The reception, although I had no hand in planning it—and I suspect, neither did Angelo—is beautiful. It's held back at the mansion in the grand ballroom that was reserved for my father's biggest parties and events—rarely held after my mother's death—the room choked with flowers and satin-draped tables, finished off with a string quartet serenading the guests from the other side of the wooden dance floor. I don't recognize very many of the people who come to give their well-wishes, but I recognize the names—many of them the parents of the young men who were originally paraded in front of me to marry. If any of them are resentful that Angelo ended up claiming the right to marry me after all, none of them show it—probably all assuming that it's more prudent not to.

The Romano family, pointedly, does not show up.


The catering looks delicious—a trio of tender lamb chop, scallops, and braised quail arranged with roasted potatoes and root vegetables—but I can barely eat. I catch Angelo's gaze on me as I push the food around the china plate with my fork, feeling my stomach turn when I try to taste a sliver of the perfectly seasoned quail, the blueberry reduction it was basted in bursting over my tongue in a flavor that I barely notice. I know he wants me to eat more, buthow? How am I supposed to do that when day after day, week after week, my life feels as if it refuses to return to anything even approaching normalcy? My appetite has been gone for a long time now, and I notice as I stab a carrot and watch it slide off of my fork that the sapphire bracelet I'm wearing fits even more loosely than before, the sharp bones of my wrist standing out in relief against the white gold and gems.

'Try to eat your dinner." Angelo's voice is taut, as if the evening is a strain on him, too. His wine glass is untouched, and I catch a reproving expression on his face when I refill mine from the decanter between us. 'You shouldn't drink so much wine on an empty stomach."

'And you shouldn't marry a woman you don't want to fuck." I feel my face heat as I say it, my teeth biting at my lips as if to take it back the moment the words are out. It feels vulgar on my tongue, but a part of mewantsto shock Angelo, to upset him. I shouldn't be the only one feeling this way on my wedding day.


'Are you already drunk?" Angelo's mouth thins for a moment, and I glare at him.

'No." I keep my voice low, refusing to cause a scene on my wedding day, on top of everything else. 'I don't think I've ever been drunk, Angelo. But you have to agree, this is all a little ridiculous. You can't blame me for having a glass of wine when I'm going to go to bed alone tonight."


Angelo's jaw tightens, and he says nothing. He finishes his dinner before getting up from our table, likely planning to make the rounds of the guests. I stay put, rooted to my spot, still pushing my food around my plate until the vegetables turn mushy in the sauce and the meat has gone cold.

He doesn't come back until it's time for our dance. The cake-cutting has been skipped altogether in favor of a dessert table—probably the planner's idea, or maybe Angelo just didn't like the idea of feeding me cake. The thought of his fingers against my lips, sweet with icing, makes me tremble a little, and as much as I hate to admit it, he might have had the right idea if so. If his aim is to stay out of my bed, then those sorts of intimacies are best avoided.

But even so, I can't get the image of his icing-laced fingertips brushing against my lower lip out of my head, the thought of closing my lips around them, licking off the thick white frosting as I sucked his fingers deeper into my mouth—

'Rosalia?" Angelo frowns at me, his hand lightly on my waist again as he leads me out to the dance floor. 'Are you alright? You look a little flushed. If this is all too much—"

It's the first real concern he's shown for me all night—in a while, really, considering his attempts to sequester himself away from me after our engagement—and I bite back the resentful comment I want to make in favor of something kinder. Something that will, possibly, smooth over the ragged edges of the evening.

'I'm fine. Maybe it is the wine." It's a lie, of course—I've only had two glasses—but it's better than hinting at the fantasy that filled my head.

Angelo seems to take it at face value, though, leading me out onto the dance floor to the swelling sound of the string quartet. His hands are light on my waist, and he leaves space between us as we dance, his every movement stiff and formal—entirely unlike what it should feel like to dance with my husband on our wedding day. My heart aches with every step, but there's a buzzing tension between us, too. I wonder if only I can feel it—if it's somehow elevated for me because he's told me so clearly that nothing will happen between us tonight. Even the light touch of his fingers feels as if it's burning through my dress, an echo of what they would feel like against my skin, his other hand on my arm searing me like a brand. I want him to pull me against him, to feel the pressure of his body against mine as we dance, for him to do and be everything I dreamed of. Everything I want.

The careful distance between us feels like a gulf that I desperately want to make disappear, but there's no way across it. If Angelo feels anything about tonight, he's keeping it carefully hidden, his face implacable as he turns me around the dance floor, each step feeling like another echo of his obligation to me.

Maybe that's all I've ever been. An obligation.

It's not until it's nearing midnight that he returns to the table again, where he left me after the dance, leaning in with the barest touch on my arm, one that still fills me with frustrated heat. 'Do you want to go upstairs?"

For a moment, my heart races with anticipation and a flicker of hope. There's no scent of wine or other alcohol on his breath—he's very carefully avoided drinking anything tonight, which I assumed was a means of making sure he kept his resolve not to sleep with me tonight. But his hand is on my arm still, helping me up as I nod, and I'm glad for it, because my legs suddenly feel weak and shaky at the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he's changed his mind. That hope persists when he leads me into the largest of the guest suites upstairs, which someone from the household staff must have cleaned and prepared this morning, taking the dustcovers off of the usually unused furniture and remaking the bed with heavy cream-colored linens and a floral duvet.

I turn to look at Angelo as he shuts the door, hope flaring wildly in my chest. He looks at me with an unreadable expression, and all I can think is that any moment now, his hand will reach for my waist with intent this time, drawing me to him so he can press his lips against mine, and then—

Then, I'll finally get to find out where all those lessons lead to.

He walks past me, to the bed, and some of the hope gutters and flickers out. I watch, confused, as Angelo pulls down the covers, exposing the cream-colored sheets underneath.

I want to be in that bed with him. I want his skin against mine, warm and smooth, learning every inch of his body as he explores mine. I want my wedding night the way it's supposed to be.

But instead, Angelo just glances at me without a hint of heat in his gaze. 'I hope you don't mind sleeping in here," he says slowly. 'If anyone knew you slept in your usual bedroom, the one that was just yours, they might find it strange. And I didn't think you would want to sleep in the master suite. So here we are. As for the rest of it—"

It takes me a moment to realize what he's doing—and by the time I do, it's nearly done. He slips something out of his pocket—a pin, I think—and pricks his finger, blood welling from the tip as he turns to the bed. He swipes his finger over the cream-colored sheet once, twice, a third time, and then wipes his hand on a handkerchief pulled from his pocket, sending a flare of heat through me as I remember the ‘lesson' in the library, and how he'd cleaned himself off as I sat there frozen in stunned fascination over what I'd just seen.

'It'll be dry by morning, and I'll send the sheets to Rizzo as proof." Angelo puts his hands in his pockets, looking almost pleased with himself for outfoxing the old Don.

I stare at him, trying to hold back the burning tears at the back of my eyes as the hope I had, vanishes. I look at the bed—not even my own, but a strange one I'll sleep in alone tonight—and then away from it, refusing to look at Angelo at all.

I can feel him hesitate as he walks past me. From under my lashes, I see him stop at the door, his hand hovering over the knob, emotion twisting his face for the first time all night. I can see uncertainty, regret—and a flicker of what looks like desire there, too, but I don't know that well enough to know for sure it's what I'm seeing.

'I'm sorry, Rosalia," he says finally, his voice low and soft. 'I don't know how to make this easier."

And then, before I can answer, he opens the door and is gone.

Below the room, I can still hear the faint sounds of the reception still going, the hints of music, and a hum of conversation. I fumble for the zipper of my dress, avoiding the mirror as I yank it down and step out of the pool of falling satin, hugging my arms around myself as I walk to the dresser.

There are a few things that must have been brought up for me, in case I wanted them. I grab the first tank top I see, pulling it over my head as I retreat to the bed in nothing but that and the lacy panties that I'd worn beneath my dress—again, in a flicker of hope that maybe things would go differently tonight than I'd thought.

Everything went exactly as Angelo promised me it would—and it leaves me feeling empty and hopeless, the years of my new marriage stretching out in front of me like a lonely wasteland. I take off my jewelry with trembling fingers, yanking the pins out of my updo hard enough that a few pieces of hair come out with them. Then I fall into bed, the tears finally overflowing as I curl around a pillow that smells like laundry soap and dried flowers. There's nothing familiar about it, nothing comfortable. And as I cry myself to sleep on my wedding night, I've never felt so alone.