moist against the back of your neck. “Your breath is shallow.”
You make no reply. Your heart’s still racing, and this time being cuddled from behind is making it worse.
“Are you scared of me?”
You murmur something in the negative and she sighs.
“Sorry I left you up here all alone. I guess you were starting to get cold.” She cuddles closer to you. Her hands slip up over your stomach and your chest.
You lie there in silence for a while, then Fia says, “You know they call me the barracuda, right?”
You nod.
“You don’t have to worry, you know. I’m only a barracuda to my rivals and my enemies. I don’t eat my friends.” She peppers the side of your neck with hard, wet kisses. “Although you’re so sweet I think I could eat you all up.”
The final kiss becomes a gentle bite and a suck. You gasp. Fia chuckles.
“Just a little love bite from a barracuda,” she whispers. “I didn’t break the skin, but it’ll leave a mark. Everyone will know you belong to me and stay away. ‘Property of the barracuda’.” She licks the sore spot twice, then takes her arms from around you and lies on her back.
“I think I’m going to enjoy being married,” she murmurs.