three pieces of marshmallow

FRANCESCA

“DONNA…” A HAND lands on my shoulder, jolting me awake.

“Huh…?” I start to ask, but then I see it’s Carina.

“The Don’s waiting in the car,” she informs me.

I’m disoriented for a moment, then a sharp pang of hurt hits me. Antonio didn’t come to wake me himself because of our argument.

The last time we had to go somewhere together and I was asleep, he was the one who woke me. This time, he sent someone else.

I hate to admit it, but I wish he was here with me right now. I want him to reassure me that everything is okay between us, but I know that’s just wishful thinking.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I tell her, pulling myself up.

But Carina doesn’t move. “He wants you down now, Donna.”

My hand clenches into a fist. Carina is just relaying orders, but the way she says it stirs up my anger. Her tone has become more harsh and authoritative, and I really don’t like it.

Instead of lashing out, I give her a sweet smile and say, with a hint of sarcasm, “And I’ll be down in a minute.”

Her eyes narrow at me. I know Carina values her job and likes to follow orders. If I don’t come down soon, her job could be at risk.

I’m not keen on angering the Don, but I also don’t like being bossed around, especially by a maid who works for me, by someone I’ve been kind to.

I know I have no power against my husband, but I do over her. My husband is rarely home in the mornings. I am, and I can make her life difficult. She seems to be forgetting who hired her.

I head to the bathroom and wash my face. It’s afternoon and I’m surprised that I fell asleep. I feel guilty for how I acted. What’s wrong with me?

I need to stop being so irritable. It’s not her fault I’m having a bad day or that I had a fight with my husband.

I’m being a coward, taking my anger out on someone who doesn’t deserve it. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to apologize either. I can’t, being the Donna.

It’s not about being the bigger person, it’s about power. Apologizing to her would disrespect my husband’s position. A woman’s rank is determined by her husband, but that doesn’t feel right to me anymore.

Is Antonio really my identity? Am I okay with that?

I try to freshen up quickly, but it still feels like I’m taking too long.

Earlier, Antonio found out about Arianna and the note. I’m still scared of what he might do to me, even though he hasn’t done anything yet.

What’s the worst that could happen? Him killing me. It’s a possibility, but I don’t think he’d do that.

Antonio is a mystery. The more I try to understand him, the more elusive he becomes. I don’t know how he’ll handle this or how I’ll convince him of my loyalty.

I’m doing the best I can and I know it was foolish of me to hide things, but I didn’t have a choice. It was my sister against him. She’s innocent. He’s not.

After ten minutes, I come out, only to find my husband instead of the maid. He’s staring at me silently. Why did he come back? I’m not ready to face him yet.

I do want to talk to him, but not when I’m caught off guard. It needs to be on my terms.

“I had to go to the bathroom,” I say when the silence becomes too heavy.

He doesn’t respond to my explanation. “Let’s go,” he says. His voice is detached and calm. Too calm, and it makes me nervous.

“I need to change,” I say, sounding more like I’m asking a question. I just slept in these clothes. They’re sweaty and uncomfortable. This should be a simple statement, but it’s not.

It feels more like I’m testing the waters to see if he’ll explode and vent his anger. I know I’m already on thin ice, but I don’t know what to expect.

I don’t know how to act. Should I pretend like nothing happened? Or should I be fearful, timid, or bold?

I need a break.

He presses his lips together. “Hurry up,” he says simply. He doesn’t even sound angry, and that makes me feel guilty. Maybe that’s exactly what he wants—for me to feel bad.

I quickly change into a snug brown sweater dress that reaches my shins. It’s long-sleeved and warm with a v-neck. It doesn’t plunge to my cleavage but it exposes my shoulder blades.

I pair it with high-heeled wedges, then put on large hoop earrings and the necklace Antonio gave me. My hand freezes as I look at it. I slowly turn it around and a small gasp escapes my lips.

No. I can’t believe it. It’s not possible. Antonio wouldn’t do that. He’s not the sentimental type.

There’s a date engraved on it, and it’s written by my husband himself. I can tell from the messy handwriting. He’s not very good with a pen.

I figured that out when I visited his office.

Antonio took the time to write the date himself when he could’ve had someone else do it. The necklace was custom made, not something he picked out randomly because it looked good.

I don’t want to cry again and I don’t have time to, so I just sniffle. I look at myself in the mirror. My nose is turning red and my cheeks are flushed.

I have small dark circles under my eyes and a tiny pimple growing on the side of my head that I still need to cover with makeup.

It’s not that noticeable, but right now I can see all my flaws. I can see every tiny imperfection.

I grab my purse and toss in my small emergency makeup kit. I’ll fix myself up on the plane. I don’t have time right now.

I sweep a hand through my hair, pulling some strands to the side. It’s freshly done and shines in the light, making me look a little less like I’m on the verge of tears.

I want to ask Antonio why he wrote the date himself, and why he chose our wedding date, but I can’t muster the courage.

When I step outside, he’s waiting. His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my necklace for a moment longer before he turns away.

There’s no reaction. No anger, no surprise. He’s as composed as ever, just like the day we first met.

I trail after him.

As we leave the sprawling manor, bodyguards swarm around us, just like last time. We climb into an SUV and then we’re on the move.

It seems they were all waiting for me. He was waiting for me. I don’t know how to feel about that.

The drive to the airport is painfully awkward. I don’t dare ask him any questions, and honestly, I don’t really want to talk either. I’m too confused.

This kind of treatment is unheard of in this day and age. Most men only lavish their mistresses with luxurious gifts. They don’t do custom-made or write things themselves.

The fact that the Don did this for me, despite his busy schedule, leaves me bewildered.

The driver veers off the highway onto another road. “Where are we going?” I ask quietly. The airport is in the opposite direction.

After a moment of silence, Antonio answers, “To our private airport.”

“Oh,” I mumble. That should’ve been obvious. Of course we’d be taking a private plane. Antonio is incredibly wealthy and powerful.

“Why didn’t Alessia come here in a private plane?” I can’t help but ask.

The silence in the car is deafening. There’s no music playing, just the driver in the car with us. He must feel the tension in the air.

He’s stuck in the aftermath of our fight, and I would’ve felt bad for him if he hadn’t smiled at me when Antonio burned a man alive and killed Jasmine.

I haven’t forgiven him for that. He’s a total jerk.

Antonio keeps his gaze fixed on his window. “Because she didn’t need to.”

I want him to elaborate but decide against asking. If he doesn’t want to talk, then there’s no need for me to push.

I need to take things slow. I need to play it smart, even though I know my previous actions were anything but.

Soon, we pull into the private airport. As we check in, I notice the hostess and pilot greeting us. Everyone bows their heads in what I assume is either fear or respect. I suspect it’s the latter.

Antonio takes my hand, catching me off guard. I glance at him, but he doesn’t meet my gaze as we ascend the stairs of the private plane.

A flight attendant shows us to our seats, which are embroidered in gold.

The interior of the plane is a rich blend of gold and white, making the space look even larger and more opulent than it already is.

In the front are large, cushioned chairs that can recline, and at the back, another room is separated by curtains. I know there’s more to the plane than what I can see, but I’m not in the mood to explore.

A pretty blonde woman stands at the front and begins listing off the safety procedures as I fasten my seatbelt. She leaves once she’s finished.

Antonio isn’t paying attention. He’s sitting across from me with his back to her. He probably already knows all the procedures.

He stares out the window as the plane prepares to take off. His hand grips the armrest tightly, and his face tightens into a frown. I look around to find the plane empty.

The attendants are gone, and his bodyguards are seated elsewhere on the plane. I don’t blame them. They either left to give us privacy or they couldn’t stand the awkwardness.

Antonio’s attention snaps to me when I unbuckle my seatbelt while the plane is still moving. He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t even question me when I get up and sit beside him despite the plane taking off. He just stares at me.

I don’t know where this sudden confidence is coming from. Maybe it’s because of the small gestures he’s made that set him apart from my father.

Or maybe I just don’t like seeing him anxious because it makes me feel vulnerable.

I place my hand on top of his and give it a gentle squeeze. He immediately looks away and leans his head against the headrest.

His black hair is growing longer, curling around the nape of his neck. It falls onto his forehead as he closes his eyes in peace.

The lines of his frown are gone, but I know he’s awake. He doesn’t let go of my hand.

It feels like a moment. Just hours ago, I saw hatred in his eyes, and now he’s relaxed with me. It’s strange.

I don’t want to disturb him. I want to let him sleep, so I do. But the flight attendant doesn’t.

She comes in pushing a trolley full of drinks. Her long blonde hair is down and her lips are painted red. She’s beautiful, if I’m being honest.

She smiles at me. “What would you like, ma’am? Sir?”

I look at Antonio. His eyes are open, and it’s only now that I realize how tired he really is. Even after spending weeks with him, this is the first time I feel like I’ve tried to get to know him.

Even after being intimate with him, I don’t know him. But I’m trying. I really am. I don’t know how to show him that, and my actions are telling him otherwise.

But I need him to try too. A relationship can’t be successful with only one person trying. That would be toxic. Do I want a relationship with him?

Can I have a relationship with him? Isn’t this already toxic though?

I know a few things about him. His favorite food is Chicken Marsala. He loves hot chocolate with exactly three marshmallows.

I’ve also noticed that he might be a bit obsessive: he always picks up the little things I sometimes forget to clean, a small frown on his face.

He loves his siblings and even enjoys bossing them around sometimes. And he always likes to be on time. If he’s ever late, he usually calls home.

“Water and a hot chocolate, thank you,” I reply when Antonio doesn’t say anything.

He's dressed in a black blazer and shirt, looking every bit the billionaire he is. But there's a casualness to him, like he's just rolled out of bed.

I turn to the blonde woman behind the counter. “Three marshmallows in the hot chocolate, please,” I request.

She smiles, prepares the drink, and hands it over. I pass the warm cup to my husband, Antonio. He doesn't say thank you, but I don't expect him to. Antonio's a man of action, not words. I take my water from the hostess before she walks away.

I turn back to Antonio, realizing I haven't let go of his hand. But I don't really mind. I need to talk to him.

Regardless of his intimidating demeanor, I need to break the silence. The awkwardness between us is too much to bear.

“Are you mad at me?” I blurt out, asking the question that's been nagging at me.

He doesn't look at me, just takes a sip of his hot drink. I look away, feeling a flush of embarrassment.

“When I killed your friend, were you mad?” His voice breaks the silence.

I look at him. His gaze is distant. He looks worn out, disoriented, like a completely different person.

I feel like I don't know him at all. Like everything I thought I knew about him was just what he wanted me to believe.

“No,” I finally answer, watching as his eyes close. “I just felt…disappointed.”

A wave of realization washes over me. I'm not sure what's worse: him being mad or just disappointed in me.